Showing posts with label artist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label artist. Show all posts

Rest in Peace

Holyrood Garden Party

Some years ago - all unexpectedly - we were invited to the Royal Garden Party at Holyrood.  Well, my artist husband, Alan Lees, was. I was his plus one. You're not allowed to take photographs, but later on, Alan painted the above image from memory. It sold very quickly. He thought it was definitely a minority interest but I suspect somebody who had been there on that day recognised themselves. 

We had no idea what to expect, but it was a wonderful experience, from the ultra polite police checking passports and invitations at the gates, to the fabulous food, including little cakes with crowns on them. And plenty of fizz. The dresses were a sight to behold. As were the Royal Company of Archers, (much in evidence today at Holyrood) some of them in outfits that looked, and probably were, more antique than their owners. The gardens were beautiful, the sun shone, and everyone seemed full of good humour. 

The Queen must have been well into her eighties, but she negotiated the stairs down to the garden with ease. We were informed by the numerous helpful attendants that Her Majesty would go to one side of the garden and Prince Philip to the other, so we could choose who we wanted to 'see'. It quickly became obvious that the vast majority of us wanted to see the Queen. Philip must have been well used to it by that time. We were there with friends, none of us rabid monarchists, but not rabid republicans either, and we glanced at each other, slightly bemused by the fact that we were enchanted by the whole thing.

The Queen was in a particularly beautiful shade of peacock blue. I always admired her for the fabulous colours of her outfits, and this one was even more vibrant in real life. She stood out like a wee jewel, a lesson for all older ladies who favour the appalling beige. (And no, Eddie Izzard, she didn't look like a man at all.) She was tiny, although the kilted man in the picture, one of the people who was presented to her, was even smaller. It was clear that certain people had been singled out to speak to her. Not us, somewhat to my relief, although we were close enough to see and hear. She spent a full five minutes chatting animatedly to a young woman and her mum, and when she moved on, all they could say to us was, 'She was so nice! And she knew all about us!' 

There were, of course, attendants to jog her memory about the multitude of people she spoke to that day. But all the same, it was quite a feat for a woman in her eighties. Or for anyone. Such is the power of the office, and such - now that I think about it - was the power of a woman who has been a fixture for most of us, for most of our lives, that we could do nothing but admire her. 

News of her death made me teary in a way I wouldn't have expected. But it also brought very vividly to my mind an old BBC TV 'Castaway' documentary about artist Julie Brook. She was spending some months living in an old bothy on the uninhabited island of Mingulay. She was, as far as I remember, working with the landscape, but also painting, magnificently, the vertiginous cliffs of the island. I envied her those months of solitude and dedication. 

She told a story of how one day, she saw the Royal Yacht approaching and, as she went for her usual walk, a solitary security officer asked her if she could perhaps avoid that particular beach for a few hours. The royals were having a picnic. Later, she was painting, when she heard somebody at the gate. It was the Queen, standing there with a bunch of wild flowers in her hand, politely asking if she could see some of her work. Her overwhelming impression, the artist remarked, was just how happy and relaxed Elizabeth looked, as they chatted about her art and her stay on the island. But what a bizarre experience it was too. Dreaming about the Queen is a recognised phenomenon and not one that is exclusively experienced by dyed-in-the-wool royalists. Afterwards, the artist found herself fleetingly wondering if it had been a dream. 

We shall not see the Queen's like again. Above all, she was a role model for so many women born into a world where many of us were perceived to be second class citizens. I have no problem in pausing for a while to think about her with respect. 






My Husband's Amazing Pandemic Woodcarving



Early on in the Covid 19 lockdown, we decided to seize the opportunity of clearing out our garden sheds and - more importantly - Alan's woodcarving workshop at the bottom of the garden. Because Alan suffers with severe and debilitating forms of arthritis, he had spent some years painting, and had hardly used the workshop at all, except as a place to store tools, and occasionally to cut up a piece of wood for framing his pictures. The result was that it had become extremely cluttered. We took our time, and I did most of the heavy lifting and all of the trundling up and down the garden. Good exercise for me. I don't think we had realised just how miserably neglected the place had become. 

If you'd like to see more of Alan's artwork and carving, you'll find his website here.

Buried under a large pile of miscellaneous stuff, we found a huge and beautiful block of lime wood. Many years ago, Alan had been asked by an American customer to carve him a depiction of the Last Supper, and Alan had drawn out the design and started to carve it, before the customer decided that he didn't want it after all. So he had shelved it and got on with other things. Back then, he was making sculptural rocking horses, and doing all kinds of huge outdoor carvings so he wasn't short of work. 

Cue forward all these years - it was early summer, and we gazed at the solid piece of wood - some 30 by 15 inches by 4 inches deep. 'Why don't you finish it?' I asked. So he did. 


Halfway through.

 It has taken him many months but yesterday, he completed it. It was very difficult, because the arthritis affects his hands too, so he could only work for a limited time each day. The other problem is that he can't stand for more than a few moments at a time, so he had to find a way of working that meant he could sit down to do it.   

Fortunately, our clear-out had also uncovered a useful folding workbench, with a tilting facility, that was exactly the right size   for the carving, and that could be set at the right angle. This meant   that he could sit in his comfortable lightweight folding wheelchair, and work away, getting a little fresh air as he did so.

The year and the carving moved on. It took a whole lot longer than he thought it would. This is a highly detailed high relief carving.

Autumn came and with it the usual, west of Scotland wet, chilly   weather. I suggested that he move indoors, so he commandeered  the conservatory, where he could work in warmth and light. And now, in early November, he has just sealed and finished it with some layers of good shellac. 

It is a thing of great beauty. The disciples look as though they are having quite a good time! People keep asking us what we are going to do with it next. Of course, we are hoping to sell it - we need the money - but the price will have to be right. No crafter is ever fully reimbursed for the hours spent on a piece of work, but I'd rather keep this than let it go without Alan being suitably rewarded, especially given his health challenges. And if I'm honest, perhaps because of the subject matter, I for one would rather it went to somewhere like a church, or a museum or a collection where it could be appreciated by lots of people for the minor miracle of craftsmanship that it so obviously is. A friend suggested that it would be good to find an Italian home for it, and I can see what she means. They love and appreciate woodcarving in Italy as perhaps it's never quite valued here.

Meanwhile, we're enjoying it. But all suggestions for its future home, as well as for a woodcarving aficionado with reasonably deep pockets gratefully received! 

If you'd like to see more pictures, you can have a look at it on the Love Antiques site. 






Karol Kossak, My Romantic Hero

Great Uncle Karol Kossak
Recently, I did a guest interview for Rosemary Gemmell's excellent Reading and Writing blog. Rosemary asked me about researching my new novel, The Amber Heart and wondered how much my Polish background had informed the writing of this book. It brought to mind all over again, my charming great uncle Karol Kossak - that's him above, trying to squeeze his immensely long legs into a small horse drawn vehicle!
Karol was married to my Polish grandfather's elder sister, Wanda Czerkawska. There were five children in the family: Zbigniew and Boguslaw, Wanda, Ludmilla and my grandfather Wladyslaw. All of them, except Great Aunt Wanda, fell victim to the war in one way and another. The two elder brothers died in some border skirmish. Ludmilla, pretty, flighty and flirtatious, married a Polish army officer but was imprisoned in Auschwitz and died there. Wladyslaw was imprisoned by Stalin, released, and died of typhus on a long, enforced march East. Wanda met and married Karol Kossak before the war - he and my grandfather were good friends. Karol wasa younger member of a family of distinguished Polish artists, of which Juliusz and Wojciech Kossak are perhaps the best known. They painted battle scenes, were fabulous equestrian artists and all in all were a fascinating, if slightly Bohemian family.

My dad, who was demobbed in the UK after the war and stayed as a refugee, finally managed to get in touch with some of his family through the Red Cross. This was years later, after he had met and married my mother, and quite a long time after I was born. His mother died not long after this, but he stayed in touch with the Kossak side of the family.
I went to Warsaw by train when I was in my twenties to visit Karol and Wanda, who were living in a small spa town called Ciechocinek, and their daughter Teresa, who was living in Warsaw and working as an animator.We had to cross East Germany to get there, and the guards came aboard with dogs and guns! Karol was like a throwback to another age. I had never met anyone quite like him. Later, I saw a production of the Merry Widow in Vienna, and - as I told Rosemary - Count Danilo reminded me irresistibly of him. Karol was utterly charming. He would take me out walking or for rides in the horse drawn droshkis that were used as taxis in the town where they lived. The drivers would all doff their hats to him. We would go to cafes for coffee and cognac and he would draw little sketches on paper napkins for me - I have them still. He would kiss my hand and generally behave exactly as a romantic hero should. I think I was in love with him, even though he was in his eighties.
My Polish was about as bad as his English so we spoke in French which I could manage - and which he had spoken in pre war Poland.  He told me stories about the grandfather I had never known - how he was a 'ladies' man' - how he laughed a lot, was fond of practical jokes, was generous, brave and an excellent horseman, one of the last of the Polish Lancers.
When I came home, I wrote poems about Karol, and then a couple of radio plays reflecting my Polish background, but I always knew that eventually I would write a historical novel, or perhaps more than one, set in Poland. The Amber Heart is that novel and Karol found his way into it as Julian – the heroine’s delightful brother-in-law.


But sometimes, a poem still says it all - and here's the poem I wrote for Karol, not long after I came back from Poland.




POTATO FIRES
I remember
talking with my uncle Karol,
walking arm in arm
on Polish evenings when
mist spread over flat fields
and women were burning
the last of the potato leaves.

We wrinkled our nostrils.
It was a kind of myrrh for us
preserving the moment yet
bitterly telling time.

There's no cure for it.
Though I hurtle through youth
for love of him
he’s gone too far before. 

If you find yourself reading this blog on 23rd or 24th April, you can get a FREE download of the novel, on Amazon Kindle, in honour of World Book Night. If you look at the Authors Electric Blog, you'll find an interesting and eclectic mix of experienced and award winning writers, all of whom have decided to go for Indie Publishing in one form or another.
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