Showing posts with label Literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Literature. Show all posts

Friday, 30 March 2018

Charmed Lives in Greece at the British Museum

I visited the British Museum with my brother this week, taking the day off on my birthday. A combination of it being the beginning of the Easter school holidays and a rainy day driving tourists and locals alike to pursue indoor leisure activities meant the museum was heaving. The dank smell of wet clothes hung in the air, even in the bright, high ceilinged central space of the Great Court.

A little Oasis of calm however, and the reason for my visit, were the galleries dedicated to a touching friendship of three men which lasted decades. Charmed Lives in Greece centers on the artists Nikos Hadjikyriakos-Ghikas and John Craxton and the writer and adventurer Patrick Leigh-Fermor.

They were very different in many ways, but what they shared was a lust for life, for joy and for keeping an open mind, never ceasing to learn about the world and to learn from the people they came across, be they princes or peasants. There seemed to be no arrogance about them, and both Craxton and Leigh-Fermor added themselves to that long line of those peculiarly revered eccentric English people in Greece, going back to Byron, drawn by the classics but on arrival opening their eyes to so much more. They threw themselves wholeheartedly into the society, assimilating and ingratiating themselves with the locals, learning the language, the songs and customs and becoming universally loved in their adopted country of Greece.

As well as a narrative of their individual journeys in life, it captures their times together in various parts of Greece, be it Hydra, Kardamyli, Chania or Corfu.

This is achieved through paintings, illustrations, photographs, letters, books with hand written dedications and personal items, such as Leigh-Fermor’s typewriter and his photographer wife Joan’s camera whose work is also well represented in this exhibition.

Ghikas’ art looks to come from within, even when painting a landscape, there is something of the inner dream about it. It feels personal, and as this short film states, he was more of an introvert compared to his English friends.

Ghikas

(Ghika, Trees on Poros, 1950)

And although quite similar in terms of their use of geometric forms and nods to cubism, there is an exuberance in Craxton’s work, an energy, sometimes a sexual energy, celebrating the working people of Greece, be they shepherds straining to quell sinewy goats in the mountains, or doleful sailors enjoying a meal and a cigarette in a rowdy taverna. Young men. And cats. Lots of cats, a passion he shared with Joan Leigh-Fermor (Patrick was less enthusiastic about felines). My brother was convinced he’d seen Craxton’s work before, in his Greek school study book from when he was a child. It seemed very apt and also a little subversive that these snapshots of working class life were celebrated in an otherwise cheerless textbook. I hope this is true as it’s a wonderful anecdote that the most memorable aspect of learning Greek was Craxton’s evocative art! (Neither me or my siblings are particularly proficient at Greek, we get by…)

Craxton

(John Craxton, Fish Market, Poros, 1952)

Finally there’s Patrick Leigh-Fermor, the rebellious, heroic charmer who captured a German General along with his Greek resistance friends in Crete in World War 2. I’ve read “A Time of Gifts”, the first of three volumes, charting his walk from Rotterdam to Constantinople aged 18 in the early 1930s. He’s a very engaging writer, very funny and you bound along with him on his journey. Craxton illustrated / designed the covers of all his books. It’s fascinating listening to Leigh-Fermor’s voice, speaking Greek, he speaks it like a local, with poetic narrative, not a bookish classicist, it made me smile.

It’s a wonderfully diverse, touching and balanced exhibition. And it’s free. At the British Museum until the 15th July.


Tuesday, 5 April 2011

Big House and Big Load o’books

17:30 - We’re staying in Southwold at the moment, in a big house by the sea. We’re on our own now, the family have moved out, who spent the weekend with us. We had a lot of fun with the kids, playing on the beach in gorgeous tee shirt weather.  (As in the weather being gorgeous, although my tee shirt was gorgeous too). Today is a grey day however, spots of rain and a bitter wind cutting in from the North Sea. But how can you not be moved when you look out of your window and see this?

We love the sea and being near it. The sound of it through the night breaking against the shore, the salt spray, the sun rising in the East, brilliant over the waves, even the sound of gulls bickering. Suffolk is probably one of our favourite places, with Southwold and Aldeburgh our holiday destinations of choice.
The house is huge, I admit I’m a bit scared so stay in my room when dark. I don’t piss at night and uncomfortably wait till the first dull light of morning before I will venture down to pee. But other than my childlike fear of the dark and creaky old buildings groaning in the wind, this is a wonderful holiday.
Another feature of the house is the abundance of books, whoever owns or owned this place has a wonderful collection. They are learned, I am impressed. Overwhelmed with the choices I can take to the little sun trap conservatory/lean to overlooking the sea and garden I procrastinated as to what to read.
Kingsley Amis, George Orwell, M.R James, Angela Carter, Tennessee Williams, Shakespeare, D.H Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, Evelyn Waugh, Aldous Huxley, James Ellroy, Oscar Wilde, Joseph Conrad, Ted Hughes, Satre, Kafka, Greer, Kipling… to name a few.
And my choice… an old book of short stories by Jack London. An American socialist, he died young. He seemed to have an ambiguity in his perception. Sometimes vilified by both left and right, as capitalist and communist respectively and roundly condemned for alleged racist views, was he just a victim of his time and circumstances?
As to his writing style it’s warm, full of colour and vivid analogies. It always depresses me when I read someone who can create dialogue and characters seemingly so effortlessly!
21:30
Had to go to dinner, so didn’t finish this blog. Before we left, we (Debbie) had to deal with a murderous cat in our garden, which was torturing a rabbit. Yes, this rabbit is normal rabbit sized, which means the cat is the size of a puma. It was freakin’ huge!

And during dinner, we had a nutty geordie woman on a nearby table kicking off about her Bouillabaisse Sauce smothering her Halibut. She had the airs and graces of gazza after seventeen pints.
“This wasn't what ah expected leik, ah divvent even leik octopus, it should be more leik a soup yee southern bastid”
She was excessively rude and the proprietor was right to hand them their bill. But she continued to rant and rave like a mentalist on the restaurant doorstep threatening to “I'll gis a reet poor rating on tripadvisor an myek sure the lercal rag gets te knaa aboot this terrible fuud”
All good fun, but it somewhat disgusted me to hear a geordie say “Bouillabaisse”, it just sounded wrong.

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