Brutalism and bears

We are staying near the City of London this week, in Sir John Betjemen's London bolthole, 43 Cloth Fair. Betjemen (1906-1984) was England's most popular post-war poet, Poet Laureate from 1972 to 1984 and his bear, Archibald, was the model for Aloysius in Brideshead Revisited. If you would like to know more, you will have to ask my husband, whose nose is buried in A. N. Wilson's biography of Betjemen. He emerges occasionally to tell me bits he thinks might amuse me. E.g. Betjemen wanted to join up during WWII, but he was over age. He appealed to his father-in-law, Field Marshall Chetwode. Chetwode replied in a letter dated 3 October 1939; 

"I don't quite understand what part of the Air Force you want to get into. You are I suppose over age to join the regular Air Force, but perhaps you have heard of some job as Observer where they take men over 30. Do you know of any specific job you are qualified for which they are taking men of your age?" [sic]

Then, three months later;

"I cannot understand what you want me to do. Your letters are so vague. It is no use saying you want a job in a thing. What job are you looking for?"  

Betjemen was an early fan of Barry Humphries. Here is Sir Les Patterson's meeting with "Sir Benjamin":

43 Cloth Fair is another Landmark Trust property. Very shabby chic, none of the properties have televisions or radio but always have a bookcase packed with topical titles; in this case, books about London (some by Betjemen), London based novels (including Dickens, naturally), poetry and reference works. Wallpaper by William Morris, Georgian antiques and one of those odd hand-held showers which take a bit of getting used to. Here are some pics:

Next door is reputedly the oldest house in London, an Elizabethan place that won awards when it was refurbed in 2000. I found this great blog that has a whole article on Cloth Fair, called Medieval London. 

We are very near the Barbican, a huge post-war development that combines an arts centre, two residential tower blocks and numerous smaller, but no less massive, residential buildings. The design is brutalist. When I first heard that term, I thought it very apt to describe the squat, brutal, menacing edifices I have come to associate with the word, such as the Sydney Uni Law School in Phillip Street and UTS on Broadway. The word brutalist actually derives from the French for raw concrete, béton brut; and the idea, to put it very briefly is to expose a structure's architectural elements. Anyway, I have always been mystified by the appeal of much brutalist architecture, believing it to be intellectual wankery. But up close, I am beginning to see the appeal of the Barbican. It would be wonderful to live in it-large windows, lovely private parklands, surrounded by walls like an old-fashioned medieval city. 

An ugly bit of the Barbican 

Pretty bit. Lots of birdsong. 

Cultivated and cultivating

La Ghirlandata, by Dante Gabriel Rosetti

London Guildhall

Saw this painting at the Guildhall Art Gallery in London a couple of days ago. La Ghirlandata's face looked a lot greener in the flesh (so to speak) and I wondered if she had got her hands on some of Lizzie Siddal's laudanum before sitting for the painting. Alternatively, maybe Rosetti made the same mistake as Sir Joshua Reynolds, using pigments that deteriorated, leaving his sitters looking like they are either tubercular or teething. 

The Guildhall Art Gallery contains the remnants of Roman Londinium's amphitheatre, built 2000 years and already redundant by the time the Romans left the early 5th century. It also houses gigantic Victorian epic paintings, some of which are fabulously gruesome and melodramatic, such as Collier's Clytemnestra. 

The Guildhall was built during the first half of the 15th century. Lady Jane Grey and Thomas Cranmer were tried and convicted there, the former for treason, at the age of 16, the latter for heresy. 

The Guildhall is a short walk away from the Bank of England, redesigned by Sir John Soane, the architect son of a bricklayer whose remarkable house in Lincoln's Inn Fields is a national museum. Soane bequeathed the house and contents to the nation in 1833, stipulating that each item should remain where he so carefully placed it. The first two rooms behind the regency facade contain not one or two, but numerous perfectly intact ancient Greek vases. The vases are displayed on top of bookshelves containing his collection of over 7,000 books. Soane was adept at using light, mirrors and other devices to create an illusion of space and his skilful designs have created a fascinating maze in what otherwise could have been a claustrophobic cave. The place is positively stuffed with beautiful objects; ancient and aged architectural remnants, statues, paintings and furniture. You know Hogarth's A Rake's Progress? It's here; along with some of Canaletto's most significant paintings of Venice. 

The most wonderful aspect of the Soane Museum is the seemingly eclectic placement of objects. It reminds me of the old fashioned museums full of dusty oddments you visit in country towns, bereft of the annoying didactic interactive elements that are supposed to enliven an exhibition but tend to do the opposite. Remember the wonderful old museum of technology in Harris Street, Ultimo? Miles better than the Powerhouse. Yesterday I kept getting little frissons when I unexpectedly came across* random stone tudor roses or effigies of Plantagenet kings amongst the other treasures. 

After our tour of the museum (to which we will return-often), we wandered past Lincoln's Inn Old Hall, a banqueting hall and erstwhile Court of Chancery. Dickens described it as the "very heart of the fog" in the opening paragraph of Bleak House. It was the site of the interminable mentions of Jarndyce v Jarndyce in Dickens' great novel. 

Lincoln's Inn Old Hall

*(almost wrote "stumbled upon, but thought better of it. The first stumble and you'd be out. Clumsiness is death in a space like the Soane. I even had to secrete my handbag in a plastic bag lest it unwittingly become a chain and mace).