Author Archives: Claudia Suzan Carley

St. Clare of Assisi

St. Clare, detail of fresco by Simone Martini, circa 1322-1326, Public Domain

St. Clare of Assisi, known also as Santa Chiara in Italy, was born on July 16, 1194 in Assisi, a hill town in Umbria. She was born to a wealthy noble family and was said to be beautiful. In the natural course of things, she would have been married to a noble man in her early teens. But she persuaded her parents to allow her to wait until she was 18 to marry. By that time, she had found another love: all she wanted was a life of prayer and poverty and service. She was one of the early followers of St. Francis of Assisi, and her presence is felt in Assisi almost as strongly as that of Francis himself.

The portrait of Clare above is from one of the beautiful frescoes in the Lower Basilica of St. Francis. Masses are held frequently. I wandered into one and felt immediately welcome in a crowd of people from all walks of life.

Porziuncula in Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels, Assisi

Clare heard Francis preach during Lent in 1212. On Palm Sunday of that year, Clare left her father’s house and went to the small chapel called Porziuncula (which means something like “small portion”). The tiny chapel, down the hill from the main town, still stands.

But now the Porziuncula is inside the magnificent Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels. When it is still a humble chapel outside the city walls, this is where Clare met Francis, intending to leave her old comfortable life behind for good. Her hair was shorn and she traded her sumptuous gown for a rough plain robe and veil.

Some of the rough-woven clothing worn by both Francis and Clare is on display in Assisi. Ordinarily, I might be sceptical, but both Francis and Clare were sainted very shortly after they died, and it is wasy to believe that their clothing was preserved.

Francis sent her to a nearby convent of Benedictine nuns. Her father was not pleased. He tried to force her to return home, but reportedly she clung to the church altar, showed him her short-cropped hair, and declared that she would marry no one but Jesus Christ. Soon, though, two of her sisters joined her, and eventually even her mother became part of the order she founded.

At the time, monastic life could be fairly luxurious. Following the teachings of Francis meant seeking out extreme poverty and completely selfless service to the poorest of the poor. This was a radical choice that could have been dangerous, but Francis and then Clare received approval from the Pope. Clare’s order came to be called the Poor Ladies, and later the Poor Clares.

Today, the narrow medieval streets of Assisi look much the same as they did in Clare’s day.

The city may be crowded in summer. But last year I was fortunate enough to spend a couple of sunny December days there, soaking up great art in situ and being refreshed by the spirituality of the place. I’m hoping to do it again.

Clare is present in many ways, like this elegant 1888 statue.

She’s also present in lighthearted personal displays, like this doorside lantern where she stands cheerfully next to St. Francis and his namesake, Pope Francis.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

Erddig: Home of the Spider Brusher

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Who is the Spider Brusher? She is Jane Ebbrell, a beloved servant at the Welsh estate of Erddig, near Wrexham. Actually, she was more of an all-around housemaid, but she wielded a mean spider-brush in her day. We know this because her slightly eccentric late 18th century master, Philip Yorke, not only commissioned her portrait, but wrote an affectionate ditty about her. It begins,

To dignify our Servants hall

Here comes the Mother of us all;

For seventy years, or near have pass’d her

Since Spider-Brusher, to the Master

At the time of her portrait, she was 87. Many other servants received the same oil portrait and poem treatment over the next 250 years. But the Yorkes went beyond lip service. Jane Ebbrell, for example, was encouraged to marry another servant, and when she finally retired it was to her own home on the estate.

In around 1852, the squire, Simon Yorke III commissioned a photograph of all the family servants, each holding an implement of his or her work, standing on the front steps. He and his family appeared in the window behind the servants.

In 1912, Philip Yorke duplicated the photo with his own servants and his own young family. He wrote a long poem for the occasion. A book of his poems, all affectionate doggerel, is sold in the gift shop.

What made seven generations of the Yorke family treat their servants so well? This was an age when kitchen maid might always be called “Mary” because master and mistress could not be bothered to learn new names. Most likely the reason is that the Yorke family had somewhat humble origins themselves. When they unexpectedly inherited the house and its grand 18th century furnishings from an uncle, they found themselves rich in property but poor in cash. They could not afford the usual wages, but they made up for it by treating their servants so well that they felt part of the whole enterprise.

Perhaps not wanting to waste anything, they eventually became epic hoarders.

When the property finally passed to the National Trust in 1973, the sole remaining Yorke required that no objects should EVER be thrown out or sold. About 30,000 objects were inventoried. Only about 10,000 can be on display at the same time.

In their more orderly years, the family kept a “Failures Gallery:” a collection of objects and art they didn’t like but didn’t want to part with. It lined the walls of the passage the servants used to get to the private chapel.

The chapel was the scene of daily prayers for everyone.

The family never used the Failures Gallery. They entered the chapel through their grand eighteenth century rooms. So life at Erddig kept some of the traditional distance between master/mistress and servant. But still, life in the Servants’ Hall at Erddig was pleasant enough that generations of families were happy to serve the Yorkes for low wages.

An article about Errdig is at:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/europe/united-kingdom/wales/articles/Fiona-Bruces-Britain-Erddig-Wales/

Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre

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Shakespeare’s original Globe Theatre burned to the ground on June 29, 1613. It was rebuilt in 1614 and operated until about 1642, when the Puritan movement in England closed theatres, and demolished in 1644. The American actor and producer Sam Wanamaker organized a group that worked tirelessly for decades to build a replica, based on drawings and best guesses. Construction had begun when Mr. Wanamaker died in 1993; performances began in 1997.

I finally made it to the Globe this month, and I’ll go again every chance I get. Lately I am rediscovering London, after avoiding the city for years because of the expense, the crowds, the pollution, and on and on. I’ve been tootling around the English and Welsh countryside instead, loving the small towns and villages and historic homes. But London is still glorious.

I saw a wonderful production of Shakespeare’s “A Misdummer Night’s Dream.” Of course, photos are not allowed during performance, and I would not want them to be. But I did snap some photos before the performance began. The “rude mechanicals” were Globe staff members in this production, and they regaled the audience with jokes and instructions before the show got underway.

My vantage point was from the uppermost gallery, with a roof and wooden benches–still cheap as theatre tickets go, but not as cheap as the “groundlings” places at 5 pounds apiece. It’s standing room down there, as it was in Shakespeare’s time, and there’s no shelter from the rain. It rains a lot in London. No umbrellas are allowed, but people wore raincoats and ponchos, and obviously had a good time. The rain was only on and off, and not many people left during intermission. It looked like a lot of fun down there. I would do it.

But I was glad enough to have a thatched roof over my head, a plain wooden bench and the cushion which I hired for a couple of pounds extra. After a day chasing around London and standing in museums, the old dogs were barking.

The setting on the Thames, a few hundred yards from the site of the original Globe, is part of the revitalised South Bank nightlife area. It’s lively and fun and feels perfectly safe, at least along the river walk. St. Paul’s Cathedral, which earlier that day held a Service of Thanksgiving for the 90th birthday of Queen Elizabeth II, looms majestically across the Thames.

Outside of London (tootling around in a rental car) we took in some other Shakespeare sights, including my favorite, Ann Hathaway’s Cottage in Stratford-upon-Avon. Long live the Bard!

49 and Counting

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It seems like only yesterday, but we’ve actually been married 49 years. And here we are, a pair of Dusty Old Things. Fortunately our favorite activity is traveling together and looking at dusty old things!

We’re standing in front of Rex Whistler’s fantastic mural at Plas Newydd country house in Wales.

The mural is a fanciful and fantastically detailed landscape of places with special meaning to the artist and Lady Caroline’s family.

The artist spent 4 years painting the entire dining room, stretching out the work because he was devoted to the daughter of the family, Lady Caroline. She appears in the gondola above.

He painted her portrait many times.

He painted favorite dogs, the very favorite one lying in splendor on a cushion and wearing a string of pearls instead of a collar.

He painted a self-portrait at one edge of the mural.

Like so much of history, the story is bittersweet. Rex Whistler died in combat in 1944, aged 39. Another famous mural of his is at the Tate Gallery in London.

I feel incredibly fortunate to have married my best friend and to have had so many happy years together!

Parham Park: My Favorite Long Gallery

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This is Parham Park, built in Elizabethan times for a wealthy old family fortunate enough to acquire the land in 1540, when King Henry VIII was busy dismantling monasteries. The land at that time passed from the Monastery of Westminster to the Palmer family, who began building their grand house in 1577. In about 1597, the Bishopp family bought the house and estate, and held it for about 325 years. In 1922, the Pearson family bought the property and found it in sad repair. They set about renovating, very conscientiously. The quiet but luxurious country life lived in this beautiful house has been about the same for centuries. It appears that over the years, the families who lived here were able to steer clear of the dangerous (and often lethal) political turmoil of their times.

The house is pretty much in the middle of nowhere, close to the southern coast. After the excitement of hosting troops during World War II, the family decided they liked having people around and opened to paying visitors in 1948.

The matriarch (think of her as the equivalent of Lady Violet on Downton Abbey) used to enjoy sitting in the Long Gallery, pictured below, as tourists filed through. She stayed anonymous and had a great time fielding questions and chuckling at inane comments. She especially liked it when complete strangers claimed that they had been guests of the family before the war–when she would have been their hostess.

According to a friendly docent on a recent visit, the house has the third longest remaining Long Gallery in the country. These galleries were built in Tudor and Elizabethan times to showcase the family’s treasures. Just as importantly, family members used the gallery to take long walks when it was pouring rain out in their gardens and woodlands.

Sometime in the 1960s, the family at Parham tired of the plain white ceiling of their Long Gallery. They had repaired and replaced the roof decades before, but the Gallery was beginning to bore them. So they hired an artist to add vines and branches. And some wildlife! A little owl perches on a branch in the panel above.

How about a pair of birds and their nest?

My personal favorite is the monkey, who looks like he’s up to no good.

Parham today is managed by a charitable trust, and the Pearson family still lives in part of the house. If Parham were run by the National Trust or English Heritage, painting vines and wildlife on the ceiling of the Long Gallery would probably never happen. Those organizations rightly insist on historical accuracy. But since Parham was (and is still) privately owned, the family was free to do what private owners of stately homes have always done: make their home exactly the way they wanted it. The house is part of the Historic Houses Association, which sells a yearly pass that gets pass holders into many properties free, and into others at very limited times when no one else is admitted.

I’ll cheerfully flash my HHA pass at a house like Parham any chance I get, and I’ll return again and again to savor spectacular historic interiors like the dining room above.

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A Victorian Mother at Kingston Lacy

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Last week at Kingston Lacy, a grand estate near the Dorset coast in England, I fell in love with the house, its treasures dating back at least to the 1400s, and images of a Victorian mother and her children.

What an idyllic childhood in a beautiful place. Two girls were born first, then the all-important son and heir came along.

The girls described climbing into their mother’s beautiful bed when they woke up with nightmares. Of course, aristocratic Victorian wife that she was, she had her own bedroom. The house was full of priceless marble sculptures and museum-quality paintings. When she came to Kingston Lacy in 1897 as the young bride of the middle-aged squire, she was allowed to decorate her own room as she saw fit.

She went straight to Harrod’s in London and ordered a suite of white furniture. She filled the room with cheerful chintzes and striped wallpaper.

She covered the walls with pretty prints and photos of herself and her family. Interestingly, her husband seems invisible in this light-hearted room. The rest of the estate was his; this room was hers and hers alone.

When royalty visited, the family assembled on the front steps for a photo. The young heir looked spiffy in a white suit, center front beside the Queen.

Unfortunately, a nursery maid, wearing huge cabbage roses on her hat, weaseled her way into the photo. She appears, big as you please, on the left in the photo, behind the two daughters in white. For that stunt, she was sent packing, in disgrace.

I bought some books about the family. I have a feeling that life at Kingston Lacy was not always the paradise it seemed to me, over a hundred years after these photos were taken. But the images of a beautiful mother and loving children remain. I wish all mothers a happy day!

St. Eustace in Canterbury Cathedral

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Among the many treasures at Canterbury Cathedral, one of my favorites on my visit this week was this large large wall painting, done in about 1480. It’s the legend of St. Eustace, who lived a colorful if harrowing life. He might possibly have been a known historical character, a Roman general named Placidus, in the 2nd century A.D.

The legend goes that Placidus was out hunting one day when he had a vision of Christ in the antlers of a stag. He immediately converted to Christianity and changed his name to Eustace.

It’s hard to see the images that go high up the stone wall of the catheral. But there’s a horizontal copy nearby. Photos of it are not great because it’s covered by glass, but the reflections of the stained glass windows are sort of a bonus. I loved the images, especially the animals like the smiling stag and the hunting dogs above.

The legend goes that Eustace’s troubles began right away. His faith was tested by various calamities.

I was admiring the lion image. Personality plus! Then I read that the lion was grinning because he had just eaten Eustace’s son.

The wolf, looking all innocent? He had eaten the other son. But the legend goes that Eustace endured his hardships and kept his faith.

The painter of the Canterbury mural subscribed to a disputed end of Eustace’s story: the very upper part of the mural shows Eustace, his wife and his remaining children being roasted alive by order of the Emperor Hadrian. Eustace had refused to make a pagan sacrifice. Then they were all beatified, so there was still a happy ending of sorts. However, the martyrdom and even the historical existence of the saint are in doubt. I love the painting, regardless of the source. Bravo to the anonymous painter, back through the centuries!

To me, the charm of the mural is in the medieval images of people in nature, learning lessons from animals. The painter told the story with gusto and some humor.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe and the British Isles!

Happy Birthday, Dear William!

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“Chandos” portrait, thought to be William Shakespeare, circa 1610, National Portrait Gallery, Public Domain

In honor of William Shakespeare’s 400th birthday, I’m revisiting an old post about one of my many treasured Shakespeare experiences.

Some years ago, I found myself with a lot of Frequent Flyer miles that were about to expire. No one was free to travel with me. So I treated myself to a solo trip to England. I decided to see as much live theater as I possibly could. In the course of two weeks, I saw 18 plays. Some days I doubled up and took in a matinee plus an evening performance. I saw plays at grand theaters, in the London equivalent of “Off-Broadway,” and in tiny rooms above pubs.

At that time, to get to Stratford-upon-Avon, I had to take a train from London, then transfer to a bus. (Now, there is a convenient train that goes all the way to Stratford). I had dreamed for years of seeing the Royal Shakespeare Company in their home theater, the Swan. One evening, I saw a very fine production of a Shakespeare play with the actors in modern dress. Which play, you might ask? I think it was Romeo and Juliet, but I can’t be sure. (On the train, I met a woman who had saved the program from every theater performance she had ever attended. Although she was a theater professor, I thought that was a little obsessive. Now I wouldn’t mind having all my programs).

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The Dirty Duck pub, Stratford-upon-Avon, photo by Lindsay Dearing, Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 2.0 Generic

The next morning, I went to the bus stop for the trip back to London. Just outside The Dirty Duck, the pub still frequented by theater folk and tourists alike, I spotted an actor I had seen the evening before. I stopped and complimented him on his performance. He seemed delighted to be recognized; he had only a medium-sized part. I’m thinking maybe he played Juliet’s father. I know how much talent and hard work it takes for any actor to get even a non-speaking, spear-carrying part in the Royal Shakespeare Company. I did remember his performance, I thought he stood out in the character, and told him so. He thanked me graciously. Just then, the bus pulled up and I got on.

The bus was about to pull away from the curb when the actor jumped up the steps with a great theatrical flourish. He stood beside the driver, peering down the aisle at all the passengers. “I am looking for a LADY,” he intoned, in his best Shakespearean elocution. He spotted me and moved up the aisle toward me. He took my hand, bowed low with a great stage flourish, kissed my hand, and made a great show of presenting me with a perfectly ripened peach. Everyone on the bus applauded, he took a very grand bow, and he was off with a jaunty wave.

Like all artists, actors pursue their passion even though they know they are very unlikely to gain riches or fame. I wish I could remember the name of this actor, who shared a magical personal moment with me and went out of his way to entertain a busload of non-paying strangers. Did all this happen 26 years ago? Yes, it did. Travel memories are lifelong!

I’m off to England, and looking forward to seeing a play in the Globe Theatre in London. Photos to follow. Thank you, Mr. Shakespeare!

Happy Tax Day in the USA

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In the whole history of the world, has anyone ever enjoyed paying taxes? Probably not. In London’s National Gallery, I came upon these two fellows, obviously no friends of the artist. The painting is from the workshop of Marinus van Reymerswale, most likely from the 1540s. The caption explains that it was probably painted as a satire on covetousness.

At the time, government authorities imposed taxes on items such as wine, beer and fish. The serious-looking gentleman on the left is apparently writing out a tax list. Once the tax rate was set, private individuals were entrusted with actually collecting the money from taxpayers. An unscrupulous tax-gatherer could obviously take advantage of this system. The man on the right, with his grasping fingers and face contorted by greed, looks more than ready to grab more than his fair share of whatever he collects.

Do tax collectors deserve any sympathy? The painting below, a 1599-1600 masterpiece of Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, depicts the moment that Jesus Christ called the tax collector Levi to walk away from his lucrative profession and follow Jesus as a disciple. He became the disciple we know as Matthew.

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The Calling of St. Matthew, Caravaggio, 1599-1600, Public Domain

So who is St. Matthew in the painting? Opinions vary. I’ve always thought it was the bearded man, pointing to himself as though to ask, “Who, me?” But I recently read that some experts think Matthew is the young man slumped over at the end of the table, trying to avoid the summons to a life of poverty and hardship. It could not have been an easy choice.

April 15 is the day that Americans have to submit their income tax forms to the government. We all would like to believe the tax system we live under is fair, uncorrupted and just. Let’s hope so, and as we send off our tax returns, let’s hope that every hard-earned penny is spent wisely.

Virginia Woolf at Monk’s House

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On March 28, 1941, Virginia Woolf wrote a loving letter to her husband, Leonard Woolf, and walked out of her country home in rural Sussex, Monk’s House. She made her way to the nearby River Ouse. On its banks, she filled her pockets with stones, waded in, and drowned. Her body was recovered almost 3 weeks later. She was 59 years old. She was a central figure of the intellectual and artistic Bloomsbury Group, whose influence is still felt. Virginia herself was an avant-garde novelist who changed the shape of the English novel with works such as Mrs. Dalloway, Orlando, The Waves, and To the Lighthouse.

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Last year I visited Monk’s House, now a National Trust property. I was thrilled to walk in the footsteps of Virginia and Leonard Woolf.

Virginia had suffered bouts of debilitating depression for much of her life, but she had always recovered. Between illnesses, she was a fun-loving friend and a wonderful conversationalist. But she needed a certain amount of “alone” time in order to create.

WritingShed In her country garden, she spent long hours composing her ground-breaking novels and thoughtful essays in her writing shed. It is furnished just as she left it. It looks as though she just stepped out for a stroll through her flowers.

One of Virginia’s most famous works is the long essay “A Room of One’s Own,” in which she examined the need for women to have solitary time and space in order to create. She knew all too well that most women had no writing shed or other personal space. Maybe her need for creative time and space is what prompted a friend, Lady Ottoline Morrell, to describe Virginia as “this strange, lovely, furtive creature.”

Kitchen

Inside the house, I could imagine long and lively discussions at the dining table, with the likes of Roger Fry, Lytton Strachey, John Maynard Keynes, T.S. Eliot, and H.M. Forster, not to mention Virginia’s sister the painter Vanessa Bell. VWBR2

Her bedroom was originally added to the house as a writing studio.

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But Virginia liked the airy room so much she decided to sleep there. I would too.

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Naturally, there are books everywhere in the house.

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The drawing room is cosy, set up for long evenings of reading and conversation.

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Are these his-and-hers chairs? I can imagine Virginia in one and Leonard in the other.

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After her death, Leonard had Virginia’s ashes buried in their beloved garden. A bust of Virginia stands nearby. Her admirers leave stones beneath it.

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Later, Leonard’s own ashes and bust took their places near hers. In her final letter, Virginia sadly explained that she could not bear another episode of what she called her “madness.” Possibly she suffered from what we would now call bipolar syndrome. At any rate, she described hearing “voices.” The last line of her final letter read, “I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been.”

The photo at the top of this post is from the article cited below, “Virginia Woolf: The Woman Who Remade the Novel,” by Jonathan deBurca Butler. The photo, of Virginia in 1902, is by George C. Beresford. The article is an excellent summary of Virginia’s life, her sad death, and her continuing influence on modern literature.

http://www.independent.ie/life/virginia-woolf-the-woman-who-remade-the-novel-34572892.html

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Monk’s House is wonderfully maintained by the National Trust. Charleston Farmhouse, where Virginia’s sister Vanessa Bell lived, is nearby. I would highly recommend a visit to both.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe and the British Isles!