Wallflower Dispatches

When this house, which is now our home, was merely an unfinished, yet romantic dwelling for our holidays, we used to dip in and out of the summer. The weeks we passed in August were bathed in a pinkish, sparkling light, late nights and endless days, the Oscar-winning set of a Louis Malle movie.

The first full summer we passed was rewarded (for it felt like a reward and still does) with the Final of the 2006 World Football Cup between France and Italy. The large TV screen erected in the village square outside the Mairie attracted everyone who lives or visits here. The evening itself was unforgettable not because of the drama of the “beautiful game”, nor the fact that the sole Italian football supporter who stood up by herself every time gli Azzuri scored (too many) and shouted for joy survived the evening intact.

We also don’t remember that special night because no one was drunk, nor for the fact that when the French hero Zidane head butted his was into retirement not a single French person stood up and got angry with the judge’s decision but merely acknowledged what he had done was wrong. And when France lost, everyone just went home quietly and sadly. Finally, it was all very natural.

The main feeling all of us who were there remember is the togetherness of the village that happens every time the temperature goes beyond 26 degrees and transforms itself into 16^th Century summer camp.

As children, summer’s arrival was always tied to the school holidays, that infinite time of six weeks that usually turned itself into a separate lifetime, creeping up with adventures and unexpected freedoms. The strong stuff of memories of wonder and discoveries, bold undertakings that were no more than small steps in following our free feel made possible by lack of daily restrictions. The world really was our oyster for us to crack open and explore however tiny the detail.

EVERTHING was going to be possible in our own lives. Something we firmly believed thanks to the innocent lack of understanding that some time somehow life manages to creep up from behind and entangle us in problems so complicated it takes a long time to find the way out. “Life is what happens while you are making other plans” etc…

And yet, for the fifth time in a row, the charm of Provence has arrived with the latest season just like the Norwegians, the Germans and the French from up North. And although this way of life is only made possible because of the technology we all use and rely on, somehow we are all back in a timeless space which hovers over the village like a huge glass dome.

We sit on the steps sipping rose wine or beer watching the azurite sky at night and are more or less convinced that beyond the mountain we can see afar there is no other adventure worth pursuing while we can live like this. We creep around in the heat, watch the movements of the flowers in the breeze and everything seems possible again.

Mick Rooney is a British painter who lives and works in London. He was elected Royal Academician in 1991. His painting, Shangri-La was a recent Royal Academy Object of the Month.

The Royal Academy Summer Exhibition is held every June, July and August in Piccadilly in Central London. It is an open exhibition and has been held without interruption since 1769. All exhibits are for sale.

In his interview with Wallflower Dispatches, Rooney offers insight into the way in which one of Britain’s most popular art venues is created.

How are the paintings chosen for the Summer Exhibition and at which point do you get involved – in other words: at what point does your curator’s role start?

I am called upon to serve on the Summer Exhibition Committee every seven years or so. Then I am part of it for two consecutive years.

The President of the Royal Academy is there, plus about twelve members who choose three coordinators - with luck and after discussions we agree on the year’s strategy.

In my case, I agree to hang the Small Weston Room (as in 2008) and also the Lecture Room - a huge space. As my own work concerns itself with the figurative, the narrative and the poetic, I can look after those Academicians and artists whose work fits that kind of vision.

Do you see yourself more as a painter or a curator in this process?

Of the many rooms that need organising some Academicians feel the need, quite rightly, to curate their rooms. The work, often abstract in approach, or spectacular pieces sent in by our honorary members such as Frank Stella or Anselm Kiefer in a minimal very calm way.

Others, like myself must accommodate a great many works (in the end just enough works of course!) to give very good artists a chance to be seen.

What are your criteria for choosing the paintings, which are eventually included?

This year we decided early on to make a wall of black and white graphics. It is a wall full of small etchings and work achieved in every other graphic media. The initial choosing of works takes three working days. About 9,000 works pass before our eyes. The works that hold out attention for some moments pass through eventually into the galleries.

(The Small Weston Room 2009 - to view individual paintings, click to enlarge and zoom in)

In case for the works for the Small Weston Room I need to find/choose many works. My colleagues know this and help in the process by letting me just nod my head. 

It seems that the Small Weston Room holds between 280/300 works. It is not set in stone and now and again can change its focus.

It happens that smaller works are often more successful beautiful or jewel like than some larger works. I am of course not choosing artists for how small they work. Serious well-known artists submit small paintings. But here is a chance to show work the many lesser known artists.

The room becomes a giant jigsaw puzzle. First, at eye level, I have to hang the paintings of the members of the Academy whose work will grace the walls. Then with my team of four very intelligent helpers (one, by the way, a young French lawyer called Faton) we lay out the works on the floor and shuffle them around. Works at the top of the wall have to be strong and “read”.

Sometimes a good work waits to be hung. Sometimes a correct space awaits a fortunate work. Sometimes a good work does not make it in the end. Charles Darwin looks on – even in the Small Weston Room.

What would be your advise for those who are thinking about submitting something for next year’s Summer Exhibition in terms of the peculiarity of the space of the Small Weston Room/style and content of painting?

To find a little space in the Small Weston Room just paint an interesting, beautiful, arresting image and hope for the best.

The Royal Academicians may personally prefer a certain direction in their art, but they are not prejudiced against any good work. A still life, a beach hut, two men fighting, toy trains, a feather, an abstract paint texture, a framed embroidery – it’s all there. Just take a chance to enter. The odds though of success seem to be about an eight to one chance of acceptance.

In recent years, the Royal Academy seems to have felt the need to tap into a more commercial approach to the Summer Exhibition (most famous example Tracey Emin) – how do you feel about that?

The Royal Academy has always worked hand in hand with the famous artist. The Summer Exhibition is an annual survey of work that comes to town.

The public may or may not seriously consider the solid silver anatomical work by Damien Hirst, the great glass boxes by Anselm Kiefer or, last year, wonder what Tracey Emin was about with the room she curated.

They ought to ignore it all and stoically and purposefully march to the Small Weston Room to get their own piece of the action. Wealth and power may have place on the summer show, but generally in spite of the press, it is the public that rate.

How do you explain the popularity of the Summer Exhibition?

The annual Summer Exhibition (once there was also a Winter Exhibition) has been a national salon since the late 18th Century both to showcase the works of the Academicians and, from sales, to provide funds for the Royal Academy School. Fundraising is the central role of the Academy through its exhibition programme.

The Summer Exhibition is an immovable feast - it comes as part of the British calendar like Christmas or the Chelsea Flower Show, the Epsom Derby, Wimbledon Tennis, Royal Ascot or the Queen’s official birthday. It is an essential emotional brick in the structure of British life.

Sometimes the show is greater with excitement, sometimes with less excitement. Nevertheless it remains a microcosm of the Zeitgeist.

Which exhibits to you particularly recommend this year?

Naturally, modesty forbids recommending any of my own work. In fact, the breadth of the exhibition in terms of content makes it almost impossible to point to any particular work. I do admire many of the vigorous artists now well over eighty in terms of age. There is also a generation of young artists who wish to continue in the great tradition of painting.

Whoever and whatever - it is no easy matter to work as an artist. Very few are famous. They do it anyway and they find admirers and friends in the annual exhibition of the Royal Academy.

The Royal Academy Summer Exhibition runs until 16th August 2009 at the Royal Academy of Arts in Piccadilly, London.

The French love football, not least because of Les Bleus, follow the very British institution of Rugby and get quite excited about sailing. But the national sport down here in the Deep South is cycling.

Throughout the year, morning, noon and afternoon you will come across at least one cyclist who is climbing the mountains around us. Dressed in brightly coloured shirts and shorts, state-of-the-art helmets, sunglasses and gloves anyone from 12 to 80 seems to take part. The accessories range for this sport is quite amazing; it starts with the specialist shoes that click into the pedals, cold resistant socks for winter rides and jackets for when the temperature is around 7 degrees Celsius.

The main instrument itself – the bike – is another status symbol in the making with top points for certain brands and extra brownie points for lightness; essentially an additional €1,000 shaves off another kilo. My second hand Giant – a super cheap purchase due to its odd size - successfully distracts from the desperate panting as I head up a hill.

Sometimes you can follow one of these throngs in you car and be amazed at the speed with which some of these evidently older guys take the corners and navigate the hills.

This time of year, the best time to go out is from 6am to 10am and then again later in the afternoon when the sun starts descending. As you whizz past the intoxicating plants alongside the main road, catch a whiff of jasmine, get slightly distracted by the view you might for a moment feel yourself riding in the Tour de France. As the next hill approaches, reality usually hits quite quickly to the more true to form style of the Tour de Trance.

If you persevere with your efforts one day you might get the great sensation of feeling the power of your body pushing the 9.8 kg metal frame at a respectable speed and not looking too silly as you grunt the obligatory “Bonjour” to a passing much more proficient cyclist.

The whole exercise clears you mind as well as your body and the next chocolate croissant tastes even nicer.

As I write, the Canton is buzzing in preparation for the first leg of the Tour de France 2009 which will pass in the hills behind us over the weekend. Whoopee!!

Jodhpurs Photograph Nr. 20 by Eleanor Roosevelt

Mme Jinot, Paulette has a strict and regular routine. Each morning, between 8am and 8.30 she locks her door and walks slowly with her basket in hand the 90 or so metres to the épicerie where she buys her groceries for the day. Neither rain or heat nor her 80+ years hold her back. She walks slowly and purposefully, holding herself upright dispensing “Bonjour Madame. Bonjour Monsieur” where it is due.

This morning she paused in front of Maman des Chats new neighbour’s house, Régine. “Did you sleep alright?” she asked in her well-modulated French accent, while Régine related her nocturnal update in her heavy Provençal lilt that sings the words like a country air. Information exchanged, Mme Jinot went her way.

She has stopped to chat on many occassions. By and by we have learned more about her. The most striking thing about Mme Jinot is her unfailing positive go-get attitude which acknowledges old age, but doesn’t draw attention to it and is never used to solicit pity or worse: guilt in the one that has been accosted and feels obliged to help.

She bemoans the fact that the children have no proper play ground and is always excited to see them kick the ball around outside; “On fait ce qu’on peut,” she cries with a huge smile as she marches home.

Since everyone keeps an eye on each other here, we know that her social life is busy and hectic. Her blonde friend regularly knocks on the door to pick her up in the evening when the two walk into the square to sit with the other on the bench joining other females from the village.

This “Press Club” meets regularly and watches the world go by – passing them one never gets the feeling of heavy gossiping but merely an interchange of encouragement.

The Golden Girls are in session with a ready open ear, friendship, support and sympathy setting the standard of how to live with old age. 

Jodhpurs Photograph Nr. 19 by Tilda Swinton in “Orlando” 

(dedicated to Piglet 1)

Three physicists have passed through my life. One is a relation, accomplished and successful in his chosen line of work. His PhD is never mentioned, never comes up and we have all forgotten about it.

The second is a friend who works for a major research body. When visiting his house we noticed a “Dr.” with the same surname as his in the apartment block he lives in. As we pointed this amazing coincidence we realised it was our friend himself who was this Dr. So-and-So and felt rather stupid. He had kept his title from us like a dark family secret.

The third physicist is an acquaintance who passed by our house for an hour and half during which time his PhD, doctorate, dissertation, honours etc were mentioned so many times the house was flooded with a large sea of feelings of failure.

This overselling had two effects on those listening: one group complete backed off and began to wonder about the insecurity complex Physicist Nr. 3 was trying to hide. 

The other members of the audience happily chimed in and repeated the self-extolling virtues he was proclaiming and praising. The result: somehow the impression was created that Physicist Nr. 3 is achieving great and wonderful works.

Which leads me to my great-aunt’s “Prada” dress as depicted in the photograph above. When as a child we were faced with this garment up close, it was no more than a strange plastic clothing item with drab graphics and colours. It conjured up images of poor elderly women standing in line in communist countries waiting for items that didn’t exist and weren’t for sale.

And yet, a few years later an Italian managed to persuade a large number of women that this is exactly what they would like to wear and purchase that season to feel attractive, fashionable and intelligent.

Hung from a young skinny tall adolescent woman part of the audience were fully convinced by the designer’s great fashion idea. You just need to shine the light in the right places; the more artificial the more effective.

As hard as Physicist Nr. 3 might try: his boasting only draws attention to the fact that figuratively speaking he is no more than a brown misshapen polyester dress.

Jodhpurs Photograph Nr. 18 by Genevieve Haugen, Edna Crumrine, Hilda Jarmuth, Ruth Elder Gillespie, Adoree Neville, Esther Jones, Kathleen Truett, Clema Granger, Esther Johnson, Margaret Perry Cooper, Elliott Roberts, Georgialee McGaffey, Jean Allen and Edith B. Clark

Jodhpurs Photograph Nr. 17 by Miss Louise Ireland & Miss Helen Marye, April 18th, 1925

(via Shorpy)

On Being German, Part II

Perhaps it is a misconception, but Germans travelling abroad tend to ignore each other upon meeting accidentally. They are also always much more friendly to strangers visiting their country than their own.

So it was a great surprise, when hanging out at Zürich airport in between flights, a fellow German asked me to look after his case while he went to the bathroom. And it was even more surprising that I agreed and asked the same favour of him.

As we continued waiting for the same flight a conversation ensued, and finding out that we had both moved away from our native country, we started comparing notes.

After sharing our experiences about living in the UK and Switzerland we quickly came to the conclusion that Germans are not very much liked abroad. Ah well, nothing new there.

“A colleague actually asked me: ‘Why do Germans all have to come here?’” my fellow traveller related about his adopted country. Being married to a native Swiss, the answer was almost self-explanatory. He added that apart from having to learn ‘Schwyzerdütsch”, the Swiss version of the German Hochdeutsch, he also had to make efforts to learn the dialect of the Canton he lives in: “If you don’t do that, you will never be accepted.”

An additional challenge for his family in this neutral country was the fact that his wife and he had adopted two small Ethiopian sisters, seen as a highly unusual choice amongst the all white neighbours of his small Swiss town.

Eventually we drifted to the subject that Germans always reach when chatting: the war. While many people abroad believe that anyone born after 1945 has been kept in ignorance of the events of the preceding years, we both agreed that we felt we had paid our price.

Throughout our education we had both been exposed to great doses of history lessons that gave us an in-depth grounding on German historical events between 1918-1945. Nor had we forgotten this vague feeling of shame these lessons had instilled in us even though we both belong to the third generation born after the war.

When Germany hosted the Football World Cup in 2006, most Germans felt slightly embarrassed and worried when German flags were seen flying throughout various football stadiums, not least the Olympiastadium in Berlin.

Most Germans were equally surprised to hear foreign visitors complimenting us on how well everything was organised and how welcome everyone had been made to feel: “You know how to throw a big football party properly!” Although Germans are not given to displays of national pride, it was the first time in my experience that my fellowmen actually accepted praise and found something positive in their nationality.

It’s a feeling that is developing slowly and carefully with a close eye on avoiding any excesses of any form of nationalism. This is also seen in recent German films, which for the first time report and acknowledge that Germans suffered too, particularly after the war. These stories are told in a pragmatic way. Discussing these feelings is almost like breaking a taboo.

One example is Sönke Wortmann’s film “Das Wunder von Bern” which traces the story of prisoner of war who returns to Germany at the time of the 1954 World Cup.

Gone are the rose coloured simplified versions of German life in the 1950s when everyone was either looking backwards to the seemingly simple days of “Sissi”, or fast-forwarded to the latest Miele kitchen appliance. Instead this third generation is giving voice to the experiences of their grandfathers, fathers and families; experiences which were never mentioned or talked about while we were growing up, partly because of shame, but also because the horrors they had lived through were too real and too inhuman – wounds that never really healed.

As the two Germans boarded the plane, my fellow traveller revealed the perfect fallback plan: “With a Swiss wife, two adopted African daughters and a German passport, I think of myself as European anyway.”