A Family Reunion

As self-appointed family historian I was recently invited to a reunion of descendents of my great aunt Ethel. With all my other history-based commitments the Shorthouses have had to take a back seat just lately. The weekend turned out to be hectic with much travelling across London, followed by a gathering of enthusiastic cousins. Old hatchets were miraculously buried, skeletons rattled, promises made and information pored over and circulated.

So there I was during the preceding week, on hands and knees, rummaging through two very full boxes of documents and photographs, in search of suitable material to take with me on the train to Southampton. Not surprisingly I discovered a few “projects” I'd begun and not completed – they'll wait for another time – and the following “self-portrait”. Since I've teased many sensitive stories out of near strangers over the past dozen years, I thought my children might appreciate reading a little family history of their own.

This is the earliest photo of me of which I know. I can only assume it was taken after my parents, Dorothy and Eric, were married on 23^rd December 1948. My birth certificate gives the day I was born as 11^th June 1948. Considering I look about six months old in the studio portrait, this would seem about right. The “guilty secret” was at last being officially acknowledged!

In the 1940s my birth would have been called “illegitimate”. I was never told about it, and only worked it out after my mother died and I gained access to her divorce papers which, of course, contained interesting facts like the date of her marriage to my father. What was my mother more ashamed of – me, or her delayed wedding? I don't know as my parents never gave me a hint. Another assumption I have had to make is that my father was awaiting a divorce from his first wife, who was living in South Africa with their child, June: that may have been the reason that I was kept a secret for a while. Following my birth in Scarborough, whilst my parents were living under the condescension of my paternal grandmother Elizabeth, the new family retreated to an old house called “Top th'hill” at Blackshaw Head, out in the wild landscape between Yorkshire and Lancashire close to Hebden Bridge.

My parents never ever celebrated their wedding anniversaries as that would have given the game away! For an inquisitive child I was remarkably dumb about this fact. I only once asked my mother about her wedding. She told me it had been at a Register Office and that she had worn a suit rather than a white dress. I also remember her telling me about an incident in a Dorset cottage when a domestic fire flared into a chimney blaze, due to petrol having been thrown on it. I had always believed this took place on her honeymoon, but on reflection it does not tally with events – she probably never had a honeymoon, not with a sixth month old baby in tow! Perhaps Dorset was the site of my conception...

I was a product of post-war English morality and hypocrisy. Lovers' plans have always, and continue to be, thwarted. Nowadays, though, few people go to such lengths to disguise the simple facts of nature from their children. Through their denial of reality my parents deprived me of the opportunity to empathise with them. More importantly, my mother missed a chance to deepen our relationship at a time when I desperately needed it: in late 1969 I became pregnant with my first child by the man who would later become my first husband. Though my son was very much a desired baby, my marriage turned out to be no better than my parents' in that it offered my wider family a spurious respectability that was utterly dishonest: it, too, faltered and collapsed as their's did, leaving unhappy children in its wake.

The lesson I eventually learned was not to do what others expect, or even demand, of you but only what feels right for you and those you love. Do not deny your history. Be open and brave enough to defend your principles in the face of sneers and contempt. But I'll never be sure if I could have risen to the challenge, only that my mother missed giving me that chance.

Count your blessings while you can

This week I have been almost ashamed to be English as news of the recent looting and criminal damage has spread across the world's media. Then I remind myself that most of us are decent, hard-working and mindful of the feelings of others. Yet none of us should forget the lessons of history – that anarchy creates a vacuum, and that extremism often fills that void.

Intoxicated by their exploits, looters admit they are not poor and justify their actions by asking what fool would turn their nose up at the chance of “new stuff”. They say they loot because they simply can. These excuses remind me of the bankers, MPs and News Corp journalists as they tried to dig themselves out of their various holes – they knew how to profit, so they did. This, I think, is sufficient proof that criminality exists over the whole of society – indeed, being poor has never been a reason to be a thief. What an insult! Thieves generally have more than they need, or steal to feed expensive addictions.

Apologists cite isolation, disconnection and marginalisation for the looting – rubbish! They might be valid causes if perpetrators lived somewhere that quite literally had no jobs or shops or public transport – or free education, libraries, health care and refuse collection, or access to social security and other financial benefits – or even just clean water and crops that will grow! Why don't they think of this before they truant from school or take sick-leave for no good reason?

Some of us no longer seem to understand the meaning of simple words like shame, need, merit, empathy or sympathy. You don't have to be religious (but if it works for you, fine) to look into your own heart and make sure you have not prepared a seedbed for negativity. Above all, parents, don't nurture attitudes that allow your children to assume that everything they see can be theirs – unless you also emphasise that nothing worth having is ever achieved without effort or hard work. Respect has to be earned, not bullied out of people by sheer force of numbers. Rights are wonderful, but are worthless without responsibilities. Much of the language I've heard recently – from adults and children alike – has been the posturing of the school playground. When someone has raised a family, nursed a sick relative, fought a real war, given something up in order to help another, only then will they have earned respect, not because they ganged up and threatened someone vulnerable “behind the bike shed”.

I know my sentiments are not new or revolutionary. But I feel they need recording. And if more people in our very fortunate society spoke out then our country would not now be staring into a terrifying abyss.

The Good Samaritans

I am intrigued and moved by the image currently being used in Samaritans' publicity.

It reminds me of something I was compelled to create during my troubled teens at boarding school in the depths of Norfolk.

Many years later I was equally compelled to reach out to The Samaritans myself. I was given a calm and sensible ear in the middle of a horrendous night. I was encouraged to recognise and appreciate my personal strengths, though I hesitated to put that advice into action for quite a while. It was a rough ride at times, but I think I got there in the end.

60th anniversary of Wymondham College

Am I mistaken in my taste for revisiting my past? It's inevitable, I suppose, for anyone past middle age. That's why I'm also relishing Maggie Nelson's Google-trip round her youth – brilliant!
[Read it on http://theanswers42.blogspot.com/2011/07/nostalgia-part-2.html .]

Of course, you must always be prepared for disappointment when the beloved places of your memory no longer match the “improved” realities...

I first attended an Old Wymondhamians (say 'wind-hay-me-anz'!) reunion in 2006 and experienced a mix of that let-down and excitement. After a gap of 40 years I had been surprised at how many people I could still recognise through the wrinkles and grey hair – both mine and theirs. But I'd also been fazed and a little embarrassed by not knowing those who claimed they remembered ME! The weirdest thing had been hugging my former English teacher and calling him by his first name.

On this second return there were even more impressive new buildings and old familiar faces. And I was better prepared as I went as part of a group who have been in tenuous contact during those intervening 5 years. There was one woman I recognised for whom this event was a 'first time' – and she had the look of a rabbit caught in headlights. She'd always been a nervous type from our days as Primary School playmates, and being away from home at boarding-school had added to her worries. I was a bit surprised by her opening remark that I was to blame for the way things turned out. She did say it in a throwaway manner, and perhaps meant it as a joke. Our fathers had both been strong-minded, and I guess neither of us had much choice in where we were being sent to be educated. The 60^th anniversary reunion was clearly a watershed and an ordeal – hope she goes back as I think the ghosts will have been laid.

 My old school seems nothing like it used to be in the Sixties. The buildings and the ethos have changed – Victorian values flew away with the retirement of its first headmaster, Raymond V. Metcalfe (known as Muz to his not very respectful pupils). My English teacher had confessed this had been as much a relief to the members of staff at the time as it must have been to the students. Almost wished I could go back for a term or two! Hmm, perhaps I'd better not get too carried away...

The old school as I knew it back in 1959 - all black corrugated iron!



                                                       

                                                                           Splendidly transformed by the time of its 60th birthday...

Elizabeth Fry Hall - my hall of residence



The fabulous new Sixth Form complex



If you're curious read more about it on  
http://www.wymondhamcollege.org/About/College-Heritage-31

Who really owns art?

Well, well – the Wildenstein's are in the news again (Independent, Friday 8 July 2011) for all the wrong reasons, and very aptly considering my previous post about the Edmund de Waal book.

I have now finished reading The Hare with Amber Eyes, having become totally engaged with its unassuming author and his respectful exploration of his family's history. And how much he seemed to have learned about himself during this retrospective journey, both physically and spiritually. He followed a trail right back to Odessa and the 19^th century Russian pogroms. And always the Ephrussis seemed to be there at the start of significant developments – the expansion and cultural regeneration of the great cities of Paris, Vienna and Tokyo.

Whilst I had initially cringed at the conspicuous indulgence of the Ephrussi art collections, by the time the Nazis had done their worst in Austria and beyond, I was wanting to hug poor Edmund. He kept discovering little caches of letters or crumbling official documents that marked his family's dispersal across the world. I was so pleased that, by the close of the book, Edmund had found a new resting place for the 264 netsuke – at home with his wife, children and dog in London.

So where do the Wildensteins come in? Well, apparently Guy, the current head of the institute that has taken on the authentication of art works by Monet and Manet, has been discovered with his illustrious pants down! A police raid at the Paris institute – a raid intended to uncover art works “concealed” by the late Daniel Wildenstein's stepsons, discovered instead a stash of “missing” artefacts belonging to other family collections. Some of these wayward items appear to have been looted by the Nazis in 1941. Who knows, perhaps some of Charles Ephrussi's former treasures are amongst them?

A strangely captivating book

I am reading an extraordinary book – The Hare with Amber Eyes by Edmund de Waal. It's not extraordinary in style, being accessible and straightforward. Neither is the genre difficult, for me at least, being classed as “biography/history”. And the subject is not controversial, simply the author's attempt to trace the movements of a collection of 264 netsuke that have been left to him by his late great uncle, a Jew of Russian extraction who was living in Japan. De Waal, a potter, finds himself writing an intimate history of his wealthy and artistic antecedents as they progressed out of Odessa and across Europe.

However, what is extraordinary is de Waal's unearthing of connections, financial and artistic, between the first European owner of the 264 netsuke and those at the core of the Impressionist movement in France, and then their journey towards the home of his 84 year old uncle and his male partner near late 20^th century Tokyo. De Waal, raised on and guided by the aesthetic principals of Bernard Leach, gently and sympathetically probes the private thoughts and prejudices of the art world and those who commissioned works. He can do this with authority since he is bound up in this world himself as a creator and emotional interpreter.

I can't help but draw parallels with my recent experience of reading A.S. Byatt's The Children's Book, in which the careers and motivations of a fictitious literary and artistic family are laid bare for our inspection. Both books came out in print around the same time, so I'm sure one did not consciously influence the other. But the similar emotions they have both evoked in me also make me value each one as highly as the other. Coincidentally, a new series has begun on BBC1 called Fake or Fortune?, and the first article to be scrutinised was a painting of the Seine at Argenteuil purporting to be by Claude Monet. I think the programme was intended as a logical “spin-off” from The Antiques Roadshow, but curiously it has revealed the tensions and passions arising from tracing the provenance and history of an art work. Why would anyone care who actually painted an atmospheric and beautiful scene if not interested in its future sale price? Why was the Wildenstein Institute so adamant in its denial that the scene was by Monet in the face of almost overwhelming evidence, if not fearing more for its reputation than any possible truth?

These are some of the questions that de Waal incidentally raises in his pursuit of the history of his family and the netsuke collection he has inherited. And along the way he turns over the rock of anti-Semitism in the spheres of art and finance that pervaded most of Europe before the World Wars, not just Germany. Apart from the pernicious jealousies de Waal also presents the reader with bizarre images, one of which was a sight that impressed Oscar Wilde of “a tortoise whose shell was encrusted with gemstones so that its slow passage across a room would enliven the pattern of a Persian carpet”... Naturally Damien Hirst's For the Love of God sprang instantly to mind, and forced me to consider what on earth art is for when even artists have to eat, yet the money always talks the loudest. And I cannot draw any satisfactory conclusions, except that corruption surely begins with the very first sale of any artefact. Can anyone enlighten me?

Tonight the Village Hall - tomorrow the world?

For the first time in around six years I have been paid to speak about history. It has taken me roughly six months to prepare an illustrated talk based on my research into a local Early Modern manuscript. Since no-one seems to want to publish the fruits of that research – 65,000 words of transcription, evaluation and analysis – I decided the best way to recoup some of my expenses would be to offer myself up to the Local History circuit for £30 an hour. Of course, it's about more than the money, which honestly is fairly limited in its availability. No, I want people to accept that I'm a real historian, in a way that won't involve me walking round with a tattooed forehead. And I eventually enjoyed the experience of “coming out”! This was in spite of my initial doubts that I'd lost my touch – I had once been, after all, a Further Education history lecturer.

However, I am not a natural public speaker. Even a school play at the age of ten had turned me into a gibbering wreck, and caused me to relinquish the starring role to my understudy. Yet in grammar school days I was happy to stand up in front of any kind of audience as long as I was part of a well-rehearsed choir – and, of course, never the soloist. For me the thrill was in the close harmonising and the feeling of being an important thread in a rich fabric. When I was about fifteen I mistakenly entered a speaking contest at my school. This involved delivering a passage from Shakespeare – Viola's soliloquy from Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene II: 'I left no ring with her: what means this lady?' etc. - followed by an unrehearsed two minute monologue on a random topic given you on the day. My mouth dried, my voice died, I fled... Never again, I promised myself.

So why did I become a lecturer all those years later? I was 53 and had just come through an Access course and a B.A. I was offered a job in the place where I'd studied, and felt comfortable and confident with familiar surroundings and colleagues. Of course, it wasn't an entirely scare-free exercise, training to teach whilst actually teaching! I apologise now, and probably at the time as well, to my first batch of students for being such a useless tutor. But there were other subjects and other tutors, and I must have provided a little comic relief for my guinea pigs. But I got there without harming them too much, and gained my P.G.C.E. So I was utterly deflated when, as a reasonably competent part-time lecturer, I was one of the first to be made redundant 5 years later. I had learned to enjoy “going on stage” and holding forth in my favourite field.

I have had to get up and briefly address small groups a few times since then, but the thought of presenting an hour long exposition of my latest research, with Powerpoint, rattled my cage somewhat, even though I'd willingly accepted the invitation. I think the worst prospect was of some clever-clogs challenging my assertions. So I had to firmly remind myself that I'd been in similar situations before; that I'd thoroughly prepared both text and illustrations; that I'd absorbed some advice from my more outgoing younger sister; and that anyway the subject was mine and I'd done all the hard work! No-one else had examined my particular source I knew for sure, and my research had been meticulous.

And so it turned out to be an exhilarating evening for me, and I've already got three more bookings.