7 July 2016


My sociology professor, Stan Cohen, wrote a book Folk Devils and Moral Panics about the Mod on Rocker battles at Margate, Brighton and Bournemouth in the early 1960s and introduced the term "moral panic" into the language. Stan hung out with the Mods and Rockers for his PhD research.

Ringo Starr, asked if he was a Mod or a Rocker, said, "I'm a Mocker". I never had a parka or a Lambretta, but I was a Mod, a proper Mod, a Mod before Mod. I was into Hard Bop, Italian fashion and the International Style. Hard Bop was the style of modern jazz that succeeded Bebop, exemplied by Art Blakey, Cannonball Adderley and Thelonious Monk. I despised the Trad Jazz Revival, with those repulsive phonies from the home counties, Chris Barber and Acker Bilk - the first rivalry, before Mods and Rockers, was Modernists vs. Trads.

Around 1960, as my parents' finances improved, we left behind the holiday resorts of Margate and Bournemouth and went to Riccione and Viareggio. Riccione, "The Green Pearl of the Adriatic", had been made popular by Mussolini in the 1930s and was expanding rapidly post-war, with cool modernist hotels and a spacious promenade. Italy led the world in fashion and interior design. Sharp, neat Italian clothing was pushing aside the baggy demob suits and short-back-and-sides of British men. We north London boys wore narrow trousers, narrow ties, short jackets and hair cut the same length all over.

1960 was the high tide of modernism. Town planners and architects swept away everything old, cramped and impractical. Building was functional, streamlined and airy. Ornament was crime and Victorian a four-letter word.

My taste in music was influenced by my friend Russell, whose father was the jazz drummer Tony Crombie. We followed Art Blakey and Thelonious Monk, who came over to play at the Gaumont State Cinema in Kilburn. I was wearing trousers and ties I'd bought in Italy and carrying books about Le Corbusier and Mies van de Rohe. We liked the way black jazz musicians dressed, but the most stylish dresser of all was Nat King Cole.  The Mods of Brighton and Margate, with razor blades sewn into their parkas, had some style, but they were johnny-come-latelies.

Dizzy Gillespie

Modern Jazz Quartet

Thelonious Monk

Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers

Nat King Cole, the sharpest dresser of all

23 June 2016


When A.W.N.Pugin built The Grange, his house in Ramsgate, in the 1840s, he put large bolts on the doors and made sure the windows were secured at night because he feared revolution in England. Wasn’t that a bit far-fetched, the fantasy of a mad Catholic Tory?  After all, the French Revolution had ended thirty years before. Well, what was happening to us thirty years ago?

Plans for a Channel Tunnel were underway. There was the Chernobyl disaster.  The privatization of the buses and British Gas began, seting in train the programme of wholesale de-nationalization. GCSE examinations replaced GCE ‘O’ Levels and CSE. The M25 was opened. For adults these are current affairs. In the early 1840s, the French Revolution was similarly alive in the minds of Europeans.

Pugin was the propagandist for the Gothic Revival. It had started with follies and romantic castles in the late 18th century, but Pugin, who worked with his father making detailed and extensive studies of Gothic architecture in Europe, turned it into a religion. “Gothic is not a style, it is a principle”, he said, and his love of Gothic led him into the Roman Catholic Church. His most public monument is the Big Ben tower in the Houses of Parliament and his gem the decorated church of St Giles, Cheadle.

I went to see the Grange at the suggestion of my old friend Hugh Thompson, who was curious about how every nineteenth century suburban house seemed to have churchy bits of stained glass in them and often other Gothic features as well. We started from St Pancras International station, the red-brick Gothic colossus in Euston Road. It's next to the simpler Kings Cross station (pictured), whose great engine sheds are visible from the street as you would expect from a functional building.

The proto-modernist Kings Cross is actually older than St Pancras, illustrating the 19th century battle of styles between Neo-Gothic and Neo-Classical. The battle was political: Tories were for Gothic and Liberals were for classical. Gilbert Scott, who designed St Pancras, submitted a similar design for the Foreign Office. The Liberal administration wanted a Classical building and sacked Scott, so he adapted his Foreign Office for the railways.

By the time Pugin built The Grange, in his early thirties, he had already had a long career. Having worked for his father from his early teens, he set up in business on his own at the age of seventeen. His capacity for work was enormous, driven partly by his bipolar personality. His office hours were 6 am to 10 pm. Between the ages of 26 and 28 he designed two cathedrals, a couple of monasteries and half a dozen churches. Punch kindly mocked him as the architect who could design a cathedral in 45 minutes. He had developed intellectually at a great pace as well, and had moved from the imitation of medieval models to the idea that the modern age needed to absorb the principles of Gothic and interpret them to make appropriate buildings that were not mere copies. The Grange was simpler than I imagined it would be from my superficial understanding of Gothic architecture. Although the wallpapers are rich in colour and pattern, they are not fussy. The furniture and joinery are plain. The carpets are woven in only a few colours. The garden is virtually empty, precisely as Pugin designed it. Pugin, who exhibited at the Great Exhibition of 1851, worked with the organizers, Henry Cole, Richard Redgrave and Owen Jones, on the selection of the best items from the exhibition for what became the Victoria and Albert Museum. No wonder Pevsner enlisted him as a pioneer of modern design.

Plugin’s piety and eccentricity made the building of a church, St Augustine’s, next to The Grange a necessary part of his plan. (There is also a private family chapel in The Grange.) He wanted to make it like a simple Kentish seaside church. It is asymmetrical with a nave and single aisle of equal width. An interesting Puginesque feature is the rood screen, which was originally built in front of the chancel. Pugin had the fixed idea that Catholic worship in England required rood screens to separate the Mass from the congregation. The idea was not widely accepted, even by English Catholics, and Pugin had to fight some of his clients over it, but St Augustine’s was built with his own money and he could do what he liked in it.

Today the rood screen has been moved from the chancel to a side chapel. Pugin would be on his own now: seventy years ago the Pope declared that Mass must be democratized and rood screens taken down. At St Augustine’s the priest plans to move it back again. I asked our guide what that would mean for the celebration of Mass? The priest is a clever man, I was told: the rood screen will be replaced but the altar will be put on wheels so the congregation can participate. St Augustine’s can be Puginesque and democratic at the same time. The revolution has finally reached Ramsgate.
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9 June 2016


I said in my last post about the ceramics of Vietri sul Mare that this popular pottery is thoroughly studied by Italian academics, and the Italian attitude to it contrasts with the indifference in the UK. (A pottery collector once dismissed my ceramics as "like the stuff you see in Italy".) The Italian ceramic discourse also seems to be more highly developed. Here (allowing for my limited grasp of Italian) is what Giorgio Napolitano writes in Ceramica Vietrese 1924-1954:

"When we encounter the ceramics of Vietri from the German Period, we are confronted not so much with the products of popular taste as with a ceramic dimension in which the popular is symbiotic with the earth and in which a deep and intense process of communication occurs. At one point there occurred a vital exchange between Vietri and the representatives of an outside culture, in which the social and symbolic language of mutual understanding created a model for communal engagement. In the encounter with Vietri we discover a ceramic archetype, where, as in similar places, the traditions of earth, fire and form-giving material are inextricably linked with myth, ritual and the ancient tales that make up the collective heritage of the people. We talk of an archetype because gesture is mediated even by geography, by the earth's primitive writing and by language. The first forms of communication between man and his origins are symbolic codes for the instincts and urges of the people of the ancient city of 'Veteris'."

More down to earth is a glaze recipe that Napolitano records. In the late 1920s, some of the manufacturers in Vietri were making glaze in the same way as as potters had been making it for hundreds of years. At Industria Ceramica Avallone (ICA), where some of the finest artists of the German Period worked, this is how they made their glaze:

95 Kg of lead and 5 Kg of tin were calcined together in a wood-fired kiln. The resulting frit was mixed with 150 Kg of white sand from the beaches of Tropea in Calabria, a little sand of Rome, 20 Kg sodium carbonate and 5 Kg borax mixed with a little sand of Rome. All were placed into a terracotta receptacle and fired to a glass, which was then shattered and milled. This glaze seems to be high in silica and  low in tin, and may therefore have the basis for later additions.

Lucio Liguori, a local potter I met on the Amalfi coast, told me proudly that he mills his own glazes. Craft traditions coexist with volume production in Italian ceramics, and it's amazing to see in the promotional video of the big Solimene factory that they still use kick-wheels for some of their work.

The pictures are of a plate from ICA from the same period as described by Napolitano so probably covered in the sort of glaze he records, and it's the back that gives an idea of its qualities - a softness and irregularity, a silky surface and slight translucency through which the pink clay body can be seen. This pottery is very rare nowadays, fetches high prices at auctions and is often faked - but I doubt if any faker can make the glaze the way ICA made it in the 1920s.

24 May 2016


Wall panel by Giovannino Carrano
“See Naples and die.” We almost did. As we were driving on the narrow twisting road on the beautiful Amalfi coast, a coach came round the bend in the middle of the road and hit our car. Franco, our driver, quickly swerved to the right, hitting a rock, and the coach sliced off the left hand side of his vehicle. No-one was hurt, but I don’t like to think too much about the odd half metre here or there.

We'd been to see Amalfi, Positano, Ravello and Sorrento. Maiolica has been made in this area for almost as long as in Tuscany, in a tradition that goes back to the Renaissance. In Vietri sul Mare, the main pottery centre of the Amalfi coast, the streets are lined with pottery shops and some of the factories and studios are very old. There's a thriving tourist trade but there are such quantities of pottery in the shops that you wonder who buys it all. The Solimene factory, housed in an extraordinary modernist building (see video), has a vast showroom from which, incidentally, one can see the pottery being glazed and decorated in the adjacent workshop, but only a fraction is sold to visitors and they export much of their produce.

Unfortunately, a lot of modern Italian art ceramics is trash and its tradition has been debased by commercialism. Much of the brushwork is sloppy, done by painters with little skill, and most of the pots are covered with a harsh, shiny, very opaque white glaze that uses zircon as an opacifier instead of the traditional tin. Tin is more sympathetic both to the painted colours and the underlying clay body but it’s very expensive. I have a Solimene pot made thirty years ago on which the glaze has a satin finish, is probably made with tin as well as zircon and is slightly translucent, revealing the pink clay body. Modern Solimene work is not so subtle.


Plates from the 1950s (unsigned) set into the wall of the Solimene
factory. The climate means they don't have to be frost-proof.

But among the trash there is gold, and of particular interest is the so-called German period of the 1920s and 30s in which immigrants from northern Europe gave an artistic impetus to Vietri ceramics that carried through to the 1950s and produced work of high quality. The ceramics of Vietri, in particular those of the German period, are much studied in Italy, attracting the attention of academics and forming the subject of conferences and books, but they are almost ignored in Britain.

In Vietri a lot of the work from this period has been mounted on the walls and so you can still see it. Solimene put several plates on the wall of their factory, built in the 1950s - the combination of copper green and black in the old Solimene plates is characteristic - and there are ceramic plaques in other parts of the town, including on defunct factories, and I’ve illustrated some of it here, including coloured wall tiles by the excellent Giovannino Carrano (top picture). On the Vietri seafront there are some large vessels used as street furniture, modern work of higher quality than the pottery in most of the shops, made by Lucio Liguori, whom we met by chance.

At Raito, a bus ride from Vietri, there’s a museum of ceramics which has a historical survey of the pottery of the Amalfi coast, with a collection from the German period. My advice to you, if you want to go there, is to get to Salerno by train and then ask a taxi to take you to the museum, because, on foot in the village, you may not find it. It’s a tribute to the people of Raito that everyone we asked knew exactly where it was, but the village is on a steep hill and you get up and down it by winding paths. When Google maps told us we were there, we were a hundred feet above it and couldn’t see how to get to it.

Lucio Liguori at work in his studio in Raito
One of Lucio's anchovy plates
Just as we were getting lost on a broken path covered in brambles, a man on a motor scooter shouted down from the road and asked us what we were looking for. “Il museo della ceramica.” “È chiuso, aperto domani” – it’s closed, open tomorrow. We clambered up to where he was waiting. He said he was a potter. I said I was a potter too. He introduced himself, Lucio Liguori, and took us to his studio where he works with his wife and nephew. It’s big, modern and enviably well equipped. Lucio was born in Vietri in 1958 and studied at the art school in Salerno. He learned pottery in several of the Vietri workshops, starting his own studio in 1988. He works in the local tradition, taking inspiration from the marine environment, with a fascination for anchovies. We bought a couple of plates from him with anchovy designs (pictured), with an interesting semi-opaque glaze which allows him to apply some decoration in white over the top – the traditional “bianco sopra bianco” technique of old maiolica.

As I said, you'll be hard put to find much about this pottery from English writers, but I've ordered a couple of Italian books, Ceramica vietrese 1924-1954: Il periodo Tedesco - Gli anni cinquanta by Giorgio Napolitano (The Ceramics of Vietri 1924-1954: The German Period to the Fifties) and Valerio Tarraroli's Italian Art Ceramics 1900-1950, which has been translated into English, so I hope to post more later.

23 April 2016


A pear. Familiar image. Simple shape. Would make a nice design - slightly assymetrical, bit of texture, can do things with the stalk and leaf. Off we go!

I've spent a day making designs on my ceramics based on the pear. But can I make a pear shape? Just about not quite to drive me crazy.

What is it with the pear shape?

It has to be asymmetrical, but not wonky. The narrow part must be not too narrow, must have a blunt top, one side of the top is slightly higher than the other, must be in the right ratio to the wide part.  The bottom part, the wide part is not exactly round, it's slightly flattened. The pear shape is very subtle, and if you fluctuate slightly it doesn't look right at all, and may not look like a pear.

Am I being very literal and precise here? Not at all. I can make a literal drawing easily with a pencil, but my painting technique uses a flat wash of yellow and a quick brush outline in a darker colour, and it's that fluent line, capturing the pearness of the pear that is so difficult to do. The great Chinese painter Qi Baishi said that his calligraphic style of drawing with a soft brush had to be like and unlike the thing he painted, had to capture its spirit without being literal. I notice that Chinese pears, as painted by Qi are round and not pear shaped.
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7 April 2016


Business is an art, but art is a business. Most artists are unbusinesslike and there are few Damian Hirsts around. But some gallery owners are just as unbusinesslike, and I've just become the victim of one.

Galleries work on an interesting business model. Nearly all take artists' work on sale or return, which means, in effect, that they're borrowing from the artist instead of the bank. Even established artists have to lend to the galleries in this way, taking the risk off the gallery and bearing it themselves. The system suggest that the galleries are undercapitalised and lack confidence in the work they're selling. If the system works, it doesn't matter, but sometimes it goes horribly wrong.

One of the galleries I've been dealing with for two years has gone bust owing me money. The owner vaguely promises to pay some time in the distant future and claims to have no money.  That's funny: they have my money. When I leave my work on sale or return, it remains mine until it's sold. The gallery never owns it; they sell it for me, for which I pay them commission. The proceeds of sale also belong to me and not the gallery. So when a gallery owner says they have no money, what they mean is not that they've spent all their money, but that they've spent all mine.

In this case it's the result of muddle, not malice.  Everyone who dealt with this gallery said the owner didn't know what they had and what they'd sold. One artist said when it came to payment, their work was muddled with another artist's work. Another was paid twice.

So what should one do in such a situation? Artists are not only unbusinesslike, they're nice, and some of this gallery's creditors are willing to give the owner an infinite amount of time to pay. I can't afford to do that. I'm not so nice and I'm pursuing them for my money. Artists are willing to lend to galleries because the system depends on good personal relations. When trust breaks down, the artist is disinclined to have sympathy for the gallery owner.

PS. 19 April 2016
When I told the gallery I was going to court, they paid immediately.
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31 March 2016


This year we celebrate the centenary of the lettering designed for the London underground by Edward Johnston, a letter without serifs made for fast reading on station signage. It's one of the classic typefaces, still in use today in a modified form. It was developed further by Johnston's pupil Eric Gill into the famous Gill Sans type, known to everyone from the old orange-back Penguin books (pictured).

Johnston's influence is remarkable because he was a retiring man and notorious for his slowness. His courses at the Royal College of Art and the Central School of Arts and Crafts (now Central St Martins) took students through the letter forms so thoroughly that he didn't get to the end of the alphabet. His influence went beyond calligraphy to everyday handwiting and he influenced other arts as well. The calligraphic approach to design can be applied to needlework and pottery too. Among his students were Louise Powell and Dora Billington, both of whom made important contributions to the decoration of ceramics - and both of whom were embroiderers as well.

Decoration by Louise Powell for Wedgwood
Louise Powell and her husband Alfred Powell brought the Arts and Crafts approach to pottery into the Wedgwood company, where they were firm advocates of freehand decorating rather than stenciling and stamping, which they thought demoralized the decorators. They supervised decorating in Wedgwood's Stoke-on-Trent factory and had a studio in London as well, in Red Lion Square, where, with a couple of assistants, they decorated Wedgwood wares.

Vase by Alan Caiger Smith
Louise's work shows the influence of Johnston's calligraphy. Billington's early work does too, and she continued to advocate a calligraphic approach to decorating into the 1960s, recommending the decisive application of designs with a long, flexible brush. One of Billington's pupils was Alan Caiger Smith, whose work was decorated with a soft, chisel-shaped brush producing  a surface design redolent of Arabic calligraphy. Alan Caiger Smith taught Judith Partridge and I worked in Judith's studio in the 1970s. I like Johnston's railway type and I'm pleased to have a link to him through one of my teachers
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30 March 2016



25 March 2016


William Morris, the great 19th century volcano
William Morris was born on 24 March, 1834. Happy birthday to the great 19th century designer and social reformer. He had volcanic energy and was one of the most famous men of his age. He did so much that it was said that he died of being William Morris.

 The extraordinary thing about him - the William Morris thing - was that he combined a huge passion for design and making with a passion for poetry and for social revolution. Visual artists are often poor with words, writers sometimes have no visual sense, and many people wedded to politics are philistines. William Morris had it all.

It wasn't always easy. In the 1880s, when he became committed to the overthrow of capitalism, he left his design business to others while he demonstrated, propagandized, made speeches and organised the Socialist League.

His legacy is both artistic and political. His designs soon became popular and they have remained so. By the time of his death in 1896, every artistic household and institution had Morris wallpaper, Morris fabric and Morris furniture, and for pottery they went to his friend William de Morgan. Morris & Co. continued until the second world war and when they closed their designs were bought and stayed in production. Now, for his birthday, the excellent Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge has brought out a range of horrible William Morris merchandise (pictured), printing his fabric patterns on cups and plastic trays.

Although Morris's patterns were popular, his political ideas were not.  Few of his fans could reconcile the Daisy, Hyacinth, Chrysanthemum and Strawberry Thief designs with revolutionary socialism, and after his death the politics became separated from the style. Well they might, because there is no real connection. Of course, the essence of the Arts and Crafts Movement was the idea that the art of an epoch was an expression of its moral condition and that the factory system was bound to produce poorly-made and ugly things. But design reform progressed apace under capitalism and social reform went forward on another path.

Fitzwilliam Museum: exit through the gift shop
Morris's insistence on the hand-made was also wrong-headed. Thorstein Veblen, in The Theory of the Leisure Class, written shortly after Morris's death, reckoned that if the workman was to maintain even the standard of living he had in 1899, and if he was to make everything by hand, he would have to work 200 hours a week. (There are 168 hours in a week.) Advances in design and quality of manufacture were brought about by revolutionizing the Arts and Crafts philosophy and adapting it to mass production. As those great designers Charles and Ray Eames put it in 1950, "The objective is the simple thing of getting the best to the greatest number of people for the least."

I've written here about Morris's rules for potters, which are unnecessarily prescriptive - everything must be made on the wheel, no turning on the lathe, no "excessive neatness", no printing on pottery, etc, etc. Here's an artistic project for you: make some good ceramics by hand, breaking every William Morris rule. That's ironic. But pretending to celebrate William Morris, without any thought of Arts and Crafts principles, as the Fitzwilliam has done, is the worst sort of marketing, parting fools from their money, and is unworthy of the Museum.

21 March 2016


Studio potters had a good time after the Second World War. During the war, factory-made ceramics were plain and undecorated because the government considered decoration to be a waste of resources. In peacetime, customers looked for something new and different to put on their table, and for a generation good potters found it hard to keep up with demand. There were fewer potters then, perhaps a hundred in Britain; according to a 2004 Crafts Council survey there were about 6,000.

Bull by William Newland, exhibited at Charing Cross
At the time, government thought the crafts had a role to play in the economy and support for the crafts was the responsibility of the Board of Trade. By the mid-sixties it became evident that there was little dialogue between craft and industry, and in the seventies responsibility for crafts passed to the department of education. Pottery was now art, not manufacture.

Studio potters had been well represented in the 1951 Festival of Britain and a year later there was a curious exhibition, Ceramics in the Home, in Charing Cross underground station of all places, sponsored by The Observer newspaper. The exhibition featured on the front page in October 1952, with the two photos at the top of this post prominently displayed.

“In the booking-office vestibule of the 'Underground' station at Charing Cross, two figures peer through a porthole at Nicholas Vergette fashioning the lip of a pot. He is one of the artist-potters who demonstrate daily in The Observer exhibition 'Ceramics in the Home.' The decorative Minoan Bulls are made by William Newland.  The exhibitions will be open throughout October on weekdays from 11 a.m. to 7.30 p.m. Contemporary British pottery, ornamental as well as useful, is shown in a decorated setting. Demonstrations at the potter’s wheel may be seen from 3.40 to 4.45 p.m. and from 5.30 to 6.45 p.m.”

Margaret Hine and William Newland, 1952
I saw one of Newland’s Minoan bulls (pictured), similar if not identical to the one in the photo, in a private collection. Newland and his wife Margaret Hine had visited Andalucía in 1949, and I think I see a Spanish influence in this bull.

Newland recalls that the exhibitors at Charing Cross included Hans Coper, Lucie Rie, Nicolas Vergette, himself and Hine – a strong representation of potters associated with the Central School of Arts and Crafts, where ceramics was under the control of Dora Billington and her assistant Gilbert Harding Green. There was a strong influence of Picasso, whose ceramics had been seen for the first time in London a couple of years earlier.

The Pottery and Glass journal were sniffy about the exhibition, which they thought should have shown Stoke-on-Trent pottery instead. They dismissed studio pottery as the work of amateurs: “Let the hobby potter exhibit his work by all means, but do not delude the public into thinking that he represents modern British pottery.”

Studio potters had no more sympathy for Stoke-on-Trent than Stoke had for them. Billington was sending her students for a term of work experience in the North Staffordshire Potteries, but not much stuck, and a potter like David Queensberry, who really wanted to work with industry, had to leave the Central and study with Robert Baker at the industrially oriented Royal College of Art.