Category Archives: Volunteers

John Hurst: When Modernism and Fascism Collide – Tracing the Lives of Five Art Historians in Germany and Austria in the 1930s

There are many different strands to the Digitisation Programme and I’ve been lucky to have researched and written a number of photographer’s biographies. Recently I came across a very interesting thread amongst a group of German/Austrian art historians and photographers linked by politics, persecution and war.

In the late 1920s and 30s the rise of the National Socialist German Workers Party (Nazis) brought about changes within German society that led to the persecution of many ethnic minorities and ultimately World War II.

Under the dictatorship of Adolf Hitler the term Entartete Kunst (Degenerate Art) was used to describe Modern Art – both German and international as it was viewed as being an insult to nationalistic German feelings. Anyone perceived as being responsible for the creation of such art and those who purchased and displayed it in museums and galleries across the nation were sanctioned and in many cases dismissed from their posts. These actions led to many so called ‘degenerate’ works of art being taken off display or placed in storage – some never to be seen again.

In September 1933 the Reichskulturkammer (Reichs Culture Chamber) was established under the control of Joseph Goebbels – Hitler’s Reichs Minister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. He decreed that only artists who were “racially pure”or supportive of the Party would be allowed to be involved in the cultural life of the ‘new” Germany. By 1935 the Reichs Culture Chamber had over 100,000 members.

Modern art styles were prohibited, with the Nazis promoting paintings and sculptures that were traditional in tone and which exhibited values of racial purity, militarism and obedience. These same restrictions were applied to films, plays and music – especially jazz which was seen to stem from black influences.

In 1937 Die Ausstellung “Entartete Kunst” (The Degenerate Art Exhibition) was organised by Hitler’s favourite artist Adolf Ziegler a member of the Nazi Party since the 1920’s.

Besichtigung des Hauses der Deutschen Kunst durch Adolf Hitler. Daneben Frau Prof. Troost, Präsident der Akademie der Bildenden Künste Ziegler und Dr. Goebbels am 5.5.37. Hitler visits the House of German Art alongside Professor Troost, President of the Academy of Fine Arts. Ziegler is seen pictured wearing a bow tie and standing next to Goebbels. 5th May 1937. [Bundesarchiv, Bild, 183-1992-0410-546/CC-BY-Sa 3.0]

He became the foremost official painter of the Third Reich and had recently been appointed the President of the Prussian Academy of Arts.

Under the direction of Goebbels, Ziegler headed a five man commission that toured state collections in various German cities and seized over 5,200 art works deemed to be “degenerate”. The works were taken to Munich – the fervently pro-Nazi Bavarian capital to be installed at the Institute of Archaeology in the Hofgarten. This venue had been chosen especially for its rooms which were dark and narrow and provided the desired depressing atmosphere.

The Führer was the arbiter of what was considered “Modern” and on the eve of the exhibition opening, he had made a speech declaring “a merciless war” on cultural disintegration, describing the people who produced such art as “incompetents, madmen and cheats”

To further emphasise their distaste and disgust the organisers decided that many of the paintings were to be displayed without frames, hung at angles and partially covered or accompanied by derogatory slogans such as:

“An insult to German womanhood”

“Nature seen by sick minds”

“German farmers – a Yiddish view”

and as a reference to the museum and gallery directors loathed by the regime:

“Even museum bigwigs called this “the art of the German people”

The exhibition contained paintings, sculptures and prints by 112 primarily German artists and also works of art by Picasso, Chagall and Mondrian which had been confiscated by Ziegler and his cronies.

Some of the paintings had labels next to them detailing the amount of money a museum or gallery had spent to buy them. Prices were greatly exaggerated using costs based on the post WWI Weimar hyperinflation period where money had been devalued. All of this was designed to promote the idea that “Modernism” was a conspiracy by people who hated German decency (without a hint of irony !) and that money would have been better spent providing citizens with food or essential services.

Die Ausstellung “Entartete Kunst” was timed to coincide with the “Grosse Deutsche Kunstausstellung” (Great German Art Exhibition) – a showcase of art by German artists approved by the Nazis. Over 2 million people had visited by the time it closed on 4th November 1937. By comparison “Grosse Deutsche Kunstausstellung” was viewed by half that number.

After Munich, it toured other cities such as Berlin, Leipzig, Düsseldorf, Vienna and Salzburg where another 1 million people visited.

Children were denied entry to these exhibitions due to the perceived harmful and corruptive nature of the works of art.

After the exhibition had completed its tour of Germany and Austria, many of the paintings which had been seized were sold to foreign art dealers who were assured by the regime that the proceeds would be used to upgrade and replenish collections in Germany’s museums. This was not true and most of the money raised went to fund the massive increase of Germany’s armed forces and armaments. In 1939, the authorities burnt over 5,000 works of art that it could not sell.

Photographs contained in the Conway Library, and part of the Digitisation Programme are attributed to Drs Georg Swarenski, Alfred Scharf, Ernst Nathan, and Susanne Lang. They were all of Jewish faith or origin so at risk of dismissal from their jobs or worse.

Georg Swarzenski

Swarzenski had been appointed Director General of all the museums in the city of Frankfurt-am-Main in 1928 and was responsbile for purchasing works of art from many genres, some of which were seen as ‘degenerate’ when the Nazis came to power. In 1933 he was dismissed from his posts in public office but allowed to remain as a director of a private gallery. Five years later he was arrested by the Gestapo on the grounds that he had written an anti-authority article in a local newspaper.

He was set free without charge a short while later, but being Jewish, Swarzenski realised that he had become increasingly in danger and within a few weeks he and his family had emigrated to the U.S.A. At the time of his death in 1957 he had been working as a Curator in the Medieval Arts department of Boston’s Fine Arts Museum.

Two black and white photographs mounted on card, depicting two angles of “The Martelli David”. Burlington Magazine, April 1959. Pope Hennessy “The Martelli David” (ex Casa Martelli Florence). Washington N.G. (Widener Coll) David, ascribed to Antonio Rossellino. CON_B05578_F002_005, The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC.

Alfred Scharf

Scharf was the son of the founder of the Goldring audio equipment company and studied art history and classical archaeology in Berlin before becoming a research assistant at the Kupferstichkabinett (Museum of Prints and Drawings) part of the Berlin State Museum. As a freelance writer of art history in the early 1930’s he had planned to write a dissertation on the Italian Renaissance painter Filipo Lippi at the University of Frankfurt, but his Jewish descent and the growing anti-Semitic attitudes in the country prevented him doing so. In May 1933, he emigrated to Britain where he worked as a freelance art expert.

He also lectured on 15th century Italian and 17th century Dutch/Flemish painting at the Courtauld and was a consultant at the Warburg Institute.

Due to his considerable reputation as an art historian, in 1940 the German authorities placed Scharf on Hitler’s Sonderfahndungsliste G.B. (Special Search List. Great Britain). In the event of a successful German occupation of Britain after the retreat of British forces from Dunkirk, he would be arrested and used as an advisor on which works of art and sculptures were worthy of looting and taking back to Germany to be added to the ever growing “collections” of Hermann Göring and other prominent Nazis. Scharf’s name was one of over 2,800 on the list.

He became a British citizen in 1946 and aspects of his life and work were featured in an episode of the BBC series “Fake or Fortune”.

Ernst Nathan

A black and white photograph of Ernest Nathan/Nash. Bildarchiv, “Ernest Nash”, Goethe Universität, Frankfurt-am-Main

Nathan was born in Potsdam Germany in 1898 to a Jewish family. He studied law and Roman history in Berlin and served in the German army during WWI, where he took up photography to relieve the boredom of being stationed on the Italian Front.

After the war he resumed his studies and by 1926 had set up his own legal practice in Berlin. In the mid 1930s, the rise of the Nazis started to make life difficult for Jews like Nathan and his membership of the Communist Party added to his problems. In 1936 he and his wife and children moved to Italy but by 1938 the rise of national socialism under Mussolini meant that they were unsafe in their adopted country so they moved again – this time to New York where he set up a photographic studio.

He decided to change his name to the less Germanic Ernest Nash and over the following years established a reputation as a portrait photographer taking pictures of amongst many others – jazz musician Benny Goodman and composer Benjamin Britten who had moved to the U.S.A. as a pacifist during WWII.

After the war, Ernest resumed his studies of Roman history and architecture, moved back to Italy and devoted his life to photographing and chronicling ancient Roman and Christian sites in Italy, North Africa and the Middle East. He died in Rome in 1974.

A black and white photograph mounted on card, depicting Michelangelo’s La Pietà. La Pietà. Michelangelo, Rome, St. Peters, 15th Century Italian Sculpture, CON_B05530_F001_015. The Courtauld Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-CC.

A black and white photograph mounted on card, depicting La Pietà, more specifically a detail of Jesus’ face. La Pietà Michelangelo Rome, St. Peters, 15th Century Italian Sculpture, CON_B05530_F001_035. The Courtauld Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-CC.

Susanne Lang

Lang was born in Vienna in 1907 and studied art history and ethnology at the Kunsthistorisches Institut. She graduated in 1931 and published her dissertation titled: “ Voraussetzungen und Entwicklung des Mittelalterlichen Städtebaus in Deutschland” (Determinants and Development of Medieval Urban Planning in Germany).

A black and white photograph mounted on card, depicting a stone sphinx. A. Neuturi. Sphinx signed and dated Fra. Pasquale 1286 (from S.M. del Grado) Museo Civico CON_B05180_004_004. The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC

Lang was Jewish by birth and after the 1938 Anschluss when Nazi Germany annexed Austria she suffered persecution and exclusion because of her religion. She emigrated to England and formed a professional relationship with German art historian Nikolaus Pevsner. Although he had also been born Jewish, he had converted to Lutheranism at a young age, but had been forced to flee Germany due to the Nazi race laws.

They worked together on many books and during her time in London Susanne Lang worked closely with art historians and fellow academics at the Courtauld and Warburg Institutes. She retired to live in Israel and died in 1995.

So, four people whose photographs ended up in the Conway Library and whose lives were affected and changed forever by political upheaval beyond their control. There is however a twist in this story relating to another Dr whose photographs are also in the Conway Library.

Dr. Moritz Julius Binder

Binder was born in Stuttgart in 1877. He studied music at the Vienna Conservatory and then art history in Berlin.

In 1912 he became an employee of the Berlin Arsenal a Baroque style building erected in the early 18th century and which served as an armoury for the Brandenburg-Prussian Army and later as a museum.

A black and white photograph mounted on card, depicting a wooden sculpture of the Madonna and Child. Tafel II MITTLERHEINISCHER-MEISTER. ENDE DES XIV JAHRHUNDERTS. MADONNA MIT KIND Lindenholz, hoch 99cm. Besitzer: Dr M.J. Binder – Berlin. from the Church near Ostein in the Taunus. MJ Binder coll, Berlin CON_B05284_F002_001 The Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, CC-BY-NC

He was appointed as the Director in 1913 – a post he held for twenty years until he was dismissed under the new Nazi law aimed at ‘restoring professional civil service’ It was essentially a means of getting rid of people of Jewish or other ethic origins or those whose political views and actions were at odds with those of the National Socialists. There is no evidence that Binder was Jewish but his museum policies were criticised by far right circles, most likely due his buying and displaying what was viewed as ‘Degenerate Art”.

Reichsmarshall Hermann Göring was one of the most powerful members of Hitler’s regime and the man who instigated the policy of eliminating Jews from German economic and social life. He was also an avid ‘amateur’ art collector who became a professional looter of art from countries invaded and conquered by the Nazis before and during WWII.

During his time as a museum director, Binder had become a close friend of influential German publisher Dr Helmut Küpper and his wife, the Russian artist Paraskewe “Baika” Bereskine. “Baika” had painted the portraits of Hermann Göring’s first wife Carin who died in 1934 and his second wife Emmy and had become a favourite of the Reichsmarschall whose patronage was very useful to her.

By coincidence, Binder advised a Berlin art dealer who sold paintings to Göring. It was through this dealer Johannes Hinrichen and “Baika” Bereskine that Binder was introduced to Göring around 1935 and he is thought to have acted as a Consultant on which pieces of art were worth buying or stealing from the properties of people who had fled Germany or suffered worse fates at the hands of the regime.

In 1938 he was dismissed by Göring following disagreements about the authenticity of certain works of art and replaced by Walter Andrea Hofer. who became Director of Göring’s art collections. Hofer did not have the breadth of knowledge that his predecessor had so he often asked him for advice on what to buy or “steal”. During the war Mauritz Binder left Berlin to avoid Allied bombing raids and moved to live in the countryside. He died in January 1947.

Swarenski, Scharf, Nathan and Lang may or may not have known each other but they are all linked by their religious and cultural beliefs which brought persecution and danger to their lives. Binder on the other hand, either through choice or as an act of self preservation actively assisted the main perpetrators of their persecution by identifying works of art, some of which would have been in the private collections of Jews or Communist sympathisers which were then ‘stolen’. Most of these artworks were either not recovered or returned to their owners or families so Binder and others bore a great deal of responsibility.

Five individuals connected by chance and coincidence and thanks to the Digitisation Programme we are able to preserve some (at least) of their work and legacy where it was once at risk of being erased.

John Hurst

Digitisation Volunteer, July 2023

Alison Ewbank: Spanning the Years in Suburbia

July 8, 2023Architecture Photographic Library Digitisation Project Photographic Prints The Conway Library Volunteers No Comments

Black and white image of Parkleys Parade in 1955-56 Colour image of Parkleys Parade in 2023.

[CON_B04283_F006_001, The Parkleys Parade in Ham, pictured in 1955, Arch: Eric Lyons. 1955-56. London. Parkleys. Span Estate. Upper Ham Road. Shopping terrace, Conway Library] and in June 2023 (author’s own colour images throughout)

Community spirit lives on in post-war modernist developments

When Malcolm Singleton died in January 2022, hundreds of local residents lined the streets to applaud as he made his final journey past the shop where he had served them for more than 50 years. Malcolm was proprietor of the M&J Hardware store in the Parkleys Parade at Ham in the London borough of Richmond upon Thames, having worked for the previous owner Dorling’s since the age of 16. Richmond council went on to award Malcolm a posthumous honour for his outstanding contribution to community spirit and service to the local community.

Eric Lyons (1912-1980), architect of the Parkleys Parade and adjacent Span housing development, would certainly have approved. Lyons and architect/developer Geoffrey Townsend (1911-2002) founded Span Developments in 1957. Townsend had started his first architectural practice, Modern Homes, in Richmond in 1938. Lyons joined soon after having previously worked with Walter Gropius, founder of the Bauhaus in Weimar, Germany, in the London practice of E Maxwell Fry.

Black and white image of Central Close Parkleys in 1953-56 Colour image of Central Court Parkleys in 2023. Communal spaces are a key feature of the Parkleys scheme and look remarkably similar in 2023.
[CON_B04283_F006_003, Arch: Eric Lyons. 1955-56. London. Parkleys. Span Estate. Upper Ham Road. Central Close. Conway Library] and in June 2023.

In the 50s and 60s Span was to build more than 2,000 homes in around 70 developments in London, Surrey, Kent and East Sussex. Together, Lyons and Townsend shared a vision of social housing of modernist design in harmony with the suburban environment. Their mission was to provide affordable housing that ‘gave people a lift’ – after the Second World War, people were looking for a socially conscious society, better living conditions and a better standard of living. The architectural historian Tom Dyckhoff has said that the aim of these ‘design classics’ was to ‘span the gap between jerry-built suburbia and architect-designed pads’. He described them as sharp, modern designs with space, light and well-planned interiors, plus lavishly landscaped communal gardens designed to foster a sense of community.

A model for modern living

Parkleys (1954-1959) comprised 175 flats across 15 two and three-storey blocks, including garages, a garden with sculpture and the six shops and maisonettes in the Parkleys Parade on Upper Ham Road. The Span ethos was reflected in communal gardens and shared courtyards offering opportunities for social interaction, attractive public areas, car-free zones and children’s playgrounds. Residents’ societies were formed, described in the sales brochure as helping ‘to create and preserve an intelligently friendly atmosphere’. Townsend himself managed the Parkleys residents’ society until it became established.

Landscaping was considered as important as the buildings themselves, softening and obscuring the housing densities and intended to appear mature from the outset. ‘As a designer, I have always been interested in place rather than one-off buildings on isolated sites. That’s why I’m interested in landscape,’ said Lyons.

The scheme won several awards and established Span’s reputation for what today might be marketed as ‘lifestyle housing’. Parkleys was Grade II listed in 1998 by English Heritage and designated a conservation area by Richmond council in 2003.

Black and white image of Parkleys court in 1953-56 Colour image of Parkleys court in 2023. In Span developments landscaping was designed to be mature from the outset and is still an important feature today.

[CON_B04283_F006_002, London. Parkleys. Span Estate. Upper Ham Road. Three-storeyed H shaped block. Arch: Eric Lyons. 1955-56. Conway Library, Courtauld Institute of Art]

A benchmark for 20th century apartments

Parkleys is not the only development in Ham of architectural note and photographed for the Courtauld’s archives. 1957-58 saw the addition of the nearby Langham House Close scheme by James Stirling (1926-1992) and James Gowan (1923-2015). The buildings were the architects’ first major project together and were described by the 20th Century Society as ‘a benchmark against which all other apartment blocks can be measured’.

Black and white image of Langham House Close in 1958 Colour image of Langham House Close in 2023. Stirling and Gowan’s Grade II* listed Langham House Close, pictured in 1958 and in June 2023.
[CON_B04280_F001_005, London. Ham Common. Langham House Close. Front block). Arch: Stirling and Gowan. 1958.]

While the Parkleys scheme influenced the Langham House Close design in terms of height, construction and price, Stirling and Gowan aimed for ‘something that was just as modern but more distinctive’ and with greater innovation in the interior spaces. The brutalist design was inspired by Le Corbusier’s Maisons Jaoul (1954-1956) in the suburbs of Paris, while aiming to remain sympathetic to the adjacent Georgian building, Langham House, on Ham Common. The blocks were Grade II listed in 1998 and upgraded to Grade II* in 2006.

An enduring appeal

Today, their mid-20th century design makes flats in both developments popular purchases and they are regularly featured on property websites such as The Modern House. Both look remarkably similar to how they were pictured in the Courtauld archives in the 1950s. Their location close to Ham Common, between Richmond Park and the River Thames, has enduring appeal and the juxtaposition of mainly Georgian architecture on Ham Common makes for an interesting contrast and comparison in style. Both estates have their own official websites.

Parkleys still has a strong community feel, with its pleasant communal areas and initiatives such as the Ham Parade Market which is run by local residents. Langham House Close retains its brutalist charm. Although ‘private’ and ‘no public access’ signs make it less welcoming to non-residents or passing fans of post-war modern architecture, visits can be arranged by appointment.

The Parkleys Parade has fared less well in recent times. In mid-2023 Malcolm Singleton’s shop remained empty and there were units to let. The local council has plans to enhance the environment of the parade with wide pavements, trees and places to sit and rest.

Around the corner, the spirit of community lives on in these pioneering modernist estates, nearly 70 years since the first residents moved in.

Colour image of M&J Hardware in 2023
The M&J Hardware premises in Parkleys Parade in June 2023.

Bibliography

Eric Lyons & Span. Edited by Barbara Simms, RIBA Publishing 2017.

Let’s move to…a Span estate. Tom Dyckhoff. Guardian 26 May 2007. https://www.theguardian.com/money/2007/may/26/property.lifeandhealth

Ham Is Where The Heart Is: https://hamiswheretheheartis.com/

Parkleys Website: https://www.parkleys.co.uk/

Langham House Close website: https://www.langhamhouseclose.com/

Alison Ewbank

Digitisation Volunteer

Christine Rodgers: Melbourne – Then and Now

June 30, 2023Architecture Photographic Library Digitisation Project Photographic Prints The Conway Library Volunteers No Comments

Over the past year and a half I’ve been a regular volunteer on the digitisation of the Conway Library at the Courtauld. From the start I loved the magic of the red box files and the anticipation of what was inside, what carefully catalogued items would I see this time. The range and scope were huge as we worked through the roller-shelving racks. Glass 1-7th Century, Metalwork 4th Century, 17th Century British needlework, Ceramics 16-18th Century, 13th Century Franco-Flemish psalters. And more psalters and yet more. I have also spent many sessions in the wonderful Kersting Collection sorting images and selecting master copies. When I started I was impressed by how much work had already been done by the volunteers and as I photographed the rows of labelled red boxes in February this year we were clearly in the home straight of this important project.

When the Conway Library went live online in April I was in Australia and remembered seeing pictures of buildings in Melbourne in the red boxes. I decided to check some of them out and see what they look like today.

Government House in Melbourne was completed in 1876 as the official residence of the governor of Victoria. Modelled on Queen Victoria’s Osborne House, it is built on a grand scale with a tall belvedere tower and a state ballroom bigger than Buckingham Palace. From 1901 it became the residence of the Governor General of Australia until 1930 when Canberra became the seat of government. Then for three years it housed the Melbourne Girls’ School.

A black and white photograph mounted on card. There is a large white house in the centre of the composition with a four-walled, hollow tower extending upwards to the west of the building. The house has a darker roof and is three storeys high. Each storey is lined with windows, and there is an entranceway on the ground floor. The house is situated in the centre of a well-kept lawn and is lined with topiary. The image itself is framed by trees. [CON_B04167_F002_010 – AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Government House. Architect: W. Wardell, 1872-76.]

Today it is the residence of Linda Dessau, 29^th Governor of Victoria and the first woman in the role. There are a few days each year when you can visit Government House, but security is tight and I wasn’t able to get near for a picture.

A colour, digital photograph depicting a white stone, four-walled tower with yellow ensign flag placed above it. The roof is partially visible and is covered in a blue-grey tile. The tower is substantially ornamented, with patterned balustrades, architraves, and corinthian columns. [AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Government House. Photographer: Christine Rodgers, 2023.]

A digital colour photograph of a large, light stone house enclosed behind a black, wrought iron fence. The lower storey of the house is an open loggia with large stone archways. The upper floor is lined with windows, most of which are decorated with simple stone pediments. The roof is decorated with blue-grey tile and surrounded by a light stone balustrade. [AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Government House. Photographer: Christine Rodgers, 2023.]

The buildings on Parliament Place remain exactly as they were, though the trees in the original photograph have matured so that the façade is obscured in part.

A black and white photograph mounted on card. The photograph depicts a three storey, neo-classical building. The building is constructed in a light-colour stone with wrought iron details. The ground and first floor are comprised of open loggias with wrought iron railings and archways. The second floor comprises of a row of windows each decorated with window hoods and decorative cornices. There is an ornamental clock on the roof which is mostly obscured by a tree. The building is surrounded by cars. [CON_B04167_F002_016 – AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Parliament Place, 19^th Century.]

A digital colour photograph depicting a three storey, neo-classical building. The ground and first floor are comprised of open loggias with pine green, wrought iron railings and archways. The second floor comprises of a row of windows, but this and the roof are mostly obscured by trees. The building is surrounded by a dark brick wall and further iron railings. [AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Parliament Place. Photographer: Christine Rodgers, 2023.]

Built in 1847 the beautiful Como House in South Yarra is white with shaded verandahs and delicate ironwork – a style repeated on a much smaller scale on houses throughout Melbourne. Como was bought at auction in 1894 by Charles Armytage, a wealthy sheep farmer as a town house in the growing city to consolidate the family’s place in Melbourne society. He and his wife Caroline had ten children and lived at Como for almost a century. In 1959 it became the first property to be owned by the Australian National Trust and still contains all the Armytage family furniture and paintings.

A black and white photograph mounted on card. The photograph depicts a two storey, light-coloured building surrounded by trees. The house is simple, with both storeys lined with rows of long windows. Those on the ground floor are accompanied by white, wooden shutters. Two simple, open verandas wrap around both storeys with double-layered, white railings. The roof consists of a simple architrave, two chimneys to the east and west, and a simple pediment in the centre. Another room is visible on the first floor, towards the back of the house. [CON_B04167_F005_001 – AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Como (Front Façade)]

A black and white photograph mounted on card. The photograph depicts a two storey, light-coloured building surrounded by trees, from the west. The house is simple, with both storeys lined with rows of long windows. Those on the ground floor are accompanied by white, wooden shutters. Two simple, open verandas wrap around both storeys with double-layered, white railings. The roof consists of a simple architrave with two chimneys towards the front of the building, and three to the back. To the bottom left of the composition, an open loggia is visible on the ground floor. There is a lawn to the front of the building, with a birdbath and garden lamp visible. [CON_B04167_F005_002 – AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Como (Exterior Front Façade)]

The site for St Patrick’s Cathedral was dedicated in 1851 but as this coincided with the Australian Gold Rush labour in Melbourne was in short supply and work did not commence until 1858. Construction was spread over many years, the spires being added in the 1920s and it was officially completed in 1939.

A black and white photograph mounted on card. The photograph depicts the western façade of a church. The building is built in dark brick, and the entrance is flanked by two towers. There is also a crossing tower towards the back of the church. The three spires are built of a light brick and extend into the sky. The towers are heavily ornamented with multiple smaller pinnacles as they meet their spires. The entrance on the ground floor is framed by a light stone arch with two ornamental towers on either side. A large, stained glass window extends upwards above the entrance, also ornamented with light stone. This central section culminates in a smaller pointed nave roof surrounded by a small balustrade. The church is surrounded by empty roads and bare-branched trees. [CON_B04168_F002_006 – AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church, Western Façade. Architect: W. Wardell, begun 1860.]

It looks today very much as in the Conway Library pictures. However the congregation now is mainly Chinese Catholics who live in this part of the city.

A digital colour photograph depicting a large church. The church is built in dark brown brick, and the entrance is flanked by two towers. The three spires are built of a light, tan stone and extend into the sky. The towers are heavily ornamented with multiple smaller pinnacles as they meet their spires. The entrance on the ground floor is framed by a similar, tan stone arch with two ornamental towers on either side. A large, stained glass window extends upwards above the entrance, also ornamented with tan stone. This central section culminates in a smaller pointed nave roof surrounded by a small, tan stone balustrade. [AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church. Photographer: Christine Rodgers, 2023.]

Other substantial Melbourne houses among the Conway Library pictures are Rippon Lea, Illawarra House, and Toorak House.

A black and white photograph mounted on card. The photograph depicts a large, two storey building surrounded by small trees. The building has been constructed using dark bricks with white ornamentation, including triangular patterns on the walls of the first floor and striped window hoods. There are dormers on the first floor, one partially obscured on the western side. Two of the three dormers have a square bay window, the third is curved. The roof is tiled and there is a visible chimney as well as a large, pyramidal tower atop the central dorme, which is surrounded by a square balustrade. The ground floor is comprised of an enclosed loggia with large windows. To the east of the building, there is an octagonal room which juts out of the front façade. The building is surrounded by a stone wall. [CON_B04167_F002_020 – AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Ripponlea. Architects: J. Reed and F. Barnes, 1860s.]

A black and white photograph mounted on card. The photograph depicts a large house, at least three storeys high. The building is comprised of an open loggia or walkway on the ground floor and a dormer on the first floor. The dormer is decorated with pediments and columns. There is a four-walled tower behind, which culminates in a ring of ionic columns and a flat, elliptical roof. The house’s brickwork is varied, with much of the architectural details highlighted with light stone. The house is cloaked in hedges and trees with a small set of stairs leading to the house visible to the left of the photograph. [CON_B04167_F002_012 – AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Illawarra House. Architect: J. Birtwistle, 1889.]

A black and white photograph mounted on card. The photograph depicts a large, two storey building with a substantial rotunda in the centre of the façade. The ground floor is comprised of an open loggia which runs along the façade, wrapping around the rotunda. The loggia is decorated with ionic columns. The first floor is comprised of an open veranda, the railings of which appear to be a white wrought iron. The walls of the building are plain, and covered in rows of tall windows. The roof is partially obscured, but a large, narrow chimney is visible. The building is set amongst many trees and a well-kept lawn. [CON_B04167_F005_011 – AUSTRALIA: Melbourne, Toorak House (Lascelles Avenue)]

Christine Rodgers
Digitisation Volunteer

Christopher Williams: A Maritime Life-Story – The ‘Venus’ Who Rose From The Waves

May 25, 2023Conway Photographers The Kersting Archive Volunteers No Comments

Audio Version

Read by Christopher Williams

Text Version

On Board Venus: Motor Vessel: Captain.
Image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_N01525, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

My fellow Digitisation Volunteer Richard True has described in two blog posts how he set about trying to identify the girl ‘Mary’ at the wheel of a passenger ship called ‘Venus’.

Mary features in a photograph taken by Anthony Kersting on a voyage from Southampton to Madeira in March 1953.

The links to his blog posts are below – and he does track her down!

Kersting’s Visit to Madeira

Search for Kersting’s Mary Continues

My curiosity was piqued by Richard’s search: what is the story of the other ‘she’ in the photographs, namely, the ship herself?

What a story it turned out to be:

a source of Norwegian national pride when she entered service in 1931, dubbed the ‘Queen of the North Sea’ and featuring royalty on her passenger lists;
requisitioned in WW2 by Nazi Germany and used to train U-boats in the Baltic;
sunk at Hamburg by allied bombers;
re-floated at the war’s end – Venus rises from the waves!
repaired and returned to peacetime sailing;
running aground in a storm in Plymouth Sound and again rising from the waves!
in her most glorious hours, rescuing the crew of a stricken vessel in horrendous conditions in the North Sea, to international acclaim and as commemorated in oils by the eminent maritime artist Frank Mason.

This is her story…

Display model of MS Venus as originally configured, 1930s. Photo: Bergens Sjøfartsmuseum

Built at Helsingør (Elsinor) in Denmark, MS Venus was owned by the Bergen Steamship Company (Norwegian: Bergenske Dampskibsselskab or BDS) – the company’s funnels were painted black with three widely spaced narrow white bands. She had a gross tonnage of 5407, a length of 398 ft and a beam of 54 ft; she was a twin-screw vessel powered by 2x Burmeister & Wain four-cycle, 10-cylinder diesels delivering a total of some 9,500 bhp, giving her a speed of 19.5 knots. The ship originally had cabins for 278 passengers. She cost NOK 5.2 million when delivered in April 1931 and was the most expensive ship BDS had owned to date.

On 30 April 1931, Venus went to Oslo to be presented to King Haakon VII and representatives of the Norwegian government and the Storting. The king raised a toast on behalf of the fatherland and believed that such a beautiful ship as Venus must be at the service of the whole country. A few days later, the Danish king stated after seeing the ship that there was only one fault with her; that she did not belong to a Danish shipping company.

On 6 May 1931, she took her maiden voyage from Bergen to Newcastle. In the years leading up to WW2, she maintained a summer service along with another BDS ship of four round trips per week, with departures from Bergen at 11.00 on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and from the purpose-built Tyne Commission Quay, North Shields, Newcastle at 19.30 on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Queen Maud of Norway was a frequent passenger until her death in 1938 and other notable travellers included the Thai royal family in 1936.

It was on one of these inter-war journeys that Venus had undoubtedly her finest moment. Late at night on 19 January 1937, Venus was en route to Newcastle in a storm when an SOS was heard from the cargo vessel Trym, which was en route from Kirkenes to Middlesbrough. Venus went to assist and remained standing by Trym, with the winds increasing to hurricane force. First attempts at rescue were thwarted until early in the morning of the 21 January, Venus launched a lifeboat with 9 volunteers under the leadership of 2nd Mate Rolf Andreassen. With extra-ordinary bravery, Ordinary Seaman Perry Opsahl on the Trym jumped into the wild seas and swam to take a line to the lifeboat, allowing six of Trym‘s crew to be taken off and brought back to Venus.

With conditions worsening and the Trym at risk of foundering, Captain Dreyer of the Venus manoeuvred close to Trym so that a line could be fired from the bow across to the Trym so that those still on board could be hauled over the wild seas to safety. All were saved. The success of this rescue made headlines across Europe. British newspapers referred to it as the most heroic rescue operation of the century and portrayed Captain Dreyer as a wise, calm and masterful Viking.

Venus received a great reception on return to Bergen – probably 25,000 people showed up. Opsal from Trym and those of the crew of Venus who had participated directly in the rescue operation were awarded the ‘medal for noble deeds’. First mate Brynjulf Bjarnir and nine crew members were awarded the King’s Medal of Merit in gold. Opsal also received a gift of NOK 10,000 from the city of Oslo.

As well as these Norwegian awards, the committee of Lloyd’s in London commemorated the event with a bronze plaque and awarded medals for saving life at sea to Captain Dreyer and those who manned the boat from Venus.

Lloyd’s Commemorative Plaque. Photo: Bergens Sjøfartsmuseum

Trym and Venus, painting by FH Mason, oil on canvas, 60cmx100cm – detail. Photo: Bergens Sjøfartsmuseum

The rescue of the last crew members was depicted in a painting by Frank Henry Mason RBA, RI, RSMA (1875-1965), an English artist best known for his maritime, shipping, coastal and harbour paintings, and as a creator of art deco travel and railway posters.

He had served in the Great War as a Lieutenant in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve – undoubtedly giving him a further insight into depicting maritime events.

*Lt Frank Henry Mason RNVR in WW1 – photo IWM collection*

His painting Trym and Venus now hangs in Bergens Sjøfartsmuseum (Bergen Maritime Museum). Look closely and you can see a crewman from Trym being hauled across to Venus, suspended from the line running between the two ships.

Darker times lay ahead for Venus, however. Following the outbreak of World War 2 and the occupation of Norway by German forces, Venus was requisitioned by the Kriegsmarine and sailed to the Baltic Sea under the German flag, to be rebuilt at Neptunwerft in Rostock, where the interior was removed. The ship was then used as a training target by the 26th U-boat Flotilla, which trained newly commissioned U-boats in the firing of torpedoes. In 1945, as the Soviets advanced deeper into Eastern Europe, the flotilla relocated westwards. Finally, on 20 March 1945, Venus was bombed and sunk by Allied aircraft in Walterhofer Hafen near Hamburg. One bomb hit the aft hatch and another hit next to the ship, causing her to sink – though the water was so shallow that parts of her structure remained above the surface.

But her story did not end there.

In June 1945, it was decided that it would be possible, though expensive, to salvage her. This work took until early 1948 to complete; she was repaired and refitted in Helsingør, Aarhus and Copenhagen in Denmark and Landskrona in Sweden.

A cargo hold on the ship was scrapped and passenger accommodation increased and a garage fitted out. After the conversion, the ship could take 143 passengers in 1st class, 257 in 2nd class and an additional 60 in a cheaper class aimed at groups of young travellers – totalling 460 passengers, against 278 passengers before the war. The bow, deckhouse and bridge were also modernised. The restoration cost around NOK 16 million.

On 4 May 1948, she arrived back in Oslo to be displayed, where it was agreed that it was still right to call her the “Queen of the North Sea”. King Olaf of Norway said it had been a pleasure to have the MS Venus again “in her new, beautiful guise”. The next day, she sailed into Bergen, after visiting Stavanger and Haugesund. Six thousand people turned up on the quay to welcome her. The first trip to England after her restoration took place on 8 May 1948, sailing first to London then on to Newcastle before the return trip to Bergen.

During the summer seasons, MS Venus continued to sail the North Sea route from Bergen to Newcastle. Every winter season from December to April from 1948 until the mid 1960s, MS Venus offered ten-day cruises from Southampton or Plymouth in Great Britain to Madeira and Tenerife in the Canary Islands, which also took advantage of the cargo opportunity provided by the import of fruit and vegetables to the UK. It was one of these cruises in the spring of 1953 that carried Anthony Kersting and his camera – and when he pictured ‘Mary’ on the bridge at the ship’s wheel.

Portugal, Madeira, Funchal, Harbour: Motor Vessel Venus, 25 March 1953.
Detail of image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_N01577, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

Portugal, Madeira, Funchal, Shore, 25 March 1953.
Detail of image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_N01575, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

MV Venus: On Board, 23 Mar 1953.
Image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_T000003, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

Spain, Canary Islands, Tenerife. 6 April 1953.
Image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_N01570, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

Portugal, Madeira, Funchal, From Reid’s Hotel, 26 March 1953.
Detail from image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_H07489, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

MV Venus: On Board, 23 March 1953.
Image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_T000002, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

Not all voyages were smooth sailing. Most conspicuously, on 23 March 1955, Venus dragged her anchors in a storm in Plymouth Sound and ran aground on the Mountbatten Reefs on the eastern shore of the Sound. Three tugboats arrived in the morning to try to pull the ship free, but without success. All on board, apart from essential crew, were put ashore.

Venus aground in Plymouth Sound, March 1955.
Photographer(s) unknown. Source: M/S Museet for Søfart [Maritime Museum of Denmark] – Berlingske Tidende

Major damage was visible at the bottom of the hull and there was water seeping into some of the cabins. Compressed air was used to keep the water out. Finally, on 26 March when there was a spring tide, the salvage crew managed to pull the ship free at the fourth attempt. She was towed into Plymouth and examined by divers to get a full overview of the damage: outer plates in the bottom were torn up and a leak was discovered in the tanks forward and amidships.

Some of these events in Plymouth Sound were captured on film in unused British Pathé News footage, which can be seen in this YouTube clip.

She was eventually towed to Amsterdam for full repairs to be carried out; she arrived back in her home port Bergen on 31 May to resume her sailing schedule – and to give Kersting further opportunities to sail on her on his photo expeditions.

Norway, Venus in Bergen Fjord, June 1958.
Image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_N02197, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

Norway, On Venus, June 1958.
Image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_N02229, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

Norway, Vestland, Bergen, Bergen Fjord: M/S Venus, 14 July 1962.
Image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_G02178, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC

In early 1965 the ship made two cruises to the Mediterranean and the Greek Islands, before starting on a new direct route from Stavanger to Newcastle, but still making some calls to Bergen. In March 1966, Venus again set out on a cruise to the Mediterranean, this time as far east as Haifa in Israel.

In contrast to this time cruising in Mediterranean sun, financial clouds were however gathering over MS Venus. Four cruises planned for the autumn of 1968 from Southampton to the Canary Islands were cancelled because of poor ticket sales. BDS put the ship up for sale – her fate was sealed when she was bought for scrapping by Shipbreaking Industries Ltd. based at Faslane on the Lower Clyde. On 5 October she arrived in Bergen for the last time. Valuable objects and artworks were removed and on 17 October 1968 she sailed on her final journey from Bergen to the Clyde and her destruction.

This is how the Norwegian newspaper Bergens Tidende described her departure on its front page:

“The 36-year-old North Sea Queen set out from the quay at Laksevåg and headed across the Puddefjord towards Nordnes and made an elegant turn outside the Skoltegrunnskaien, where it has docked for all these years. With a series of deep blasts from the whistle it sent a final salute into the town and instantly there was a response from a number of boats from the harbour… bidding the proud ship farewell. And then the course was set west, for the last time Venus rounded Kvarven and disappeared out of sight from the city as hundreds of proud schooners have done before her.”

Epilogue – Did she ‘Leave not a wrack behind’? – Not quite.

You can still bid for MS Venus memorabilia on e-Bay!

Items for sale on e-Bay, 4 April 2023 – exactly 70 years after Kersting’s voyage to Madeira and the Canaries on MS Venus

And of course, you can trawl the Courtauld Digital Archive for images of the ship and the places she visited with Kersting and his camera on board.

Christopher Williams, Digitisation Volunteer, May 2023

***

Sources:

There is a comprehensive [Norwegian language] history of MS Venus on Wikipedia at:

https://no.wikipedia.org/wiki/MS_%C2%ABVenus%C2%BB

and of the Bergen Steamship Company (Bergenske Dampskibsselskab – BDS) at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bergen_Steamship_Company

Maritime Museums:

Norway: Bergens Sjøfartsmuseum: https://digitaltmuseum.no/owners/BSJ

Denmark: M/S Museet for Søfart: https://mfs.dk/

The grounding in Plymouth Sound is featured in British Pathé News unused footage ‘SS [sic] Venus Runs Aground (1955)’ duration 2m:12s, viewable at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zrJXI2skrQ

Eyewitness accounts and images of the grounding and repairs in Plymouth can be found on this forum: https://www.submerged.co.uk/gotaway-venus/

The artist Frank Henry Algernon Mason’s life and works are described here:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Henry_Mason

and here:

https://www.pannettartgallery.org/havens-and-harbours-the-marine-art-of-frank-henry-mason/

Kathleen Lynch-Howard: Digitisation Storytelling – Ruin, Repair, Renewal

April 20, 2023Being Human Festival Photographic Library Digitisation Project The Conway Library No Comments

The Gaiety Theatre 1909

My story is about two women.

One began her life and career in the north of England, before travelling to London to find success in the West End.

The other began her life in south Asia before travelling to England to reach the heights in London theatre.

One would be found in front of an adoring public on the stage of the Gaiety Theatre; the other spent 56 years blowing her trumpet to the heavens from the dome of the theatre – only occasionally spotted through the grimy London air.

This musical comedy production, ‘Our Miss Gibbs’, was a huge hit for the Gaiety Theatre and the star of the show was our first leading lady, Gertie Millar, who played the eponymous Miss Gibbs – a shop girl in a large London department store, Garrods. From a working-class background herself, (father a millworker and mother a dressmaker) Gertie’s career began in the 1880s with performances as a child in pantomimes in Manchester and London. She moved to singing and dancing in northern music halls, then found more fame and higher pay in London variety shows.

Postcard of Gertie (and dog), in the role of Mary Gibbs

The zenith of Gertie’s career was achieved through her successful partnership with George Edwardes, the manager of the original Gaiety Theatre in the first two decades of the 20^th century. In 1903 the new, rebuilt Theatre opened, Gertie played the lead in the long-running opening production, ‘The Orchid’, watched from the royal box by King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra.

Musical comedy was a hugely popular form of British theatre in the early 20^th century, and Gertie was one of the top performers, not only in the London theatres but also on Broadway – taking New York by storm in her performances in ‘The Girls from Gottenburg’ in 1908. She was also one of the most photographed women of the age, appearing on numerous postcards. ‘Our Miss Gibbs’ was a typical Gertie Millar success story – running for 636 performances before transferring to Broadway in 1910.

Our second leading lady is The Spirit of Gaiety, designed by Hibbert C. Binny, constructed at his workshop in Essex and positioned on top of the dome of the newly rebuilt Gaiety Theatre in 1903. She is made from blocks of carved teak, gilded, weighs more than a ton and is 20 feet high – quite a show stopper.

In 1939, the theatre was scheduled for demolition to accommodate a road widening scheme. The Spirit of Gaiety oversaw the last performance (‘Running Riot’) on 25^th February 1939. However, the road widening scheme was discarded, partly due to WW2, and the theatre stood abandoned and increasingly derelict. Astonishingly, despite bomb damage in The Blitz, the statue remained standing – resilient and proud.

After the war, the famous comic actor Lupino Lane bought the building, hoping to restore it to its former glory. Unfortunately, despite spending huge amounts on restoration works, Lane realised he had in fact bought a money pit, which he did not have the resources to fill. In 1950 he had to sell the property. The theatre was demolished and the English Electric Company building was constructed on the site. Although she lacked a theatre, The Spirit of Gaiety still remained on the site, if somewhat lower in status and height. She was preserved and stood in the well of the Citibank premises until 1984 when she was presented to the Theatre Museum in Covent Garden where she began her 3^rd life – on display in the main entrance until 1992, as concerns about her condition caused her to be taken off display and moved into storage. She came to rest at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Gertie’s private life was also entwined with the theatre: in 1902 she married Lionel Monckton, 20 years her senior, the man who had first spotted her performing and recommended she come to London. A theatrical composer, he wrote several of her best known songs, including ‘Moonstruck’ for ‘Our Miss Gibbs’. He was, however, a jealous man who disliked seeing his beautiful wife enjoying attentions from many of the ‘stage door johnnies’. The couple separated, but Monckton refused to give his wife a divorce even though she desperately wanted to marry the Duke of Westminster, with whom she was having an affair. Eventually King George V and Queen Mary were compelled to step in to prevent the scandal that would have erupted had the Duke had to divorce his wife to marry Gertie.

Meanwhile, theatrical tastes began to shift – in WW1 audiences began to prefer new entertainment in the form of films as well as music hall. George Edwards died in 1915, and Lionel Monckton’s style of song was increasingly dated. She achieved a few successes after 1912, but never again had the consistent acclaim of her early career, so in 1918 she retired from the stage. Her final performance was fittingly in the theatre of her home town – the Bradford Alhambra.

Gertie had by then embarked on a liaison with the 2^nd Earl of Dudley. His wife died in 1920, and Lionel Monckton succumbed to illness in March 1924, so in April 1924, at last Gertie became the Countess of Dudley. She and her new husband spent most of their short married life in Le Touquet, not far from their neighbour, friend and fellow theatrical writer – P.G. Wodehouse. The Earl of Dudley died in 1936, while Gertie, still a countess, lived on in Surrey, until 1952, on her death leaving a substantial estate.

The Spirit of Gaiety on the other hand, has outlived the era of the Gaiety Girl, epitomised by Gertie Millar, and resides at the end of the Paintings galleries on the first floor of the V&A. Years of exposure to rainwater had left her internal framework heavily corroded and woodwork weakened. Urgent work was required, before an extensive treatment programme could progress, strengthening the rotten woodwork and reinstating her gilded surface – carried out by lead conservator Zoe Allen, who calls the statue one of her favourite objects. She was given this level of care as she is something of a rarity – wooden architectural sculpture doesn’t often survive. Size, weight, exposure to the elements mean few are preserved intact when the buildings they grace are demolished. The Spirit of Gaiety is therefore considered by the V&A to be unique within UK museum collections. She now has a new name – the V & A staff affectionately call her the Angel. Restored and renewed, she is once again visible to many visitors as well as staff who can all appreciate the joy and gaiety she represents.

This is the text to a presentation that was part of the Conway Storytellers in the Being Human Festival in 2021.

Kathleen Lynch-Howard, Digitisation Volunteer, November, 2021

Julian Wood: A Photographic Detective Story – The Curious Case of the Sultan in the Cellar

February 5, 2021Placement Volunteer Audio Volunteer Voices No Comments

Audio version

Read by Meredith Loper

Text version

Sherlock Holmes would have loved The Courtauld. Less than three miles from his Baker Street rooms, beneath its walls lies an unsolved mystery. Within its libraries, a small, battered photograph album has lain concealing secrets from Holmes’ age. While the latter was out collecting evidence of London’s crimes, somebody else was collecting history. They assembled pictures of the first modern Olympic Games, recorded now-vanished ossuaries in Malta, and even preserved the same Turkish Sultan whom Holmes allegedly assisted – just before the Ottoman Empire vanished forever.[1] Yet, who this person was, and what their story might have been, have vanished with the places they recorded.

That is, until now. For, paradoxically, the album’s survival has also immortalised its compiler. It has left a physical relic which, although inanimate, is a testament to the agency of a living person. Every image, after all, tells a story – as does the very act of assembling them into a set. No photographs are mere imprints of momentary “truth”, but are products of human choice.

The New Mosque, Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul) viewed from the North. In an almost straight southward line behind it is the famous Hagia Sophia.

Through a bit of detective work, we can for the first time penetrate the lost life of this peculiar artefact. Thousands of images beneath the Courtauld have these stories to tell, and it is only now that they have been digitised that we may begin to solve their mysteries, and bring their creators back to life once more.

The Acropolis of Athens, taken from the south-east. On top is the famous Parthenon and in the foreground the Temple of Olympian Zeus.

Our first bit of sleuthing must take us towards attempting to uncover the compiler, and only two clues allow us to do this. They are a note inside the inside cover, and a manufacturer detail upon the back:

What can we unpack here? “A. L. R.” gave this album to “D. Radford” in 1896, and the album was made by “J. Barfett Clark”, based in Penzance and Tavistock. If we assume, not unreasonably, that “A.L.R.” was also a “Radford” given the shared surname letters, then we have a search on our hands. We need to find an associated pair of English speakers, of literate age in c.1896, called D. and A. L. Radford, who perhaps have links to the South West, and might have been interested in history or travel.

In times far from that of the album, online resources allow us a possible answer. We can find one A. L. Radford, who died in 1928, as a listed Recorder of Ancient Monuments for Devon during the early 20^th century.[2] The same man sought, between 1921-3, to restore the medieval Norman House, on King Street in Exeter: a site which would be destroyed war bombs in May 1942.[3] Crucially, his father, one D. Radford, had lived between 1828-1900, and was settled in Tavistock. Moreover, this D. Radford not only a wealthy coal merchant but also a cultured man: active in the Devonshire Association.[4] These details fit perfectly with the album’s fragments, and so, for the time in decades, we can suggest a potential match.

So, if A. L. Radford of Devon probably compiled the album, our next question is simple: did he actually visit the sites?

This is a bit of a conundrum. In terms of a “journey”, the album contains 59 photographs, grouped in a sequence. 28 from Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul), then 21 from Athens, and 10 from Malta. This categorisation could suggest a reflection of a real journey, though on its own it could be as much a case of “armchair travel”. We can see that the photographs are annotated with notes in red fountain pen, which seems to match that of the dedication inside the cover: especially in the particular way in which the lowercase letter “a” is written. We do not know when these were made either, though they do help us to probe further into this issue, especially with this picture:

This photograph is perhaps the most startling in the entire album, and for one simple reason. It is catastrophically wrong. This is indeed a “Temple of Victories”: it is the “Temple of Wingless Victory”. In Athens. Not, as Radford would suggest here, in “Salonica” (the Turkish name for Thessaloniki in northern Greece, which was then still part of the Ottoman Empire).

This error is particularly puzzling because the Temple is on the Acropolis of Athens. It is right next to the famous Parthenon, and is unashamedly visible (circled in red here) in another of the album’s photographs:

There is no similar building in Thessaloniki. Despite it being extremely picturesque, there is, in fact, no other photograph from this city. The error is so significant that we are left wondering whether Radford went to Thessaloniki at all.

There are three main possibilities: Radford had an atrocious memory (or was not paying proper attention to his surroundings); he deliberately wrote down a false name (perhaps to impress the recipient?); or he did not go to Greece at all and relied on (inaccurate) second-hand information. It is impossible for us to be sure, but whichever is correct, it shows how one small detail can reveal so much about the lives of the people behind The Courtauld Libraries’ collections.

However, the detail is not alone in baffling us, for another photograph demonstrates an intriguing gap between annotation and image:

We can now confirm with certainty that Radford did not take all of the album’s photographs. While those which we have seen already could be of too high a quality to suggest this anyway, this image confirms it. It is from a professional, and attested in the 1868 collection of French photographer Pierre Gigord.[5] If Radford did venture to Istanbul himself, perhaps he picked up this photograph there, from a seller?

Yet, whether he did go is made uncertain by his annotation. The view is labelled as from the “War Office”, a three-storey building which now part of Istanbul University.[6] Yet this is not where the photograph was taken. The angle and elevation are clearly from the nearby Beyazit Tower, a separate, 85m tall structure used to monitor urban fires and weather phenomena.[7] How could Radford have known, therefore, that it was next to the War Office? He could have conflated them, having visited and seen their proximity, perhaps in order to appeal to his father with the more glamorous “War Office”?

Alternatively, Radford could have received his information from a secondary source, who had done the conflation before him. Certainly, it is intriguing that the term “War Office” was used. It had been known since 1826 as the Gate of the Serasker (a word meaning “vizier” or military commander). This had been changed in 1876 to “War Office”, though between 1890-1908 the building again reverted to the longstanding name.[8] So, when the original photograph was taken, and when this album was compiled, the misattributed building had a different name. Our conclusion must be the same as before: either Radford deliberately used the obsolete name “War Office” because it resonated with his recipient; he made a very unlikely mistake; or he did not visit Istanbul and acquired this print from somebody who knew Istanbul and/or used the obsolete name. We do not know for certain, but the evidence suggests something of a gap between the truth of the album, and the intentions of the man behind its creation.

This gap is mirrored in another way: when we appreciate how unaware Radford could have been of the significance of his photographs to posterity. This photograph is a perfect example:

This is the Nibbia Chapel in Valletta, Malta, a Roman Catholic building decorated after 1852 with skeletal remains of the dead, taken from its cemetery (and leading to the celebrated nickname “Chapel of Bones”). What Radford could not have known, however, is that – like the Norman House he tried to restore – the entire site would be levelled in 1941 by aerial bombardment, leaving nothing but fragments.[9] His album, therefore, unbeknownst to him, not only compiled history but preserved it forever.

As with other photographs, this one was not a product of his own making. This image was taken in 1881 by John Edmund Taylor, though it does not attempt to hide this.[10] Within the image itself we see a caption: “Chapel of Bones, Malta”, and this is clearly from a separate album containing this photograph, because the original by Taylor extends our view behind the caption bar to slightly further down into the ground. This shows that Radford was using photographs taken and labelled by others, and also that he was not ashamed of doing so when presenting them to his father. It raises the same question of whether he might still have picked up this image in Malta, which cannot be ruled out, as the caption’s English could be explained by the site’s popularity with tourists and by Malta’s then-status as a British Protectorate. Of course, it is also significant that Radford did just copy the photograph’s caption, and did not specify – as he does on some other photographs of Malta – that this distinct building is in Valletta. Could this suggest that Radford was merely getting his information about each photograph from a secondary source? Thereby explaining the limitations of some of them? It is hard for us to be certain, but it does suggest a distinct possibility and places another potential layer of separation between Radford and the importance of the scenes photographed within his album.

The same recording of a changed world is evidenced by another pre-existing print utilised by Radford:

This picture is one of the richest in the album. Here we see a snapshot of a vanished era: that of Sultan Abdul Hamid II, ruler of everything from Greece to Iraq between 1876 and 1908. He is entering the Yildiz Hamidiye Mosque, which he himself commissioned only a decade before: between 1884-1886. We cannot make out the Sultan himself – perhaps he is the figure getting out of the carriage closest to the entrance stairs, though he certainly would have emerged from this vehicle. This image was taken by the Abdullah Brothers, a notable family of Armenian photographers who served as the official court photographers of the sultans.[11]

While it captures a routine ritual, occurring every Friday during the most important of the week’s prayers, it holds more significance. The photograph depicts the same ceremony, in the same spot, probably with most of the same participants, where 9 years after Radford’s dedication the sultan would be nearly assassinated. Even more strikingly – although Radford couldn’t have known this either – it would be by an Armenian revolutionary group reacting against the sultan’s persecutions and thereby contributing to the final decline of the Ottoman Empire. The artist and the subject are linked inexorably by history, yet for A. L. Radford this would be just another sneak-peak into the customs of a distant land.

This fleeting capture of significant history, by a man with unclear intentions, reaches its climax with the most startling photographs of the album. These are the two images of the first modern Olympic Games, held in Athens between 6^th-15^th August 1896:

These two photographs record the first revival of the Games since their traditional ancient staging between 776BCE – 394CE. 241 athletes from 14 nations competed in 43 events, to a crowd of around 100,000 spectators, with the majority being held in the place shown here: the Panathenaic Stadium in Athens. Much has changed since. Winners during this period won silver medals and olive branches, with copper for runners-up. More concerningly, only men, and only from Europe and the United States, took part.[12] But, these images represent the first incarnation of something that has become a modern-day tour de force. The Olympic Games even returned to the same stadium photographed here, over a century later in 2004.

Radford again did not take these images. They have been recorded in other collections, though we cannot be sure who took them.[13] The two main photographers were the German photographer Albert Meyer, and the Greek photographer Iannis Lampakis. Both took very subjective photographs of ceremonies and participants, but we do know that Lampakis favoured scenes that were more naturalistic than Meyer’s, which might suggest that these photographs were originally by the former.[14] Of course, they could also be taken by amateur photographers, who were restricted to the spaces from which these were taken. It seems odd, if Radford had attended, why there should only be two photographs of such an important event, and, likewise, why his annotation should be the minimalist “Stadium I” and “Stadium II”. This would fit with the mislabelling of “Salonica”, the confusion over the Beyazit Tower, and the visible label on the photograph of the Nibbia Chapel to suggest that Radford might have assembled these photographs into an armchair “travel” experience for his father. Perhaps his father was already ailing, given his death four years later, and this, therefore, could have been an act of compassion to provide him with escapism?

Ultimately, our efforts cannot leave us unsure of whether A. L. Radford journeyed across the Mediterranean before 1896. However, we can suggest that his album of photographs, dormant and overlooked in The Courtauld for decades, was a carefully assembled gift from father to son – possibly as a form of swansong in the twilight years of an old man’s life. If Radford went to the Mediterranean to create his gift, he did so with an almost bumbling fervour which bleeds into the errors of his album. If Radford did not go, and created his vicarious journey in Devon, then he did so clearly through immense effort, even if the stretch of that effort had to lead to some mistakes. We may never know what the true version of events was, but we can now know something of the emotion and human presence behind this hitherto silent artefact. A. L. Radford is one of the many lost voices preserved by The Courtauld, and it is only through engagement with its treasures that we may unlock their secrets, and bring rouse them in the 21^st century to speak once more.

Bibliography:

[1] Kayahan AB (2018) Sultan meets Sherlock Holmes: Abdülhamid II’s passion for mystery. In: Daily Sabah, 28 July. Available at: https://www.dailysabah.com/feature/2018/07/28/sultan-meets-sherlock-holmes-abdulhamid-iis-passion-for-mystery (Accessed: 12 December 2020)

[2] “Cecily Radford”, Devonshire Association Transactions, 1968. Available at: https://devonassoc.org.uk/person/radford-cecily/ (Accessed: 11 December 2020).

[3] Cornforth D (2016) The Norman House – King Street. In: Exeter Memories, 13 February. Available at: http://www.exetermemories.co.uk/em/_buildings/norman-house.php (Accessed: 13 December 2020).

[4] “D. Radford”, Reports and Transactions of the Devonshire Association for The Advancement of Science, Literature, and Art, 32 (1900), pp. 43-44. Available at: https://archive.org/details/reportandtransa18artgoog/page/n51/mode/2up?q=Radford (Accessed: 10 December 2020).

[5] BEYAZIT KULESİ’NDEN PANORAMA / 1868 / 3. PARÇA. In: Eski İstanbul Fotoğrafları Arşivi, 2020. Available at: http://www.eskiistanbul.net/6296/beyazit-kulesi-nden-panorama-1868-3-parca (Accessed: 13 December 2020).

[6] Brosnahan T (2019) Beyazit Square, Istanbul, Turkey. In: Turkey Travel Planner. Available at: https://turkeytravelplanner.com/go/Istanbul/Sights/Beyazit/index.html (Accessed: 14 December 2020).

[7] Sarı E (2017) Turkey Travel Guide: Turkey History and Travel Guide. Antalya, p. 25. Available at: https://www.google.co.uk/books/edition/Turkey_Travel_Guide/EK2sDgAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=beyazit+tower+85m&pg=PA25&printsec=frontcover (Accessed: 13 December 2020).

[8] Bernard L (1986) “Bāb-i Serʿaskeri”. In: The Encyclopedia of Islam, New Edition, Volume I: A–B. Leiden, p. 838.

[9] Drury M (2019) Lost Maltese treasures: Valletta’s Chapel of Bones was decorated with human skeletons. In: GuideMeMalta, 16 January. Available at: https://www.guidememalta.com/en/lost-maltese-treasures-valletta-s-chapel-of-bones-was-decorated-with-human-skeletons (Accessed: 11 December 2020).

[10] ‘An altar bearing a Latin inscription surrounded by an array of human skulls and bones and a cloaked skeleton. Photograph by J. Taylor, c. 1881’, Wellcome Library no. 32810. Available at: https://wellcomecollection.org/works/y8e6chnz (Accessed: 12 December 2020).

[11] “Image 2B00P0J” CPA Media Pte Ltd/Alamy Stock Photo, 2010. Available at: https://www.alamy.com/turkey-ottoman-ceremony-at-the-hamidiye-mosque-in-yildiz-district-istanbul-photograph-by-the-abdullah-brothers-fl-1858-1900-c-1890-the-yldz-hamidiye-mosque-also-called-the-yldz-mosque-turkish-yldz-hamidiye-camii-yldz-camii-is-an-ottoman-imperial-mosque-located-in-yldz-neighbourhood-of-beikta-district-in-istanbul-turkey-on-the-way-to-yldz-palace-the-mosque-was-commissioned-by-the-ottoman-sultan-abdul-hamid-ii-and-constructed-between-1884-and-1886-the-architecture-of-the-mosque-is-a-combination-of-neo-gothic-style-and-classical-ottoman-motifs-image344224626.html (Accessed: 11 December 2020).

Shaw WMK (2003) Possessors and possessed : museums, archaeology, and the visualization of history in the late Ottoman Empire. Berkeley, p. 141. Available at: https://books.google.com/books?id=v65XlSj4ud8C&lpg=PA141&dq=abdullah%20freres&pg=PA141#v=onepage&q=abdullah%20freres&f=false (Accessed: 11 December 2020).

[12] Athens 1896. In: Olympic.org, 2020. Available at: https://www.olympic.org/athens-1896 (Accessed: 13 December 2020).

[13] View Of The First Modern Olympic Games In Athens 1896. In: Historica Graphica Collection/Heritage Images/Getty Images, 2020. Available at: https://www.gettyimages.co.uk/detail/news-photo/view-of-the-first-modern-olympic-games-in-athens-1896-news-photo/804435202 (Accessed: 12 December 2020).

[14] Veja imagens da primeira olimpíada da era moderna em Atenas – 1896’. In: arte ref, 17 June, 2016. Available at: https://arteref.com/fotografia/veja-imagens-da-primeira-olimpiada-da-era-moderna-em-atenas-1896/ (Accessed: 14 December 2020).

Surya Bowyer: 9,763 Red Boxes

January 29, 2021Photographic Library Digitisation Project The Conway Library Volunteer Voices No Comments

Audio version

Read by Christopher Williams.

Text version

Minimalist ink drawing showing the figure of a person sitting at a table in the Conway Library, surrounded by red filing boxes. — Illustration by Simba Baylon @simbalenciaga

It begins with a box. Not a large or particularly remarkable box. Similar in size and shape to a foolscap box file. But different: an ever-so-slightly curved spine, a coarse fabric exterior.

Actually, it begins before the box. Walk down a spiral staircase and then along the aisles. Read the spine labels. Pick a box. Take it off its shelf.

Open the box. What’s next? There are two options. Two types of looking.

Option one: place it on a table under a camera.

Look at your phone. The blue-yellow light of its screen. Look at an image on it. Where has this come from? When we look at an image on a screen, on a phone, laptop, tablet, we seldom think of its story.

Inside the box: paper folders, held together without glue, with creases and folds and tabs pushed into slits. A tiny structural wonder. Inside each folder, a pile of papers. On each piece of paper, an image.

Officially: The Conway Library contains over one million images: photographs and cuttings of world architecture, architectural drawings and publications, sculpture, ivories, seals, metalwork, manuscript illumination, stained glass, wall paintings, panel paintings and textiles.

Place each image, in turn, on a table, under a camera.

In Sontag’s words: The view of reality as an exotic prize to be tracked down and captured by the diligent hunter-with-a-camera has informed photography from the beginning. [1]

In Barthelme’s opening sentence: The captured woman asks if I will take her picture. [2]

In Blake’s lines:

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty. [3]

Yet something, invariably, escapes. Slips out through the gaps in the cage. And the thing that remains behind bars is not the same as the thing escaped. The camera might capture something of the image, but when you see the resulting photograph, on a phone, laptop, or tablet, something else is not there. Paper to pixel. Physicality foregone. The object’s matter remains at large.

What does it mean to capture – partially – an object? Each morning, you click off the lights. You click on the camera, the computer. Before you have touched a box, you place a piece of thick plastic on the table under the camera. A grid of squares, each a different colour. Whimsically named a Macbeth chart. You’re not sure why. The click of the shutter; the chart flashes up on the computer’s screen.

This photograph on the screen is used (officially) to adjust the colour, the exposure, the saturation. Yet as you adjust these things, readying the apparatus for the task that will follow, it becomes clear that for everything you do capture, you must miss something else. To catch the detail of a dark area, you must expose a lighter expanse. The camera sketches the object on the table under it. The thing on the table is itself a reproduction. A drawing of a drawing of a drawing.

The camera sketches the object on the table under it, but to sketch is to approximate, to decide what to keep. Something, invariably, escapes. Perhaps this is the nature of drawing.

But not all of the red boxes are ready for this yet.

Minimalist ink drawing of two persons sitting at a table sorting and labelling the contents of red filing boxes. — Illustration by Simba Baylon @simbalenciaga

Officially: There are 9,763 boxes in the Conway Library. Inside the boxes the items are divided into folders. A folder can correspond to a town, a building, a section of a building, or smaller features. Folders are sorted alphabetically within each box.

To ready the papers, continue inward. Within each folder, the task (officially): to recreate the experience of moving closer to the building. Option two.

A front projection of a building. Below the drawing, a date, 1729, in a scratchy serif, words around it, some capitalised, seemingly at random. The pillars catch my eyes, returning them to the drawing above. I blink.

I am on a path I have not yet walked. It winds forward, manicured grass on either side, trees with undressed boughs. A regal edifice up ahead, the path snakes around it. I blink.

The side of the building, closer. White framed windows, curved at the top, darkness beyond them. Blink.

A doorway, cherubs carved into its lunette. Blink. A geometric marble floor, a carved wood ceiling, space (lots of it) in between. Blink. Another room, smaller, softer, a chaise longue, a fireplace, objet d’arts on the mantel above it. Blink. Two children playing, long strands of ivy encompassing them, carved in dark metal, covering an abyss; on either side, oak leaves, carved in stone; above, the same mantel. Blink.

I drag a pencil across a page, charting a path I have not walked. These images – photographs, cuttings – these drawings, with them I create the experience of moving closer to the building.

A caged building. Alike but not one with the other: bricks and mortar and stone and metal that I have not touched. The other which remains at large, and unvisited. With this pile of papers (now ordered) on the table in front of me, I have created a building.

I put the papers back in the folder, the folder back in the box. Close the box. Return the box to its shelf. Pause. Then: It begins, again, with a box.

Endnotes:

[1] Susan Sontag, On Photography (Anchor Books, 1977), p. 55.

[2] Donald Barthelme, “The Captured Woman”, in Sixty Stories (Penguin, 2003), p. 280.

[3] William Blake, “Song: How Sweet I Roam’d from Field to Field”.

Surya Bowyer
Courtauld Connects Digitisation Volunteer
https://twitter.com/suryabowyer

Illustrations by Simba Baylon
https://www.instagram.com/simbalenciaga/

Alessandro Torresi: Craco and the fascination for the abandoned

January 21, 2021Architecture The Conway Library Volunteer Voices Volunteers Zooniverse No Comments

I was 16 years old when I moved to my current house on the hill in Marsicovetere, Italy. I remember that the first thing I did, after throwing my stuff on the bed, was to put on a pair of comfortable shoes to reach the tiny, abandoned stone house I could see from my terrace. I ran along a footpath by the wooded coast directly to the entrance of what I later learnt was, in the late 1960s, the humble house of a family of farmers. I imagined some children looking out from the turquoise window, spying on their parents working the land, checking if they had enough time to plan a bit of mischief. That ordinary abandoned house became a powerful spark that made my imagination and curiosity wonder and flourish.

When I was a kid, one of my favourite days of the year was Good Friday, when the entire village would walk the Way of The Cross. Through the narrow streets of the old town, we would march to reach the abandoned monastery at the base of the mountain which, once a year, became the designated spot for the representation of the last stations of the Passion of Christ. For me, the folklore of this unique day was better represented by the image of the abandoned monastery; a ruined place, inaccessible for 364 days of the year, that for just one day could be reborn as an agora (meeting place) for all the peasants.

I have always been fascinated by abandoned places and by the special mystery of worlds that could have been but, for adverse reasons, stopped accomplishing the purpose for which they were built – I bet that each one of you reading this piece has at least one memory that took place in an abandoned site. Maybe it is because we like the idea of finding ourselves in a situation of danger (perhaps we even dare to imagine being witnesses of nefarious night-time crimes). Maybe it is because everyone has felt abandoned at least once in their lives; so it’s like we can claim to be the temporary owners of places that have seen a multitude of lonely explorers stepping inside and thinking they are the first to have discovered such a mysterious spot all for themselves.

While working on the classification of the photographic collection of The Courtauld’s Conway Library on Zooniverse, a series of pictures of St. Hilarion Castle in Cyprus caught my attention. Before I could even realise, I started to imagine what it must have been like when the castle was at the height of its use as a defensive fortification during the Byzantine Era.

The first picture below shows the ruins of the cistern of the castle. What was once one of the most vital places of the site – since a high storage of drinkable water can play a significant role for an island with drought problems like Cyprus – is now a cistern of abandoned memories that cannot be re-discovered anymore. I thought about the splendour of Byzantine chapels, with their iconic coloured cupolas, and I felt a sense of nostalgia and melancholia when I saw the second picture, which shows the remains of a once-glorious chapel. St. Hilarion Castle appears to be perched up high, and its rock walls defend a past made of secular traditions that cannot be replicated. It is as if the stone walls of the third picture were hiding a mythological creature who is asleep and waiting to live again.

Of course, this is only my perception but what I really want to stress is that heritage sites like St. Hilarion Castle are fundamental for our cultural consciousness. They stimulate our curiosity towards the past, but they stimulate also new visions of the future pushing us to think about how we can avoid the same mistakes that led these beautiful sites to perish, and how can we start again.

St Hilarion Castle, Cyprus. This image is blurred at the top (a finger over the lens, or maybe some fog!). In the bottom 2 thirds of this landscape oriented photo you can see an old stone wall with an arched wooden doorway nestled in the middle. The place looks like a ruin, but it's a close up shot so hard to tell what the surrounding area looks like. — St. Hilarion Castle, Cyprus. CON_B01180_F002_016, bottom right on mount. The Courtauld Institute of Art. CC-BY-NC.

St Hilarion Castle, Cyprus. This image is taken inside the ruined castle. Here the damage is clear: what was once a domed or vaulted roof is now open to the sky. The walls are in various states of disrepair, with jagged brickwork exposed. This must once have been a grand room, but now it's empty. — St. Hilarion Castle, Cyprus. CON_B01180_F001_007. The Courtauld Institute of Art. CC-BY-NC.

St Hilarion Castle, Cyprus. This photo is down the hill, looking up at the castle. From here, it looks like the castle is perched on the edge of a sheer rock face. The castle is clearly overgrown with plants, and the roof is clearly damaged. It's a plain, square, stone building, stark against the landscape. — St. Hilarion Castle, Cyprus. CON_B01180_F002_016, bottom left on mount. The Courtauld Institute of Art. CC-BY-NC.

What intrigued me the most about the images of St. Hilarion Castle was their resemblance to the memories I had of a once abandoned Italian village called Craco, nowadays a popular touristic destination.

Craco, perched high on a hill. Photo c. Alessandro Torresi.

In 1963 a landslide forced the inhabitants of this little stone village of the Basilicata region, situated at the top of a hill surrounded by gullies, to move to a newer town named Craco Peschiera. They had to leave their homes abruptly, abandoning Craco and turning it into a “ghost town”. As the years went by, nature gradually took over, creating an evocative environment where time seems to have stopped. This atypical setting re-entered the centre of the conversation when it was chosen as the location of important international film productions such as Mel Gibson’s The Passion (2004). Suddenly, institutions started to realize the unlimited potential of abandoned heritage sites like Craco. They represent a past that for many years we tried to forget, because they could not fit in the narrative of the fast world, of industrialized and smart cities. Places like Craco, or even the nearby Matera that is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, have been “shameful” for many Governments who saw in them the failure of their vision of progress. They were cut off from the public conversation, existing only in the bitter memories of the people who once lived there.

However, in 2020 we witness how quickly cities stopped being the safest and most desirable place to be. The high density of social contacts in urban areas meant a higher density of Covid-19 cases, and, as a result, large numbers of people decided to move, permanently or temporarily, to the countryside, putting the spotlight on those places that never had the chance to “shine”, and for which conservation and preservation are now of primary importance for the social and cultural wellbeing of the rural inhabitants.

Maybe, my fascination with abandoned sites lies in the idea of rebirth and second chances. A place with no present can have many possible futures. Craco has had its rebirth in 2011; from that year onwards it has been possible to visit the main street of the village with a guided tour that touches on the ancient palaces and convent as well as the ruins of the once inhabited houses. Wearing a protective helmet, you can take a trip through time, travelling back to the 1960s and experiencing a different side of the Italian dolce vita.

Inside an abandoned building, Craco. A single wooden chair is off-centre inside a once-grand, now crumbling room with barrel-vaulted ceilings. A tree is growing, indoors, on the back wall. Photo c. Alessandro Torresi.

I visited the beautiful yet mysterious Craco last summer. I am used to the slow life of the Italian southern villages, however, I was not expecting to feel such a realistic impression of being stuck in an ancient medieval village, where the only signs of modernity were the “explorers” taking pictures (as you can see from the pictures below, taken during my visit to the heritage site in 2020). I was even more surprised to see many international tourists, which is (unfortunately) quite uncommon for heritage sites in my region.

Scenes from Craco, Italy. Tourists in hard hats explore the ruined streets. Donkeys roam on the cobbles. The buildings are so decayed it’s easy to imagine they are growing out of the hill, rather than falling back into it. Photos c. Alessandro Torresi.

Craco can represent a succesful model, exportable everywhere, of sustainable fruition of an heritage site where human intervention is resepctful of the place’s history and natural environement, while representing an invaluable asset for the local cultural and economic development. It’s abandonment, and its resulting mysterious atmosphere, may therefore save it.

Alessandro Torresi
Courtauld Connects Digitisation Volunteer

Lorraine Stoker: London Life – Beatniks and Barefoot Girls in Trafalgar Square

December 11, 2020The Kersting Archive Volunteer Audio Volunteer Voices No Comments

Audio version

Read by Celia Cockburn.

Text version

As a child, growing up in a socialist household with a trade union activist as a parent, the 1960s were full of London marches and meetings. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) and anti-Vietnam War causes were high on the list of mid-week and weekend activities – along with visiting art galleries, although a football match came before art! On reflection, it was a fascinating, innovative, fast-moving time, albeit an ominous and frightening decade overall.

In 1962, the US and the USSR had engaged in a 13-day political and military stand-off, known as the Cuban Missile Crisis, John F Kennedy was assassinated in 1963 and Robert Kennedy would also be assassinated in 1968. The Vietnam war raged on, the British government pursued a Cold War nuclear policy, which saw squadrons of V- bombers armed with nuclear warheads. The government also continued with a commercial nuclear reactor programme – Sellafield and Dungeness, for example.

CND marches were held annually from 1959 to 1963 when the International Test Ban Treaty was signed, which partially banned nuclear tests. The Atomic Weapons Establishment at Aldermaston was always the destination for the CND annual march, starting at Trafalgar Square. These Aldermaston Marches, the CND symbol and their slogan “Ban the Bomb” became icons and part of the youth culture of the 1960s.

This photograph by Anthony Kersting bears the inscription “London Life – Beatniks and Barefoot Girls in Trafalgar Square” and seemingly captures the youth culture of the 1960s. Are we seeing the aftermath of a political demonstration, students waiting for the end of march speeches? Deep-political discussion after listening to Joan Baez and Donovan play and address the crowds at an anti-Vietnam protest?

“London Life – Beatniks and Barefoot Girls in Trafalgar Square”, image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_U02, The Courtauld, CC-BY-0.4.

And what did Kersting mean to evoke by his caption, ‘Beatniks and Barefoot Girls’? The media sold a stereotypical description of the Beatnik that consisted of dark clothing, turtleneck sweaters, berets and glasses – and women would go barefoot. Free love and drug-taking were also associated with the Beatnik style. Even Kersting appears to have bought into the stereotype. Yet it was always more a state of mind than a way of dressing.

But when were these beatniks in Trafalgar Square and why? It took some time, and several fruitless attempts to find the date of the photograph, but eventually the year 1965 was identified from another image held within the Collection Archive for Art and History, Berlin. This image captures the moment just seconds before the photograph held in The Courtauld library was taken.

You can imagine Anthony Kersting, armed with his camera, hanging over the concrete balustrades in front of the National Gallery, trying to capture the “perfect image”. Whereas the first photograph is far “too loose” and poorly composed, the one Kersting captures seconds later is strikingly composed, divided into two almost equal sections by a strong diagonal yet linked by engaged and connected figures. The heavily textured and rather dark top half is beautifully balanced by the lighter bottom half with its horizontal shadows and the out of focus balustrade. The image reveals a range of tones full of blacks and whites, with dark shadows and bright highlights. The high viewpoint is a creative way to enhance composition, giving the photographer an aesthetic advantage. Such subtle changes in viewpoint can add a deeper meaning or feeling to an image.

It is the physical connection seen within the line of people that draws the eye from one side of the photograph to the other side, weaving in and out of both the seated and standing figures. It is easy to become immersed in their conversations, eavesdrop on their political discussions or their thoughts of the key speakers at the demonstration.

There is a real possibility that the Anthony Kersting photograph was taken during the anti-war in Vietnam demonstration rally in Trafalgar Square where American folk singer Joan Baez, a political activist as well as a singer/songwriter, performed. Joan Baez was a fixture at marches and protests, especially in the Sixties, preaching a philosophy of nonviolence. In fact, she was everywhere – in the Village with Bob Dylan, Mississippi with Martin Luther King Jr. and Palo Alto with Steve Jobs. Both Bob Dylan and Steve Jobs were her lovers at various times. She also famously often went barefoot – although at this particular rally she was wearing shoes.

At the Trafalgar Square demonstration, Baez sang Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changing. The 5^th verse captures the rejection of the more conventional society:

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changing

If we make a reasonable assumption that the Kersting photograph in the Conway Library was taken on the 29th May 1965, it does indeed encapsulate the period itself. In the early 1960s, the Beatles’ Help premiered in the London Pavilion, National Service/Conscription was ended, and comprehensive education was introduced. Feminism became a more influential ideology, while recreational drugs became more commonly used. Malcolm X and Martin Luther King were assassinated. Anti-Apartheid picketing continued outside South Africa House and 1968 saw the Ford Dagenham women’s strike for equal pay, while Barbara Castle became the first woman to hold the position of First Secretary of State. In March 1968, a crowd of 10,000 demonstrated against US involvement in the Vietnam War before marching to the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, yet a year later in 1969 we saw the first men on the moon. It was a period of rising living standards in the UK but still dire poverty for many. A decade which was so full of promise but also disappointment and frustration.

It is also ironic that Trafalgar Square, built to separate the rich from the poor and, years later, modified to prevent public gatherings (the fountains were built solely for this purpose) would become the focus of protest, rebellion, demonstration and celebratory social gatherings.

The general public sees Trafalgar Square as a place to express freedom of speech and the ability to create change in the space. Scholars argue that change takes place when public space is used for strong protests and the historic presence of protests taken place in Trafalgar Square make it a significant area for the public.

From experience, the “space” does become a rallying point, a resting place, an enveloping space, offering comfort and safety… for the most part. Some academics have labelled the square as a “liminal space”, but introspective as opposed to uncomfortable, a place holding one on the threshold of new experiences. As a beatnik in 1965, having listened to Joan Baez in Trafalgar Square, and now talking to friends, this would indeed become a reflective, introspective space.

If Trafalgar Square is this in-between space, it is often these days geographically half-way between the start and end of a demonstration. Sometimes, one rests in the square before moving on to Parliament Square, or Whitehall. It is the space when you are “on the verge” of something new: you are between “what was” and “what will be”. A transitional space, a transformative space – as was and still is.

Lorraine Stoker
Courtauld Connects Digitisation Volunteer

Muny Morgan: Stepping Back in Mind, South East Asia

December 4, 2020The Conway Library The Kersting Archive Volunteer Voices No Comments

Audio version

Read by Tianyu.

Text version

Looking at Anthony Kersting images from the Conway Library at first glance took me back to my youth. It’s fascinating how a photograph – familiar or unfamiliar – can conjure up images of your experiences from a period in your life. It might do so directly – capturing a specific detail of a known building – or indirectly – by having a similarity with another place entirely. Almost like an aroma, or perfume, it can take you back to a specific memory, experience, time or place.

When I make this statement, I am referring to this image of Wat Pho, the Temple of the Reclining Buddha, in Bangkok.

Bangkok, image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_G28266, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC.

Although at first glance I thought: “this is the temple I visited on one of my many trips to Bangkok whilst residing in Singapore”, it occurred to me that I saw so many temples in Thailand that I might be mistaken. It was only after going through my personal, disorganised archive of photographs that I could confirm that it was indeed the same one, although I couldn’t locate the image of the reclining Buddha inside the temple.

Image of the temple taken by Muny Morgan. In it we can see the golden spear behind the protective walls. — Image by Muny Morgan.

When I looked at the images I selected for this blog, they took me back to a period in my life when I had just completed my postgraduate studies in Architecture. At the time, there was a recession in the UK and the building industry is often one of the sectors that are negatively impacted first. There were no jobs for budding, enthusiastic, young architects with no work experience, like me. But this took me, thankfully, to my first job abroad in Singapore, where I lived and worked for two years, and from which I could travel around South East Asia.

The images taken by Kersting in Singapore took me back 20 years in an instant. I recall my weekend walks (in the extremely high humidity temperatures), searching for the historical context of colonial architecture, contrasting with the dizzying heights of banks, hotels and condominiums that tower over the domestic-scaled “shop-houses” on this tiny sovereign island city-state in South East Asia.

St Andrews Cathedral, Singapore, image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_G30646, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC.

An image of a rugby and football playing ground, with skyscrapers rising in the distance — Cricket Ground near City Hall, Singapore, image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_G30645, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC.

Old Supreme Court, now National Gallery, Singapore, image by Anthony Kersting. KER_PNT_G30640, The Courtauld, CC-BY-NC.

Kersting captured St Andrews Cathedral, white as icing on a wedding cake, and the Cricket Ground near City Hall, where you could envisage, under colonial rule, a game of cricket being played. These were all on my daily route to the office I worked in, as well as the Old Supreme Court which was the last building to be built in the Classical style in the former British Colony. This building is now part of the National Gallery.

I marvelled at the way this island expands at such speed from a construction perspective and at the amazing architecture that exists. The skyline continues to progress and increase in density, and the structures become more and more challenging. For this reason, this is a place I always want to revisit.

The last time I was fortunate enough to travel to Singapore was ten years after I had worked and lived there and I couldn’t believe the number of new buildings that had emerged.

It made me think of the images of places that have been recorded in history and time, buildings that have disappeared forever due to wars, human intervention and natural disasters, many of which are captured in the Conway Library.

Photography is an important tool for recording places and people as they are in a particular time. This makes the Conway Library, and other photographic archives of this kind, vital to reconstructing our heritage and history and makes the efforts to digitise it and present it to the public even more important. Preserving these items is to preserve that time and place forever, making it accessible to all across the globe, enabling research and consultation for whatever purpose.

Sat here in London on a rainy November day during lockdown 2, exploring Kersting’s photographs was a wonderful moment of escapism that transported me in an instant from my current burdening thoughts and worries to memories of the past. It made me feel more hopeful for the future, during a year of overwhelming disruption and changes to life as we know it.

Finally, for readers looking to spend some time with a good book on memories and olfactory triggers, I recommend Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by German writer Patrick Süskind.

Muny Morgan
Courtauld Connects Digitisation Volunteer

Digital Media

The Courtauld Connects' Digitisation Project Blog

Category Archives: Volunteers

John Hurst: When Modernism and Fascism Collide – Tracing the Lives of Five Art Historians in Germany and Austria in the 1930s

Alison Ewbank: Spanning the Years in Suburbia

Christine Rodgers: Melbourne – Then and Now

Christopher Williams: A Maritime Life-Story – The ‘Venus’ Who Rose From The Waves

Kathleen Lynch-Howard: Digitisation Storytelling – Ruin, Repair, Renewal

Julian Wood: A Photographic Detective Story – The Curious Case of the Sultan in the Cellar

Audio version

Text version

Surya Bowyer: 9,763 Red Boxes

Audio version

Text version

Alessandro Torresi: Craco and the fascination for the abandoned

Lorraine Stoker: London Life – Beatniks and Barefoot Girls in Trafalgar Square

Audio version

Text version

Muny Morgan: Stepping Back in Mind, South East Asia

Audio version

Text version

Share:

Share:

Share:

Share:

Share:

Audio version

Text version

Share:

Audio version

Text version

Share:

Share:

Audio version

Text version

Share:

Audio version

Text version

Share: