Culture Vulture

In between waiting for my cakes to cool and my chestnuts to roast (see previous food porn post), I have taken in some pretty incredible art this holiday season.

Last week I saw the Holbein exhibit at the Tate Britain. Braving the long hike out to Pimlico, and the even longer queue for tickets with a bunch of snow-haired, well-dressed, personal-space-ignoring old folks, I managed to score a ticket to see the portraits of this most remarkable artist.

In case you're not a rabid slobbering fan of sixteenth century England (but how could you not be? religious upheavals and persecution! sumptuous silks and brocades! live birds baked into pastry! and plague, plague, PLAGUE!), the crash course on Holbein is this: famous portrait painter, became attached to the court of Henry VIII, and is responsible for that great tyrant's most famous portrait. You know the one: legs open, hands on his hips, codpiece prominent and thrust forward, mean little eyes in a pudding face. He also painted several of Henry's wives (heads still on, naturally), as well as other prominent courtiers and officials of the day.

Yawn, you're all thinking. But the remarkable thing about Holbein is that makes all these people so alive - he's particularly good at eyes and mouths. It's a sense you don't truly get until you see these paintings up close and personal. For example, I've seen Jane Seymour's royal portrait before - with its tightly pursued mouth and bland expression, like milk jelly, I didn't think much of her. But when I got up close, her eyes are actually incredibly gentle and thoughtful, especially in the early sketches, where they are surprisingly beautiful.

And this little painting was one of my favourites....isn't he a little sausage? That's Henry's little son by Jane Seymour, the great hope for England. Sadly the little cutie died in his teens, paving the way for his half-sisters Mary and Elizabeth. Little precious.

One of my other favourites: Christina of Denmark, a prospective bride for Henry, sixteen years old, all in black because she's already been once widowed. Her face, robbed of its hair, framed by a weird black hat, is beautiful, cautious, a little nervous, with an incredibly direct and straitforward gaze, but quirks of humour and kindness in her mouth. You feel you know exactly who this girl is, looking out into her future with confidence it will be extraordinary.

I can't reproduce these images here with any justice, but google Holbein and download some for yourself. They're glorious.

I also visited the Dennis Severs' house this week (damn you, Christmas essay!) near Spitalfields market. I'd stumbled across the website and was intrigued by the description of the house:
"a time capsule...the artist lived in the house in much the same way as its original occupants might have done in the early 18th century...to enter its door is to pass through a frame into a painting: one with a time and a life of its own." Giddyup!

So I went along, rang the old-fashioned bell, and after being briefed on the ground-rules (no talking, no touching, no photography), I was turned loose on the house to begin my "experience."

The website describes "the game" as being "you interrupt a family of Hugenot silk weavers called Jervis who though they can still sometimes be heard seem always to be just out of sight. As you journey off in silent search throughout the ten rooms, each lit by fire or candlelight, you receive a number of stimulations to your senses..."

Well, it was probably one of the most captivating and evocative things I've ever encountered. Each room over the four floors is exactly as it would have been in the 1700's - crammed, cluttered, dark corners to be explored, tiny clues as to the family who live here. It felt a bit like an afternoon on the Marie Celeste: you saw overturned chairs, baking griddle cakes abandoned, half drunk glasses of sherry, crumpets still stuck on toasting forks, broken teacups, still-smoking pipes! Wigs, silk dresses, and frock coats were slung over the backs of chairs - tiny baby shoes lay dropped under a high-chair in the kitchen, with a half-eaten gingerbread man in a bowl, and the sink high with dirty plates.

The smells were intriguing: a heady honey scent in a woman's bedroom, something lemony, fresh, and verbena-like in her daughter's room, tobacco and old smoke around an interrupted card game and whisky bottles. And always, very faintly, sounds: a man's voice, a tolling bell, a creak on the floor above you, a carriage going by - always tantalizingly out of reach.

It was very poignant, and haunting. "Still life drama", as the artist described it. How different the world looks though candle and fire light. The darkness is somehow colder, an enemy. But when there is light and warmth, how appealing and sensual things are: a mountain of sugared fruits, a half-eaten loaf of bread, a pile of books, cosmetics on a dressing table. Tiny curls of paper, lists of calls the ladies have made, little notes from family members to each other, even clues from the artist to the sharp-eyed, such as this gem "The late 20th century is an intriguing place to visit...but who would want to live there?"

I loved it - the whole thing was magical. I staggered into the street stunned and battered by the sudden assault of the modern world, and trudged back into this careless and rushed place we call the 21st century.