In the beautiful old police station in Goulburn, New South Wales, Australia, there is a secondhand bookshop that takes up five or six rooms and is a bit of a treasure trove.
On a rainy day recently, I dropped in and bought the three books in this picture:
The first I read was the Graham Greene. Greene described the book as a "frivolity". In the first half of the story you are on tenterhooks that poverty will result in disaster and in the second half you are led to almost believe that wealth, at least for some people, can have its own devastating consequences. I enjoyed the book. If you are fond of Graham Greene, you probably will as well.
After Loser Takes All I read the Penelope Lively. It is set in London, partly in a 'now' that is a three or four decades ago and partly in the Blitz. The parallel storylines didn't quite work for me - tricky fictional structures like this often distract me when reading, which is probably a symptom of my lack of sophistication.
In the more modern part of the story, (such as it is), the main character is an architect called Mark who spent his childhood looking at buildings and trying to make out how they were put together. He drives about London seeing it as a jigsaw of time. His musings are quite beguiling and full of ideas but I didn't really feel any great interest in this character or any of the others, (and I point blank did not accept that the really ruthless villain portrayed in its pages bore any resemblance to anyone real - not that I didn't believe in his wickedness but that I didn't believe in his stupid behaviour towards the main character).
In the book, Lively chooses to shift from present tense to past tense and then back to present tense, with no real reason, which I found annoying. It also seemed to me that she had tried, unsuccessfully, to shove an essay into a fictional framework. One striking thing about the novel though is the pre 9/11 innocence of the contents, particularly noticeable in the descriptions of tower blocks being constructed - there is absolutely no hint in the text that they might be turned into targets.
Overall, I found City of the Mind entertaining to begin with, but rather tedious after a while - not incompetent but too carefully wrought and confected. The essence of the problem for me was that I didn't care at all about the main character. It is hard to know in such circumstances whether that is the writer or the reader's fault.
Finally, I read the Michael Innes. Published in 1941, it tells the story of Inspector Appleby being shipwrecked and having to solve a murder on an island. By contemporary standards the book's language is very racist, in the sense that the white characters and the black characters are intensely aware of the other's colour. Being black isn't considered a bad thing by most of the characters, but it is considered a notable thing - those who are black are seen as 'other' in a way that is no longer encouraged. If the reader can leave that aside, the book is fun, as Innes's Appleby fables usually (although not always) are.
In case anyone doesn’t know (I didn’t until I looked it up just now) “wimmin” is a plural spelling of women created by feminists to avoid having “-men” in the word. How Alice Thomas Ellis would have felt about that is probably clear from her reply to the question:
“What is the most important event in women’s history?”
Appropriately for today, 25 March where I am, this was Ellis’s reply:
“The Annunciation.”
(Here are a couple of passages from Ellis’s novel Pillars of Gold that particularly amuse me:
In the first, the book's main character is assaulted by absurd [but, to me, not completely unfamiliar] media-induced anxieties as she tries to decide what is the best thing to do with some courgettes (zucchini to Australians) she is cooking for her daughter:
"... if she immersed them in water, their vitamin C content would dissipate. She could cook them now and reheat them, but that, she believed, would be deleterious to their nutritional value: it would perhaps be best to entrap them, with their vitamins and trace minerals, in a china bowl enveloped in clingfilm in the coolness of the fridge, taking care that the film did not touch them lest some cancer-inducing chemical should migrate from the one to the other. Next she considered the potatoes: in the past she had always cooked them in their skins, but recently it had been suggested that potato skins, if not carcinogenic, were yet harmful to the system, perforating the bowel or preventing it from absorbing the vital vitamins. She scraped them carefully and put them in a steel pan ... Scarlet had thrown away all her old aluminium pans since she had learned that they might cause Alzheimer's disease ... The chicken, which she next drew from the fridge, had, so the label proclaimed, ranged freely over a district of France before being hygienically and humanely slaughtered and packed. It somehow gave the impression that the fowl had led such a delightful and pleasurable existence that it was a positive act of virtue to eat it."
In the second, the trials of this woman continue, as she tries to engage with her teenage daughter:
"Do I look all right?" asked Scarlet. She was wearing what she considered to be an ageless garment - a hip-length coat of black watered taffeta; the shoulders were rather too narrow and too sharply defined to be precisely fashionable, but the material was of most superior quality. Underneath this she wore black cotton trousers - ideally these should have been made of silk, but she felt sure no one would notice. "You look wonderful," said Camille without raising her eyes from the television set. She had eaten her supper" [which included the pristine courgettes, I think] "and was beginning to feel hungry again. 'No, really,' said Scarlet. Camille fell to her knees from the sofa and gave her mother's leg a patronizing pat. 'You've got a sweet little face,' she said. Scarlet, though not reassured by her words, was touched by her gesture until she saw that Camille was merely reaching for the crisp packet and had patted her in passing. 'Do these shoes go with these trousers?' she asked. 'Yes,' said Camille, her fingers deep in the crispbag. 'You didn't look,' said Scarlet. 'Are they too old-fashioned?' 'No,' said Camille. Scarlet gave up. Only a few years before, Camille had been acutely conerned about her mother's appearance, sometimes refusing to be seen with her in public, but now it seemed that she no longer minded: she had expropriated from Scarlet's wardrobe those few articles that she felt would suit herself and had thereafter left her mother to her own devices. It gave Scarlet the impression that she had grown very old and from now on might just as well go round in her shroud.")
Having been shut out of Australia for a long time, we have at last been allowed to return. With the links of familiarity broken by absence, it is almost like visiting somewhere new. But, unlike going to a place you've never been, going home after a long, forced exile, brings your memories and expectations up against the reality of your former homeland, which, inevitably, has altered in the time since you left.
I remember an Australia full of wit and fun, as exemplified by the wonderful television comedy that this blog's title echoes, Australia You're Standing in It, of which Tim and Debbie's Brain Space was always my favourite segment:
But the last two years have taken their toll on joie de vivre and silliness, it seems.
The first thing we noticed after getting here is that many, many Australians, despite being vaccinated, remain thoroughly spooked by the virus that most governments have reacted to with lockdowns and other extreme measures. In Canberra, a place where, if you are walking, you are almost certain not to encounter another living soul, we watched a young woman pushing a pram up Anzac Parade, solitary, on an enormous street, her face almost invisible beneath a mask.
The only danger she faced from the virus was from us as we drove past, maskless - all the other cars we saw contained solitary drivers, each one masked, with the windows up.
Of course, we remember our own initial panic when we were told about this new virus and shown the videos of people falling down in the street and sitting in Italian hospitals with fishbowls on their heads. Two years on though, (and fully vaccinated), we have read enough to know that panic is not sensible, and facemasks in the open air are pointless, especially for people youthful enough to be the mothers of babies in prams.
But in Australia, despite the worldwide web, people seem cut off from the "Hell, let's live with it" attitude and remain possessed by fear.
And perhaps as a result of the febrile atmosphere, Australian politics seem to have hit new lows. Nothing that new there, but what is shocking to me is the way that the state-run broadcaster, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, an organisation charged with presenting a diversity of perspectives, never stating or implying that any perspective is the editorial opinion of the ABC and never misrepresenting or unduly favouring any perspective, seems hellbent on bringing down the current government, led by Scott Morrison, who will be facing an election in the next couple of months.
Scott Morrison is not an exciting leader, but he has a certain steady-as-you-go quality that just at this moment in history strikes me as not the worst attribute for someone to possess who is at your country's helm.
Morrison came to the job of Prime Minister after years of political turmoil, which started when Kevin Rudd took the leadership of the Australian Labor Party and briefly succeeded in getting most of the voting public to fall in love with him. Rudd won the next election and then disappointed the electorate very quickly. Julia Gillard ousted him, but never won the hearts of the electorate and was forced to govern with the help of two rural independents whose own voters were furious that they had thrown in their hats with the left. Rudd ousted Gillard and another election was fought, at which Tony Abbott won a commanding victory.
Although he had overwhelmingly won over the public, Abbott faced many within his own party who disliked the fact that he was a Christian, was not a supporter of gay marriage and understood that, while Australia could not solve climate change by itself, it could ruin its economy if it went ahead, without China also acting in good faith, and decarbonised.
Abbott was ousted by an extremely ambitious, socially more liberal colleague called Malcolm Turnbull. I listened to Turnbull quite recently, when he was speaking at the funeral of an Australian businessman who operated in Russia. Turnbull's highest praise for the dead businessman was reserved for the brilliant way in which that businessman concealed from the investors Turnbull had taken to Russia the worrying truth - namely, that the people they were being encouraged to go into joint venture with were extreme fascists, bigots and half-mad. Turnbull's admiration for such unscrupulous behaviour gives a glimpse of the kind of moral compass Australia's Prime Minister had while Turnbull was in charge.
Turnbull did not make any effort to win over voters when election time came, as his own self-belief told him that he would win a landslide. Instead, he very nearly lost and, as a result of his poor performance, Morrison was put in. To my surprise, Morrison went on to win the next election very handsomely and almost single-handedly.
Morrison is absolutely not cool or trendy. I imagine him in a different life being the deputy headmaster of a large secondary school. Perhaps it is because there is nothing inner-city about him, no hint of the vegan, no sense that he might harbour a secret passion for quinoa - or perhaps it is because he belongs to a pentecostal Christian church (uber-uncool) - but he is constantly mocked and spoken of scornfully, and he generally gets a consistently mocking press. He is referred to routinely as "Scotty from Marketing", because he ran Tourism Australia in an earlier part of his life - he was responsible, I think, for that embarrassing, but memorable, "Where the bloody hell are you?" campaign to encourage visitors to come down under. But I think, as well, he was responsible for this, possibly the most lovely promotional video ever made:
In his term in office, Morrison has had to deal with bushfires and flooding - and the media insist that he has dealt with them uniquely badly. I have an idea that no one whose house has burned down or been filled with muddy water is ever happy, and no leader can ever get much right in such crises - particularly in a country with such a huge land mass and such a scattered population as Australia. *
Morrison also mismanaged the pandemic, according to all comers, and I would agree with this, except that the charge against him is that he wasn't strict enough, whereas my view is that lockdowns were an enormous mistake.
Anyway, I don't exactly love Morrison, but I don't think he is a terrible person or a very bad leader. Whatever I think about him is, in any case, not really relevant to what I want to talk about, which is the relentless, blatant - to my eyes new and deeply shocking - bias of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.
To give an illustration of what I mean, here are two comedy sketches, both broadcast in primetime yesterday evening. They do not make any attempt to hide their contempt for Scott Morrison. In the first, they focus on a single, possibly slightly ill-judged, picture Morrison posted on his Facebook page, shortly after he had been forced to stay at home because he had tested positive for the virus. The posts all around this one were to do with important issues, demonstrating that his mind was on the floods and the Ukraine situation and all the other things that a Prime Minister needed to be focussing on. But the Australian Broadcasting Corporation's weekly performer chose to grab this single piece of light-heartedness and use it as an indictment, as if Morrison was doing nothing at all beyond posting pictures of his cat. The scorn, the hatred that drips from this performance has no place at the public broadcaster:
The second item to pop up, a very short time later, yesterday evening was this, a "comedy sketch" that not only implies that all those working in parliament for the government side of politics are people without principle, but also attacks a judicial decision, which is odd, given the left is usually full of outrage at any hint that the cherished independence and integrity of the courts come under scrutiny:
No doubt, with the help of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Australia will soon have a new government. Whether that will be because it is necessary or simply because the population has been gently stewed in a rich gravy of government funded (yet anti-government) propaganda is something we may never know.
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*I won't go into the whole question of land management and poor zoning and new ideas about bush flammability and how to prepare for fires, but my many relatives who live on the land point to newfangled ways of doing things as the cause of a lot of the fire and flooding problems that have arisen over the past few years, combined with the arrival in rural areas of more and more people who love the idea of a little place in the country but who do not understand exactly what living in rural Australia and staying safe entails.
Sadly, I was completely wrong and it turns out that Putin is mad, not merely bad - and the results are terrifying. This clip gives us a glimpse of the man (or should that be monster?) as he is right now
A Russian pointed out on Twitter a few days ago that senior Russian military should consider the fact that to fight a war in Ukraine means thousands upon thousands of Russian casualties, whereas to avoid a war in Ukraine requires only one single casualty. Unfortunately, this did not inspire a new Stauffenberg - at least not yet, (I continue to hope and pray that one might come along - and succeed).
To add to the bleakness, in this new appalling situation I cannot see who are the goodies. Putin is both mad and bad, and meanwhile in the West we seem to have lost our bearings. The comparison one sees here between Russian and US recruitment publicity gives an insight into how far we have strayed from commonsense.
Allister Heath highlighted this with his usual clarity in the Telegraph:
While the West has largely condemned Russia’s move on Ukraine, it too is racked with its own internal ideological rejection of the modern, liberal-conservative order. Communism never really stood a chance in Europe and America, and a capitalist and democratic West thus triumphed in the Cold War; but the woke ideology, best understood as an anti-capitalist, anti-Western secular religion, has already captured much of the intelligentsia in America, Canada, New Zealand and increasingly Britain.
In its extreme form, it represents a rejection of the Enlightenment, of freedom and reason; Western history is reviled as uniquely bad, rather than as a remarkable experiment in self-improvement. Individualism is replaced by collectivism and neo-feudalism, and Martin Luther King’s ideal of a colour-blind society by balkanised identity politics. Free speech is dismissed as “oppressive”. Dissenters are cancelled, with cultural institutions, capital and corporations happy to help impose this new orthodoxy. The fear is that technology will be used to increase the power of this new ruling class, rather than to liberate the masses. The rise of a related extreme environmentalism – another millenarianist movement, more concerned with self-flagellation than protecting nature – has already encouraged a series of catastrophic errors, not least the abandonment of nuclear and greater dependency on Russian gas."
Meanwhile in the Spectator, Freddy Gray pointed out that, extraordinarily, the West was safer under another unpredictable leader, rather than a bien pensant (which is a nice way of describing Biden):
"Putin, as a slightly comic alpha male authoritarian, saw in Trump something he recognised — an unstable, unpredictable yet potentially decisive actor on the world stage. Rightly or wrongly, he saw in Trump strength whereas in the Democratic leadership he sees only weakness and folly...In its demented ego-driven way, Trump’s view of the way the world works is intriguingly coherent. And painful though it may be for the many experts who have spent years denouncing him as a disastrous monster to admit, he could well be right: if he were in the White House, Putin probably wouldn’t be doing what he is doing."
The consequences for Taiwan are highlighted in this truly fascinating and deeply worrying Tweet thread (the implications for the West's possible retaliatory optionsof Putin's threat that he might use nuclear weapons are also well laid out there.)
Luckily there is always poetry and a commenter on Unherd hascontributed this beautiful translation of an Anna Akhmatova poem which, if not exactly cheering, offers a perspective from above the fray:
Everything is Plundered, Betrayed, Sold’ Anna Akhmatova
Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold, Death’s great black wing scrapes the air, Misery gnaws to the bone. Why then do we not despair? By day, from the surrounding woods, Cherries blow summer into town; at night the deep transparent skies glitter with new galaxies. And the miraculous comes so close to the ruined, dirty houses – something not known to anyone at all, but wild in our breast for centuries.
Lovely though that is, there is no escaping the fact that we are in the biggest pickle of my lifetime.
On 30 December, 2021, my throat started hurting and I began repeatedly sneezing and I realised I was getting some kind of cold. I was staying in a house with countless other people, some of them possibly 'vulnerable' (although all three times vaccinated). Panic gripped me. What if I killed someone by infecting them with the scythe-wielding virus that has stalked us all for over two years now?
Luckily, someone had a test kit, and it turned out I was not suffering from the monster. All the same, I went on feeling rather awful, coughing and feeling generally fairly out of sorts. I did tests from time to time and each one came back negative. It must be hypochondria, I thought, dragging myself through the days, functioning well below normal, my appetite diminished - (although, being me, I ate on steadfastly, regardless) - listless and increasingly feeling that life was barely worth living. Occasionally, I'd do another test, just to see if I'd been got by the virus - it is supposed to be so catching and so dangerous, after all.
Finally, this Monday, having once again tested negative, I sent my doctor a tentative email: I didn't have the virus so I understood that she might not want to be bothered with me, but I had been feeling rather lousy, for some unknown reason, for more than a month. She graciously slotted me into her schedule later that day.
I arrived at her office full of apologies. I didn't want to bother her, when there was a real illness about, but somehow, despite not having THAT illness, I did still feel sick.
Bronchitis, it turned out. That was the problem. Contrary to what I'd begun to believe, there are other things that can make you unwell - and, by the time I went to see her, it had got quite bad.
Three cheers for antibiotics. Boo to tunnel vision. Hurray that I at last feel vaguely on the mend.
As I am expert in nothing, anything I say is probably rubbish. In that context, I predict that there will be no invasion of Ukraine by Russia any time soon. (Note 1)
I don't know what, if anything, Putin is up to - not much, quite probably. What I suspect is that actually it is the Biden administration that is beating up the Ukraine question, hoping that, having done so and got enough people panicking, if there is no invasion, they can claim they have achieved something, (quite a few governments have discovered the usefulness of frightening voters over the last two years).
Meanwhile, the Johnson administration is also beating up the idea that there will soon be a Russian invasion - for them this is simply a "look-over-there" strategy designed to make the public think that Johnson is a statesman and not a party going, spineless arse (not a strategy with any chance of success, I predict, as a non-expert).
Whatever Putin's intention, what this episode has exposed exceptionally clearly to me is that the part of the world where one might once have claimed there was something called Western civilisation is now not civilised at all. It has become the zone of Western hypocrisy, ruled over by a bunch of posturing, greedy, self-serving mugs - or are they thugs? I suppose they can be both.
Once upon a time, the West did have principles and values (oh shut up about slavery, we didn't invent it and we abolished it as soon as we thought about it carefully). At the beginning of the Second World War it recognised - if reluctantly - that Adolf Hitler was exceptionally wicked and it was necessary to stop his advance. During the Cold War, it recognised that the Soviet Union was an appalling machine for grinding down innocent souls. Looking at Cultural Revolution China, it recognised that a dangerous murderer was in charge - and, ineffectively but not necessarily wrongly, tried to stop the spread of that dangerous murderer's system of government throughout South-East Asia.
Now things are different. We pretend to disapprove of Russia and China, while making our economies daily more dependent on them, intertwining ourselves with them so thoroughly that we have become complicit in every single wicked thing they do.
Despite knowing that Mr Putin's regime is rotten to the core, Europe has allowed itself to become utterly dependent on the gas that regime produces. Britain meanwhile has a financial sector that is so riddled with dirty Russian money that no one in power dares do anything serious in retaliation to any monstrous action that Putin cares to dream up (not even in response to a nuclear attack on British soil, which is what the murder of Alexander Litvinenko was).
Similarly, despite disapproving of China - its coal-fired stations, its treatment of its minority peoples - the West welcomed it into our trading sphere, ostensibly on the naive assumption that by doing so Chinese rulers would suddenly see the error of their ways and establish genuine democracy where the Chinese people would be the true rulers rather than merely the thoroughly brainwashed ruled.
But we didn't insist on any changes in China, strangely. Perhaps we didn't really care what happened to the Chinese people, provided they kept doing our dirty work - and doing it wonderfully inexpensively so that we could fill our houses up with mass-produced stuff. We turned the blindest of blind eyes to China's vile approach to human rights and its frightful treatment of the environment, in exchange for having our shops filled with bright shiny cheap things, which many of us too late discovered that we could no longer buy, since our jobs had been taken by slaves in China.
But who cares really? Who cares if China is opening multiple coalfired power stations, provided they can make our solar panels, without our ever having to become aware of the pollution that is a consequence of every panel made. And isn't it wonderful to be able to go into a Tesco superstore and buy a cheap television to while away the hours we are no longer working, even if it is made by slave labour.
The great thing is the profits of big Western companies are up, black lives matter, and we don't have any slaves. And we believe in human rights and our police don't beat us up for expressing opinions that differ from the government line.
But hang on. Whoops. What happened to our moral high ground? Look at the emergency measures just introduced in Canada, look at the footage from across the world in the last year or so, showing police in France and Germany and other so-called democratic nations beating up those who dare to come out on the street to question government measures that have never been taken to a democratic election to be approved.
Mr Putin this week, whether he intended to or not, has shown that the West isn't going to do anything to curtail his excesses, because it is caught in his web, it is party to everything that he does. In exactly the same way - possibly even more troublingly, - the West is party to all China's excesses as well, because we have farmed out our manufacturing to that country, where workers' rights, health and safety, anti-slavery rules, can all be ignored without us noticing and we can continue our addiction to endlessly shopping for more and more cheap things.
In short, what the situation with Putin has highlighted is that we live in an age of hypocrisy - and I don't like it.
I said at the start that I know nothing, but actually there are two things I know: firstly, I know that I've never felt the resonance of Auden's phrase about "a low, dishonest decade" more strongly, and, secondly, I know that the state of the West and the calibre of its current leaders makes me sick.
While in London after Christmas I went to look at the exhibition of works by Durer that they've put together at the National Gallery. I cannot do it as much justice as the excellent review by Michael Prodger in the New Statesman, reproduced below, (the detail about the unforgiving nature of the technique called silverpoint especially interested me). However, I took some photographs on my mobile telephone of the works I liked best or those that intrigued me, and some of these might provide a glimpse of what's on offer, for those unable or unwilling to visit the gallery themselves.
This lion appears near the start of the exhibition, and is one of the earlier works by Durer on show. It normally lives in the Hamburg Kunsthalle and is gouache on parchment, heightened with gold. Durer made it in 1494. The National Gallery says that the image seems heraldic, more like something from an illuminated manuscript than a picture in its own right, and that the movement of the lion's four legs is unconvincing, adding that Durer didn't have an opportunity to see a real lion until he went to the Netherlands in 1520-1.
This next picture isn't something I covet (it is unsophisticated to do so, but I very often look at pictures with an eye to whether I'd like to have them in my own house or not), but it is interesting, because it isn't what I'd grown to expect as a typical Durer picture:
It is called Trintperg - Dosso di Trento and it usually lives in the Kunsthalle in Bremen. It is a watercolour and Durer made it in 1495. The wall note says: "The focus of Durer's interest is the massive rock formation on which the city of Trent (now in Italy) is situated, seen from the bank of the river Adige. Although he includes some identifiable buildings, Durer omits the surrounding hills. He does not represent any human life, but has closely studied the reflections of the surface of the water. This watercolour was presumably worked up in the studio from sketches made outdoors."
This one, called A Sparrowhawk and dated around 1510 isn't actually by Durer, but by Jacopo de' Barbari who was active between 1500 and approx 1516. The wall note tells us that Durer first encountered this Venetian painter and printmaker in Nuremberg in 1500. Barbari's engravings of nudes apparently inspired Durer. He wanted to understand how Barbari conveyed proportion but wrote that Barbari "did not want to show his principles to me clearly". This small painting may be a fragment from a larger work, but I like it a lot anyway, partly because any domesticated bird of prey makes me think of The Pilgrim Hawk, a novella I am fond of. The picture is part of the National Gallery's own collection.
This is Saint Catherine, by Durer, made in about 1494. The wall note reads as follows:
"Saint Catherine kneels to receive a wedding ring from the infant christ, sketchily indicated on the right beside his mother's knee. This closely hatched drawing may follow a painted composition of the Virgin and Child with saints that Durer had seen, or it was possibly made from a model. The saint's dress resembles that worn by Venetian women shown in other studies by Durer so he probably made this drawing in Venice." It is made with a pen in light grey ink and comes from a collection in Cologne.
These statuettes of Adam and Eve are made of glazed boxwood and they are by Conrad Meit, who was active from about 1480 to about 1550. They were made in 1515. They are kept in the Stiftung Schloss Friedenstein Gotha. The wall note tells us: " Conrad Meit was sculptor to Margaret of Austria. Durer admired his work, calling him the "fine sculptor" and sent him presents of several of his prints. These two are inspired by Durer's engraving of Adam and Eve. Eve's right arm is very similar to Durer's image, while the proportions and balance of the figures owe much to Durer's studies of the human body." In the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna in the Schatzkammer I first noticed how marvellous the detail of tiny wooden sculptures can be. These struck me as exceptional.
These dear babies were drawn by Durer before 1513, using ink on paper. They are part of the collection of the British Library. The gallery note says: " After his return from Venice, Durer further refined his study of human proportions. He moved away from the Roman writer Vitruvius' ideal of the 'well-shaped man' and the norms of ideally proportioned bodies. He wanted to study and understand the varieties of the human form, stating that he would leave it to God to judge beauty."
This painting is from Vienna, although I don't think I've ever seen it hung there. It is called The Feast of the Rose Garlands and Durer painted it, using oil on canvas, between 1606 and 1612, allegedly in part to prove he could use colour. It was commissioned for the church of the German merchants in Venice, San Bartolomeo. To the left of the Virgin and Child is the Pope, to the right the Emperor Maximilian. You can see Durer himself standing by the bare tree at the right.
The next picture, made with brush and black ink and wash, with white opaque watercolour and pen and dark ink on blue paper, is usually kept in the Morgan Library and Museum, New York. It is a study for the kneeling figure in blue on the right of The Virgin of the Rose Garlands and it was made in 1506:
These next few drawings are taken from sketchbooks of Durer's and I particularly liked them, as I felt that looking at them was a bit like reading little bits from his diary, very immediate, giving a sense that one is looking through a window and glimpsing moments in his daily life:
Durer wrote about this one: "This is my landlord in Antwerp Jobst Plankfelt 1520." Plankfelt was the landlord of the inn where Durer lodged for much of his stay in the Netherlands. It stood between the harbour and the main market. In August 1520, he noted "my landlord I have also drawn a likeness of, that is Jobst Plankfelt, he gave me a branch of white coral." The picture normally lives in the Staadel Museum in Frankfurt and is done with pen and brown ink on paper.
The National Gallery curators think that this sketch might have been done by Durer after seeing men ferrying passengers across a river as, travelling to the Netherlands, he often went by riverboat. It seemed to me to give a very strong sense of seeing something alive, something that is part of a scene that was real and part of Durer's experience, thus of looking back directly into the past.
This one is called The Beautiful Young Woman of Antwerp. In fact the man on the left was drawn first and is probably an Augsburg merchant who travelled with Durer to Zeeland. His name was Markus Ulstett and Durer mentions drawing him around December 1520. Both these sketches are made with silverpoint on ivory coloured prepared paper, and they normally live in the Stadel Museum in Frankfurt
I love these two drawings because they conjure up someone who seems a vivid personality even hundreds of years later. His name is Imperial Captain Felix Hungersperg and Durer's inscription to the first of the two reads "This is Captain Felix the exquisite lutenist, done at Antwerp 1520". In his diary for November 1520 he says, "I did a pen drawing of Felix kneeling. He gave me a hundred oysters". Both drawings are part of the Albertina collection in Vienna and are made with pen and brown ink.
There were many other wonderful works, including some very moving ones of Christ -
and some wonderful portraits:
(mind you my favourite of the portraits was not by Durer but by Lucas van Leyden, who, the gallery curators assert, was much influenced by Durer):
but this post is getting long, so I will finish with my absolute favourite thing in the whole exhibition which is this series of nine studies of Saint Christopher, made in 1521. There just seems to me such movement and life in the thing, the saint becomes more and more hard pressed, the baby more demanding. Made in 1521, it belongs to the Staatliche Museum in Berlin:
These music making angels from 1521, studies for an altarpiece, also won my heart. They can usually be found in the Met in New York:
The New Statesman’s view:
“In 1520 Albrecht Dürer was in Brussels when the contents of a treasure ship sent back from the Americas by Hernán Cortés were put on display to celebrate the coronation of Charles V. The cache contained, among other items, obsidian weapons, jaguar pelts, feathered shields, gemstones and mosaic pieces, and gold wrought in innumerable inventive ways. Dürer, the son of a Nuremberg goldsmith, was flabbergasted. “All the days of my life I have seen nothing that rejoiced my heart so much as these things,” he wrote, “for I saw amongst them wonderful works of art.” But then, for him, everything was a work of art – either God-made or man-made. His well-known watercolours of a piece of turf and the iridescent wing of a blue roller bird are themselves marvels of creation that show marvels of creation.
For Dürer, even more than for most artists, the world was a place of wonder. If Leonardo da Vinci, his senior by 19 years, looked longest and deepest at natural phenomena – from the flow of water to the action of veins and sinews – Dürer (1471-1528) was in thrall to materiality, where sight became an extension of touch.
Dürer’s visual omnivorousness is on display everywhere in the National Gallery’s “Dürer’s Journeys: Travels of a Renaissance Artist”, an exhibition that traces the four main trips undertaken by the artist during the course of his life. He was a wide-eyed traveller along the Rhine, to Venice twice and to the Low Countries, and what he saw along the way inevitably emerges in his art.
Almost everything he encountered was a novelty and nothing was beneath his notice. A tumbled mountain hut that gave him respite during his crossing of the Alps is recorded in a small watercolour, each stone and fallen rafter carefully differentiated. The dizzying heights of mountain passes are there in his etching Nemesis, depicting the Greek goddess, which is manic with tiny details of pine tree, crags and villages far below on the valley floor. The outfits worn by Netherlandish women are carefully recorded, down to the smallest fold and nap of fur. The animals he saw in the royal menagerie in Brussels – lion, lynx, baboon – are shown dozy or indolent (he had depicted lions for years before he ever saw a real one, and gave them near-human faces). Even an enema syringe is recorded, peeking out from the folds of the seated angel’s robe in his celebrated Melencolia I etching: its meaning, like so much about the print, is unknown, but he did record that he had an Antwerp apothecary’s wife administer a purge while he was visiting the city.
Of course, his travels were about people too, and the exhibition is also a record of friendships made. In 1492 he headed to Colmar to meet and learn from the printmaker Martin Schongauer, but by the time he arrived Schongauer had just died. He had better luck on his two journeys to Venice, in 1494-95 and 1505-07, where he met numerous painters, growing close to Giovanni Bellini and corresponding with Leonardo and Raphael. “I was amazed by the subtle ingeniousness of people in foreign lands,” he wrote, and said of Bellini that “he is very old yet still the best at painting”. The Venetian returned the admiration in a jokey homage by painting the cropped rump of a cow in his The Assassination of St Peter Martyr, circa 1505-07 (from upstairs in the National Gallery), which he lifted from Dürer’s engraving of The Prodigal Son, circa 1496. Jan Gossaert would do something similar by taking one of the hunting dogs in Dürer’s St Eustace engraving (1500-01) and relocating it to the foreground of his Adoration of the Kings (again in the National’s collection) of 1510-15
Not that Dürer always felt at home on his travels. One reason for his second trip to Venice may have been to deal with the engraver Marcantonio Raimondi, who had established a lucrative line in counterfeiting Dürer’s prints, complete with the “AD” monogram. And when, in 1506, Dürer won a commission to paint an altarpiece for the republic’s German community, he filled it with colour as a riposte to local artists (“to shut their mouths”) who felt he could only, albeit brilliantly, work in black and white. Nevertheless, he won acceptance and wrote home: “O, how cold I will be away from the sun; here I am a gentleman, at home a parasite.”The best-documented of his journeys is the tour of the Low Countries he carried out in 1520-21 in an attempt to petition the new Holy Roman Emperor for a continuation of the stipend he had been paid by the previous emperor, Maximilian I. He travelled with his wife Agnes, their maid Susanna, and a sheaf of prints to gift or barter, and he kept a journal of the trip in which he also recorded their expenses (13 porpoise bristle brushes, two parrots in a cage, an ivory skull…). He was feted along the way and the exhibition contains a fabulous selection of the 140 drawings – 47 of them in charcoal – he made on the trip of people he met, including his Antwerp innkeeper. Many of the sitters’ names have been lost, and not all of them paid: “Item: Six people have given me nothing for doing their portraits in Brussels,” he noted. They are nevertheless vivid memorials, with their heads and shoulders set off against dark backgrounds and the handling varying in finesse, from fine to broad, within the same image.
Two portraits in particular demonstrate his preternatural facility. One is a silverpoint (made using a metal stylus on chemically treated paper – a technique that did not allow for corrections), possibly of the painter Jan Provoost. It is a drawing of the utmost delicacy, composed of hatchings and a seemingly infinite number of lines – flicked, curled, extended, barely there. The other, a painting lent by the Prado in Madrid, shows a stern, middle-aged man with a fur collar and large hat. It has a degree of meticulous detail – downy chin, eyebrow hairs, highlighted curls – that declares how aware Dürer was of the earlier Van Eyckian tradition of Low Countries art and his keenness to show that he too was a master of this miniaturist manner. Both sitters are treated as material as well as men, with their skin and hair offering him fresh textures to add to those of their apparel.
Among these faces, and the many portraits included from artists in his circle such as Quinten Massys, Bernaert van Orley and Lucas van Leyden, the physiognomy that is missing is Dürer’s own. He was one of the most prolific and daring of self-portraitists, depicting himself at least 13 times in different media – one of which, according to Giorgio Vasari, was “painted in watercolour on very fine linen, so that it showed equally on both sides” and was sent as a gift to Raphael. Not one of these is in the exhibition to show what this man, so proud of his golden hair and his abilities (“Why has God given me such magnificent talent? It is a curse as well as a great blessing”), looked like as he criss-crossed Europe. His face would have moored a narrative that sometimes loses focus.
When Dürer returned to Nuremberg in 1521 he brought back something else alongside the gewgaws he had purchased. Somewhere in the Low Countries he contracted an illness, probably malaria, that was to stay with him and that contributed to his death in 1528, at 56. For the inveterate traveller and chronicler of tangible things, it was an invisible but fatal souvenir.”
Dürer’s Journeys: Travels of a Renaissance Artist National Gallery, London WC2, until 27 February
