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INDULGE textiles to buy, collect or simply admire 15 Hot under the collar Forget jewellery and pack away your scarves: the only thing that shouldbeadorningyournecklineisadainty,detachablecollar.PollyLeonardpicksthebest... 76 COVER STORY Plain and simple Danish designer Bess Nielsen’s love of weave Wefindoutwhat inspiresthefounderofKhadi&Co.SeemorefromthecompanyontheSelvedgedrygoodswebsite
CONCEPT textiles in fine art 18 COVER STORY Portrait of Genius Marko Dutka looks anew at the ‘old masters’ A series of photographs reinterpreting the self-portraits of, among others, William Turner and Titian featuring octogenarianmodelandmuseDaphneSelfe 32 COVER STORY Great impression Curator Simon Marks introduces The Enid Marx Printmaker Exhibition PallantHouseGallerycelebratestheworkofthisdesigner,illustratorandprintmaker 38 COVER STORY Look and learn The aims and ideals of School Prints Ltd Aromanticstoryofone couple’sschemetoproduceoriginalprintsforschoolsandinspirealoveofart
INDUSTRY from craft to commerce 44 Strong influence June Hill discovers talented designers who taught by example and inspired the next generation 52 COVER STORY Back to manual What do you do when technology turns its back? Weaver PtolemyManntakesusfromJacquardtoJobsandback... 71 Neat work Starched and Crumpled Jennifer Bristow-Smith’s internet venture is the ultimate recyclingbusinessofferingantiquetextiles,haberdasheryandalifetime’sexperience 75 Obituary Mary Hunt Kahlenberg A tribute to this influential American museum and private collectioncurator,artsauthor,collectorandgallerist
GLOBAL 56 Sewing for survival Astounding human ingenuity Carol Outram of ‘The Wrapping Cloth’ documentstheindigenoustextileskillsoftheCanadianAboriginalPeoples 62 Trade Routes to Trading Post; Beyond the Blanket Joe Lewis takes us on a tour of textiles in Canada IllustratedbyRebeccaBradley
ANECDOTE textiles that touch our lives 24 COVER STORY Follicly challenged The early church had hair-raising ideas about modesty SarahJaneDowningexplorestherestrictionswomenfaced.Hernewbook‘BeautyandCosmetics 1550-1950’isnowavailable,www.shirebooks.co.uk 37 Guide lines Expert embroiderer Phillipa Turnbull introduces us to the beautiful textile collection of Munchester Castle 73 Fabric swatch No.8: Candlewick Love it or loath it? Sarah Jane Downing examines this tufted cotton fabric Illustratedbyour‘illustrateyourpoint’competitionwinner,HollyScholfield
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Portrait of Genius
MARKO DUTKA’S LOOKS ANEW AT THE ‘OLD MASTERS’
Left: Daphne Selfe as Jan van Eyck Right: Daphne Selfe as J. M. W. Turner
What if Titian had been a woman? And had they not been men, would the genius of great artists such as Turner and Rembrandt have been recognized and celebrated?
Etymologically speaking, probably not: the word ‘genius’ stems from an eccentric Greco-Roman idea that sperm i.e. genus were produced in the head, so genius back then was defined by the alpha male with an impressive procreative score.
By the age of the Romantics genius was used to describe artistic, moody men who displayed ‘feminine’ traits of creativity, sensitivity and an emotional disposition. The Romantics believed that these traits could only be made useful by men because women were too intellectually deficient to manage them.
Struggle, courage and campaigning has led to an acceptance that in fact intellectual powers belong to both women and men but there is plenty of evidence to suggest that a stubborn hangover of belief in male intellectual superiority remains.
This irritating chauvinism inspired Marko Dutka to produce ‘A Portrait of Genius’, a series of images featuring classic octogenarian model and muse Daphne Selfe.
The series explores some notions of how genius is and has been perceived in a number of great and celebrated male artists. Dutka studied the self-portraits of among others, a youthful William Joseph Mallord Turner and the stately elder Tiziano Vecellio, aka Titian. The self-regarding gaze of each artist has been subject to Dutka’s intense scrutiny and acute pictorial analysis.
Hours of forensic observation have equipped him with a profound understanding of these paintings on which the photographic images are based. The construction of Dutka’s photographs is founded on his Fine Art training as a painter and on his experience as a photojournalist. Dutka combines his ability to anticipate a significant moment and capture it with painterly skill and a detailed knowledge of Art History.
Like paintings the photographs in this series are constructed of many layers: where a painter may lay down glaze upon glaze, Dutka begins by ‘sketching’ an environment and then positioning his subject. There follows a painstaking task of directing light sources, some of which will
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Follicly challenged THE EARLY CHURCH HAD HAIR-RAISING IDEAS ABOUT MODESTY
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In our increasingly secular society modesty is rarely considered a top priority. Yet in many periods throughout our history, moralists were just as concerned by the immodest display of hair as they were with a flash of bosom. A female’s crowning glory was thought to symbolise her femininity, her beauty and her mysterious natural womanliness. The hair was sacrosanct, and in the ancient world it was a crime to cut or even dishevel the hair of a freeborn woman. It also had profoundly seductive powers, luring women into vanity and men into temptation. The Hebrew goddess Lilith, Adam’s indomitable first wife before Eve, used hers to devasting effect. As Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote in his sonnet Body’s Beauty: ‘her enchanted hair was the first gold’ with which she ensnared men, leaving them bereft with ‘round his heart one strangling golden hair’.
Such a dangerous attribute, moralists asserted, should clearly be kept under wraps. There were also grave concerns that women had their own natural power symbolized by their hair. In many of the pre-Christian religions goddesses were worshipped as a representative of the fecundity of nature. It was the priestesses who were blessed with spiritual communication, worshipping with their hair loose and flowing as they became impassioned in prayer. Keen to enforce the idea that the only route to God was through priest and Pope, the early Church cited the Bible, Corinthians 11:5, which stated that ‘But every woman that prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered dishonoureth her head: for that is even all one as if she were shaven.’
If it was a sign of respect to God to keep the hair covered, increasingly men felt that they should receive the same level of respect from their wives, and it became the custom that married women would cover their hair, except in the case of some particularly brutal husbands who cut their wives hair off as a sign of subjugation. The hair was also a symbol of purity, and women were said to still ‘wear their hair’ if they were as yet unmarried. On her wedding day she would wear a bridal veil to protect her from prying glances and evil spirits until she had successfully made the transition into her new life. After which, her new status as a married woman would be clear to everyone by her veil or headdress, and her beauty would be jealously guarded by her new husband as part of his dowry.
Life was difficult for medieval ladies who didn’t marry, and many entered convents, often for a home and protection as much as a desire to dedicate their lives to the Church. The symbolic marriage to God took the same form, with the novice nun cutting her hair, modestly concealing her beauty thereby renouncing any temptation towards vanity. To the medieval mind vanity was one of the worst sins and definitely the one that women were most prone to. Numerous commentators were at great pains to warn women of their evil potential as ‘the doorway to the devil’, charging men to keep them under control for fear of being seduced into sin.
The early medieval headdress was of opaque linen or silk mixed with wool, and accompanied by the wimple that enclosed the throat and completed the frame for the face. This picture of modesty is retained in the habits of the Carmelite nuns and is the most abiding image of the Virgin Mary.
As the 15th century dawned a thrilling array of exotic headdresses began to appear. Concoctions in sheer diaphanous silk shocked because of their transparency, jewelled fillets in gold scandalised because of their proud display of wealth, and the large horned headdresses introduced by the French court horrified with their pseudo-satanic overtones. Each one was condemned as immoral because it did not cover the hair in the way proscribed by the Church, but, just as modern schoolgirls flout their school uniforms with individual modifications, these medieval fashionistas adhered to the letter of the law without conforming to the spirit. A fact that incensed the moralists of the day, yet nowhere near as greatly as the sin of hair removal.
Religious and moral purity had become women’s most desirable qualities, and an idealised beauty evolved to reflect its traits. A high elegant forehead suggested virtuous thoughts so every hair that might creep out from under the headdress was ruthlessly tweezed out. The eyebrows were also plucked away to nothing to reduce the expressiveness of the face as most husbands wished to believe that their wives were placid and malleable. The result resembled la pallid, pious egg – colourless and expressionless. Nevertheless religious leaders were still not satisfied, decreeing that the women had become vain about their piety. There were many cautionary tales and tedious sermons about the fate awaiting vain women in hell, each featuring wild claims that every day in each hole from which she had plucked a hair a devil would ‘thrust a burning needle into her brain’! Even so, most ladies were prepared to take their chances for beauty and the plucked hairline remained in fashion throughout the century.
The modest headdress took on a new level of jewelled richness and evolved into architectural forms during the Tudor era. It was passionately embraced in its plainest starched linen forms by the puritans of the 17th century when a muffler to conceal the face was sometimes worn. It even managed to endure throughout the 18th century, although often in the rather coquettish subversive form of delicate puffs of lace perched atop mountains of highly immodest false hair. But by Jane Austen’s day the cap as it had become, was mostly worn by older ladies, at home with cosy undress gowns, or like Jane on her bad hair days.
Servants were still required to display their modesty and subservience with an array of uniform headdresses, but for fashionable Victorian ladies they were distinctly old hat. Modesty had become secondary to the rich potential of the hat and as long as the head was covered for formal occasions, especially Church, a lady’s hair had free reign at last. Sarah Jane Downing s e l v e d g e . o r g
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CURATOR SIMON MARKS INTRODUCES THE ENID MARX PRINTMAKER EXHIBITION
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The British designer Enid Marx (1902-1998) may not be a household name, but her influence on 20th-century design was manifold. Millions of people from the 1930s to 1960s would have sat on her bold ‘Shield’ moquette fabric, commissioned by Frank Short in 1937 for London transport, probably without ever realising who had designed it.
Marx believed in the notion of accessible good design for everyone (appropriately for the second cousin thrice removed to the Communist Karl Marx) and during her long career created a remarkable body of textiles, repeat patterns for paper, book jackets and illustrations, stamps, and transport posters. Not surprisingly, she was a talented printmaker and an exhibition at Pallant House Gallery in Chichester showcases, for the first time, the remarkable collection of her wood engravings, linocuts and lithographs donated to the gallery by her friend Eleanor Breuning and biographer Matthew Eve.
Marx’s enthusiasm for textiles started at an early age when given a collection of ribbon samples in a local draper’s shop. She later recalled how: “I was aged about four, and to my mother's consternation, invited the whole department to tea, telling them to bring their own cups! I remember the ribbons well; they were pasted on cards with loose ends for feeling. I was especially pleased when he gave me wide samples of fancy ribbons, with plaids or flowers and deckle edges.”
Educated at Roedean School in Sussex, Marx’s burgeoning interest in art was encouraged by the school’s Head of Art, Dorothy Martin and whilst still a schoolgirl she had printed her first scarf. She subsequently trained at the Central School of Art and Crafts in London, where she studied drawing, pottery and printed textile design. 4
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Needlework Development Scheme, see pg 11, sought to raise the standard of design in Britain through collaborative projects between art and design, education and industry – an aim echoed in the remit of The Select Committee on Arts and Manufactures which had been set up almost a century earlier in 1835. That early Select Committee contributed to the Government School of Design, the Great Exhibition in 1851 and ultimately the formation of the Victoria and Albert Museum.
The ideals of this earlier age were themselves a continuation of German philosopher G. W. Leibniz’s thinking. In 1708 he advised Russia’s Peter the Great to create a public collection “as a means to perfect the arts and sciences”. Peter embraced the idea saying, “I want the people to look and learn.” The same motivation to ‘bring art to the people’ set in motion Derek Rawnsley’s first art-based project. After leaving Oxford, Rawnsley, who is described in Ruth Artmonsky’s book The School Prints: A Romantic Project as “a golden youth – bright, fearless, creative, energetic and enterprising,” launched a dual business venture Picture Hire Ltd and School Prints Ltd. The former rented artworks to people who wanted to furnish their homes and the latter rented prints to schools “with the aim of bringing art to children who, by virtue of their background, would be unlikely to visit grand aweinspiring galleries.” The war interrupted Rawnsley’s grand plan and diverted his efforts. In the years before the outbreak of WWII Derek founded the Federal Union – an idealistic attempt to avert conflict. The organization was registered in 1938, and by 1939 had over 200 branches but when Rawnsley realized he was on a “losing wicket, he joined the Royal Air Force. He was not yet 29.”
In the first year of the war Derek met Brenda Hugh-Jones and they married in February 1941. The same night Derek took up his posting overseas. Determined to join him, Brenda joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. By January 1942 she had achieved her goal. Life continued in this chaotic vein with postings to Bulawayo for Derek and Palestine for Brenda. In 1943 on her way to meet him Brenda received the news that her husband had been killed.
In other circumstances that would have been the end of Derek’s pre-war dream of producing accessible art prints for schools. But Brenda’s war-time experiences – she had worked with Duncan Sandys (Churchill’s son-in-law) on flying bombs and was flown out on a secret mission to a German bomb factory in the Hary Mountains where she got food poisoning and ended up in a hospital on the Russian front – had instilled courage.
Towards the end of the war Brenda had no doubt become more aware of her potential and of her 4
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Hans Tisdall, Fisherman's Hut, Original lithograph 49.5 x 76 cm printed by the Baynard Press in the 1940s.
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Barbara Jones, The Fairground, Original lithograph 49.5 x 76 cm printed by the Baynard Press in the 1940s.
Look and learn THE AIMS AND IDEALS OF SCHOOL PRINTS LTD
It has more plot points that series two of Downton Abbey including all the crucial elements of a good romance – “a young man and woman, Derek and Brenda Rawnsley, who under the desert skies... and with the war going on around them, hatched the idea of commissioning artists to produce prints for junior schools...” – but the story of School Prints Ltd also has its roots in a noble desire to educate young people and give them a better understanding of contemporary art.
The School Prints Ltd series of lithographs, produced just after the Second World War, were one aspect of the post-war artistic optimism that culminated in the Festival of Britain. But the venture can also be seen as part of a succession of print series produced in Great Britain during the 20th century. The earliest set of prints was the First World War ‘Efforts and Ideals’ (sixty-six in all), which were definitely more a matter of propaganda than the democratization of art. The theme of the ‘Efforts’ series – the war effort, building ships, making guns, and ‘women’s work’ – was aimed at keeping up morale on the home front; that of the ‘Ideals’ series was more to do with reconstruction and the dawning of a new era after the war.
Although some of these prints may have found their way into schools, education was not the prime target; nor was education originally the focus of the poster prints produced by the Empire Marketing Board (EMB) in the late twenties and thirties. The EMB was a government department set up in 1926 with the aim of bolstering trade within the Empire and protecting it from competition. With Stephen Tallents as its secretary and Frank Pick (of London Transport fame) chairing its publicity committee, the EMB posters were popular from the start.
In the interwar years other schemes such as The
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Back to manual PTOLEMY MANN TAKES US FROM JACQUARD TO JOBS AND BACK...
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By coincidence, as I write this on my battery charged laptop, I am in the middle of a power cut. A strangely relevant state of affairs when looking at the idea of what real manual craftsmanship means to the modern weaver.
Eighteen months ago my computerised George Wood dobby loom stopped working one day, just like that; nothing. After fifteen years of loyal service there was an eerie silence when I realised the ‘black box’ was no longer buzzing. In the middle of a rather large and pressing commission, half woven, I was forced to go back to manual. Luckily I had kept every single nut and bolt originally removed to make way for the black box and was able to re-attach the wooden mechanism needed to programme and drive the loom manually. As I climbed up to the top of the loom to re-assemble I noticed the shadowy imprint of where the parts had once been and by carefully reading these impressions I could replace each piece as originally intended. I had the sensation that my loom was showing me the scars and passage of use it had experienced over the years. My initial terror at the prospect of going ‘back to manual’ was suddenly replaced with a reminder and curiosity of what manual really means. It was a while before I could get the black box replaced and in the meantime I found a reconnection with my loom and therefore my craft... I was reminded about where the technology had come from in the first place.
Loom technology was a precursor to the modern day computer. In his fabulous book Jacquards Web: How a hand-loom led to the birth of the information age James Essinger charts the development of the Jacquard loom, designed by Joseph-Marie Jacquard around 1800, right through to early IBM computer technology of the 1950’s. It appears that the manual nature of the loom and hand weaving process led us to the computer technology we now reply on so completely; this connection to craft and the hand-made informed our technological development.
The programming mechanism of a dobby loom works on the principal of a series of wooden lags (or punch cards in Jacquard looms) that are filled with rows of holes where a small wooden peg can be slotted, or not, depending on the pattern and whether the desire is for a shaft to be lifted or dropped. This time-consuming process of tapping tiny wooden pegs into their slots becomes a ritualistic part of the making process; it’s how the weaver programs the loom and the lags become a sort of ‘memory stick’.
It was the Jacquard loom that Charles Babbage (1791-1871) used as the starting point to build his Analytical Engine, a mechanical computation machine. In some ways this machine held the same components as the modern day computer, 4
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