Père Lachaise – on the trail of famous painters

Amanda Vickery was on TV recently, filmed in the cemetery at Passy and deploring the modesty of Berthe Morisot’s gravestone compared with that of Edouard Manet (The Story Of Women And Art, BBC2). Off-topic digression – at the risk of sounding like Brian Sewell, for how many of the 60 minutes in each episode was Dr. Vickery off-screen? Not nearly enough for me. The constant in-your-face intrusion of the presenter, the arms that never cease from semaphoring and the wildly declamatory oratory contribute nothing to understanding and test the patience of even the most saintly viewer like myself. Back to the topic – it is surely misguided to equate the achievement of the deceased with the grandeur of their tomb. A recent walk around Père Lachaise on the trail of famous painters produced some interesting examples. 

At the top is the grave of Georges Seurat – an austere family vault, a space-saving design of the type supplied by any of the monumental masons whose premises line the boulevard de Ménilmontant. Movie buffs may recall young Georges, perched on a stepladder in front of La Grande Jatte, discoursing on Divisionism to an excitable Van Gogh (Kirk Douglas) in Minnelli’s Lust for Life bio-pic. When Seurat died at the age of 31 he left behind some of the most significant and beautiful paintings of the 1880s and a career trajectory of immense potential that was cruelly truncated. The relative anonymity of his grave seems in keeping with his famous sense of privacy which has ensured that his biography is a scanty affair. 

The tomb of Delacroix is more substantial and a simple inscription is left to speak for itself. That of Ingres includes a suitably severe portrait bust set into an alcove in a Neo-Classical plinth. Together they set a benchmark for dignified commemoration. Théodore Géricault died in 1824 at the age of 32 after a short but explosive career in which he developed a taste for visual melodrama on a grand scale that peaked in 1819 with Le Radeau de la Méduse, equally vast in terms of ambition and influence. This painting can be seen, modelled in relief on the side of Géricault’s memorial, on top of which his carved likeness lounges, paintbrush at the ready, in the manner of a sultan in his harem. This is a more grand affair with more than a little theatre about it, but compared with what follows, it’s a model of restraint. 

For the full symphony of bereavement we turn to the last resting place of Paul Baudry, an academic painter held in high esteem by his contemporaries whose reputation has not endured. History painting and classical subjects make up most of his surviving work but his real passion was for painting rear views of reclining female nudes with classical credentials to silence the prudish. The disembodied and moustachioed head of the artist rises from a plinth, cradled by an angel’s wing while a female figure, shrouded in mourning, sobs in silent despair at the base of the structure. What seemed appropriate and fitting in 1886 now appears disproportionate, extravagant and absurd in the light of history’s revaluation. 

Weymouth Harbour Tramway 1994

Twenty years to the day have passed since these photos were taken on this date in 1994. This special train, which originated at Waterloo, was conveying US Veterans of the Second World War and the invasion of Normandy to the quayside at Weymouth as part of the 50th. anniversary of D-Day commemorations. A US aircraft carrier was moored offshore and landing craft were on hand to re-enact troop landings on the beach. Until 1987 there were regular trains on this route taking passengers to the Channel Island ferries at the Town Quay. After 1987 only special trains or charter trains for enthusiasts made the journey. Most of the route is along the public highway and trains were preceded by railway staff with flags to ensure the track was free of obstructions. Motorists were especially affronted at having to yield road space to an inferior form of transport. This kind of street-running is common in the US but in Britain it’s very unusual. Railway administrators hate anomalies and there have been many attempts to close it down. In the end it has been allowed to wither away – no train has passed since 1999 and it’s impossible to envisage another doing so in future. The spectacle of these full size trains inching their way through the back streets of Weymouth is unlikely to be repeated. Unsurprisingly, on the day of the special train the locomotive broke down on the return trip and after a long delay a replacement was procured to take it on its weary way. 

Postcard of the Day No. 67, Tex the Trainer

Meet Tex the Trainer, resplendent in shiny lace-up boots, necktie and suspenders. Tex makes light of his celebrity status as he demonstrates his technique for suppressing the natural instincts of these fearsome carnivores. These reptiles were placed on earth 37 million years ago to add to the sum of human happiness by making themselves available for inspection by paying customers on purpose-built reservations, often called ranches or farms. And when their performing days are over they generously donate their skins to be made up into shoes for pimps or handbags for whores. Repellent, scaly and reptilian, with a formidable reputation for unprovoked savagery – they made ideal material for the producers of postcards. Similar businesses can be found today at ranches or farms across the southern USA although, in tune with the times, they are keen to emphasise the conservation value of their activities. 

Postcard of the Day No. 66, Cawston Ostrich Farm

Never a dull moment down at the Ostrich Farm as these postcards show. When they’re not fighting among themselves they’re being encouraged to swallow oranges or forcibly divested of their plumage. Others were pressed into service to take visitors on carriage rides. In the ultimate demonstration of man’s mastery over nature, this ostrich has been mounted by a gent in a Derby hat. The egg looks on in silent reproach. While the ostrich is the more successful in maintaining its dignity. The Cawston Ostrich farm was a visitor attraction in the Los Angeles area for almost 50 years from 1886 until 1935. The world has moved on from this type of exploitation – today’s most lucrative proposition would be an ostrich rescue centre. 

Bébé Cadum, the bully on the street

Bébé Cadum is just over a hundred years old and after a long absence, recently made a reappearance in the streets of Paris where once it was a ubiquitous presence. It made a powerful impression on the writer Joseph Roth, who in 1925 commented thus.  

Over the rooftops of Paris there is a smiling baby colossus of rude health. It is there to promote, to advertise, a soap whose appalling effects it represents in exaggerated form. This huge disembodied baby, whose mouth is fifty feet across, and whose round, vacant eyes perhaps ten, is attached to walls and fences. It’s a robust monster – a smile today but a grin tomorrow – a sporty infant with a football for a face, the image of the coming man.*

It’s impossible to improve on this description – Roth has identified the sinister radiance that this hideously inflated infant bestows on the populace in the streets below. Not only does its scale remind the consumer that it’s a tiny pawn in a very big game but the ambiguous and over-confident expression is deeply unsettling. This is the countenance of a dictator-in-waiting. 

Bébé Cadum’s presence in French life climaxed in the 1930s in the great age of outdoor advertising and vintage postcards from the period recorded how the Bébé triumphed over its competitors, outperforming them at every major street intersection. The examples here come from Place de Clichy in Paris and the Canebière in Marseille. 

* Extract from The White Cities, Reports From France 1925-39, Granta Books 2004

Round the Docks

The work was demanding and dangerous, the workforce was casualised and routinely exploited and the workplace was disorderly and perilous but the image of the docks held a special place in the imperialist imagination. All of Britain’s maritime supremacy and economic power as a nation that traded to survive was focused on the dockside. Despite the development of mechanised lifting gear the greater part of the labour involved came from physical effort – enormous quantities of finished goods and raw materials were loaded on and off ships by hand. A picture of ceaseless activity is placed before us. Rail mounted cranes, teams of horses, motor vehicles and railway wagons compete for space on the quayside, above them swing cradles of locomotives or turbines and hoists bearing cotton bales, sacks of sugar or animal carcasses. A compelling theatrical scene of wonder for the spectator and a raucous, turbulent and unstable environment for the manual labourers where the threat of serious physical injury could come from any direction at any moment. 

Our old friend the shipping container killed off this spectacle and replaced it with a highly formalised aerial display of bar-coded containers – all very fascinating in a different way but totally inaccessible to the general public. It’s a world of computer commanded reach-stackers, gantry cranes and side-lifters manoeuvring outsize boxes from ship to shore and back again with maximum cost effectiveness in an anonymous intermodal zone where the most frequently heard sound is the warning beep of reversing vehicles. 

L’Usine dans la Prairie

The large-format weekly magazine, L’Illustration had been published for 90 years (since 1843) when, with great pride and fanfare, a prestigious new office and print works was opened at Bobigny in the Parisian banlieu. A special issue bulged with photos and architects’ impressions of the nine-storey colossus towering over the hitherto undeveloped fields of the north-western suburbs. The central tower with its giant clock-faces and the stylistic concessions to Art Deco seem designed for another era of success which, unfortunately failed to materialise. During the Occupation of Paris the magazine became a mouthpiece for the Vichy regime and their Nazi masters with the result that it was permanently closed within weeks of the Liberation in 1944. In terms of Graphic Design it was conservative and unimaginative and followed a dreary template similar to that of the Illustrated London News and demonstrated that a large page size was not enough to achieve visual impact. The building still exists – it’s now home to a local university. The bucolic surroundings have not fared well, being swallowed up in the suburban sprawl that now extends for many miles, as far as the CDG airport.