Fanny Photography and Art

Fanny Photography and Art took these beautiful pictures of Alessandra Casiraghi that simultaneously remind me of Ophelia, the Pre-Raphaelites, and John Bauer.

The Lady of Shalott: 1500?

The Facebook page for the WAG Screen film of The Lady of Shalott has an irresistible proposal...if they can get their fan list of "likes" up above 1500, they will release the film for free internet viewing.

I keep meaning to order the DVD and other things get in the way, so I'll admit this is a selfish request, but please....

Go "Like" the page for the Lady of Shalott film on Facebook!

Fanny the Stunning Stunner

First a caveat on this entry: Kirsty Walker is an amazing lady.  And she's also a dear friend.  So know that this book review is, by its nature, biased by these facts.  However, the reason why Kirsty and I met in the first place was because of her passionate enthusiasm for the Pre-Raphaelites, and her dynamite wit and writing ability.

So...

Author and Pre-Raphaelite scholar Kirsty Walker recently released a second edition to her book, Stunner: The Fall and Rise of Fanny Cornforth.  Fanny, one of the great female influences and inspriations in artist Rossetti's life, has often been marginalized in biographies and studies of him.  Dismissed as a sassy harlot or a greedy groper, poor Fanny's story was never really properly researched until Kirsty came along and wondered what the truth was behind all the legends and stories. 

I've read both the first and second editions of this book, and while I greatly enjoyed the first edition, it's truly fascinating to see the new research and information presented in the second edition.  Also Kirsty includes a few extra visuals that add punch to the text, including the beautiful new cover.

But the real gem of this biography is Kirsty's unique authorial voice.  She has a wonderful blog in which she explores art analysis in general and the Pre-Raphaelites in particular, and she often adds her delightfully mischievous wit to her posts.  The charm behind that wit is evident in Stunner, as she takes the reader along on a journey to discover Fanny's background, her motivations, her ultimate fate.  Kirsty never sacrifices research integrity for her own personal bias toward her subject.  Even when she has to write about behavior in Fanny Cornforth that may be admittedly a poor reflection on her, she does so with honesty.  She explains possible reasons in Fanny's character and/or upbringing that might have led her to what she has done.  In the end, we see Fanny as a Stunner whose largest "fault" in the eyes of Rossetti's contemporaries, and by extension his later biographers, was that she was more real and down-to-earth than Rossetti's other enigmatic ivory tower muses. 

My favorite part of the book, and also the most heartwrenching, was Kirsty's description of Rossetti's passing.  No matter what you may think of Fanny...whether you side with the early biographers who portray her as a greedy gus, or with Kirsty who sees her as ultimately well-intentioned and a survivor, you have to admit that she was a huge part of Rossetti's life.  The way she was treated upon his passing is truly a tragedy.

I highly recommend this book, in case you can't tell, and thought it was the best thing a biographer's work can ever be: a fascinating and emotional journey through the exploration of a remarkable woman's life.

Herbert Gustave Schmalz - Galilee

Today at my favorite antique store I found something quite interesting.  I was immediately captivated by this large artwork in a lovely old frame.

At the bottom of the image, it appeared this was handwritten in pencil: Royal Academy 1910, "Galilee"

And the artist's signature, Herbert Schmalz. 

I searched the artist Herbert Gustave Schmalz online, and found out that he is considered a Pre-Raphaelite, and was friends with William Holman Hunt and studied under Frank Dicksee.  But I can't find anything about this artwork.  Is it an original?  Some sort of limited edition print with the signed bottom?

I compared his signature on the antique artwork to one I found online, and it's convincingly similar.

If anyone has any leads on how to find out more about this lovely artwork and what this print or piece is, I would welcome it!

Pre-Raphaelites are In-Fashion

 Thanks to Ni Milo on Facebook for alerting me to this fashion shoot appearing in The Telegraph.  Of course, as was the case with the Cult of Beauty exhibition, popular culture is starting to push the huge Pre-Raphaelite exhibition coming to the Tate this fall.  (AND to Washington D.C. in the spring...I WILL be visiting)

What I love about these images is that the hairstylist really got it right with the Pre-Raphaelite hair.  The kinky wavy curls are so very reminiscent of Jane Morris' own head of hair.

Neddy's Big Day

Well I've been rather quiet lately, but you didn't think I would let today pass by unremarked do you?


Happy Birthday, Neddy, aka Edward Burne-Jones, my favorite of the Pre-Raphaelites.  Born August 28th, 1833 in Birmingham.

How should we celebrate his Birthday today?  Well, there are a few possibilities...

-Write a chivalrously romantic love note to a woman you deem to be a Stunner....

Wear RED today, as it is a Tuesday and that's the Synesthetic color of the day according to Ned.

Read a good book.

Buy a shirt.

But above all, don't eat carrots.

Seriously...Happy Birthday to my favorite Pre-Raphaelite.

Passion of the Morris

So I've been reading a lot of back issues of Old House magazines lately (Old House Interiors, Old House Journal) and it's wonderful how often one stumbles across photos of Morris wallpapers, references to early Arts & Crafts, etc.  But this particular article both intrigued me and gave me pause.  I'm not sure how to take it.  First of all, there's the fact that the author came across a Morris-obsessed collector named "Topsy."  Either the author is making an in-joke only a handful of people would get, or this guy nicknamed himself after his love of Morris and the author had no idea.  Either way I kept scratching my head every time the author referenced the name, seemingly clueless that it was William Morris' own nickname.

Second, I was annoyed by the mocking tone I felt the article had toward all things Morris and early Aesthetic furniture. 

Finally,  I question whether the incident really happened or not.  Because if there really is Strawberry Thief patterned bath tissue out there, or a tea set inspired by Burne-Jones art, I think one of us in the circle of the Pre-Raphaelite obsessed would have stumbled upon these treasures.  (WANT!!)

I do have to admit though, I've never really been a fan of Sussex chairs either.

The Passion of the Morris

BY DAN COOPER

C h a p t e r X o f T h e B u t c h y C h r o n i c l e s

30 m a y | j u n e 2 0 1 1 COURTESY COLLECTIONS, V&A MUSEUM, ONLINE

IT ALL STARTED with a Sussex chair. I’ve never cared for them; they’re rickety, crude, and seem out of place in the lush interiors of the late 19th century. I know William Morris had them cranked out as some sort of quaint and rustic accent, a campy little accoutrement that proclaimed, “Oh, aren’t I a droll little chair?” But, frankly, I find them twee. I pass on them at auction, and have, on occasion, fantasized about using one as kindling, or hoisting it upon the funeral pyre of an enemy.

But the day came when a friend who is a museum curator in upstate New York needed a Sussex chair for an exhibit entitled “William Morris: Why Should We Bother?” She asked if I knew of one that might be borrowed for the duration of the show. I owed her a favor; during a rough patch, she had purchased a Herter Brothers table from me. The piece had certainly augmented the museum’s  collection, but I knew that it wasn’t an absolutely necessary acquisition; in cutting a check she’d thrown me a lifeline. Thus I was honor-bound to get her a Sussex chair, and my intuition told me just where I could find it, in the hands of an English Arts & Crafts collector named Topsy.

I had met him while exhibiting at an antiques show at the Castle. In my booth was a massive, ebonized Aesthetic Movement sideboard, one of those distinctive beasts that looked as if William Burges had had an off day and forgot to in-paint the background of the door panels.  Topsy was fascinated by the piece, especially since most of my wares are typically American and this one reeked of Britain. It would make an exquisite and dramatic focal point in any Pre-Raphaelite dining room.

Or so I told him.

(Topsy didn’t purchase the piece, but it continued to haunt him. This often happens with well-heeled but unimaginative collectors who develop tunnel vision; anything that doesn’t already appear in their mind’s eye is of little use. Later, when the sideboard sold to a Venerable and Awesome Museum in London, Topsy lauded its brilliance and told all who would listen that he merely hadn’t room for it, flawless hindsight being another trait of the Gutless Collector.)

The fact that I possessed the sideboard and knew full well what it was meant that I was Someone He Should Know, and so Topsy struck up an acquaintance. He had given me an open invitation to visit his home, allegedly “to see his stuff,” and although I was unsure of his intentions, the opportunity to case and possibly plunder an unseen collection intrigued me.  

When I rang up Topsy, he was delighted to hear from me. Ordinarily, I would have dragged Butchy along, but I felt that this call should be handled one-on one; I would enlighten His Voyseyness with the details afterward.

Topsy lived in Back Bay between Exeter and Dartmouth, on the southern side of Commonwealth Avenue, and my visits of late to this stretch of the Emerald Necklace had made me increasingly melancholic. Victorian Boston exhumes the bones of my youth, a time when each footstep was a revelation, and every turn filled with the promise of discovery. In late May, the city is achingly gorgeous; every blossom appears as if placed by Olmsted, every portico seems blessed by the hand of Richardson.

The sight of a Swan Boat in mid-paddle transports one into a Childe Hassam painting. When Boston dwells in its past, its charms have no rival outside of Europe; conversely, when it attempts to be modern-day Manhattan, it may as well be Gary, Indiana. It was here that I, as a newly matriculated undergrad, engaged in the Pursuit of Beauty and so forsook all other deities.

I walked up Topsy’s spalling sandstone steps, past a massive, leggy rhododendron. (Its petals mocked me with their magenta incandescence: “Are we not wondrous?  Do we not belong in the dell at Kew? We bloomed before your birth, and will bloom long after your ashes are surreptitiously scattered from the Washington Tower in Mount Auburn cemetery.”) My heart sighed as visions of past loves, human and architectural, drifted through my mind. This reverie was fleeting, for I was yanked back to the matter at hand, which would entail wresting the accursed tinker-toy of a chair from the hands of Topsy.

I have walked into many homes, from modest to magnificent, and at this point I am indifferent to wealth. I have seen tens of millions spent foolishly and found priceless objects in trailers. Rare are true surprises, but here, on Commonwealth Avenue, I realized that I had stumbled into obsession. Upon my return to Bilgewater, I recounted the details to Butchy: “First off, Topsy’s door has a plaque that reads ‘Stop Here, Or Gently Pass’…”

“Don’t Fear The Reaper,” Butchy snickered.

“Indeed. As I pressed the bell for Topsy’s flat, I could hear the howling of a wounded animal, which

ceased with the fading echoes of the door-chimes. But it was actually Topsy bellowing Icelandic verse, which he had been practicing for my benefit. He bid me in and immediately had me perch on a hard, high-backed settle, where I sat patiently listening to him run through his set-list. He wanted my honest criticism; I wanted to say that it sounded like a domestic dispute involving Bjork.”

“How bad could it have been? It was just a few poems.”

“Imagine being trapped at a June Bar-Mitzvah in Reykjavik during some sort of unending Sabbath, waiting, waiting, waiting for the sun to set …”

“A small penance for your dark soul, but how was his place? Any goodies? Did you try to pounce him?”

“A couple of nice case pieces, acres of crockery and an infestation of Sussex chairs; they were lurking everywhere, like cockroaches. He’s got each variation, hoping perhaps to fill an amphitheatre. The apartment itself could’ve been Morris’s crypt; for a moment, I thought it was the Sanderson showroom, but no, this was Topsy’s home. The wainscoting had been painted Peacock Blue and the walls were papered with ‘Lily’ and the drapes were ‘Compton’. On the floor was a ‘Pimpernel’ ingrain carpet; little pillows were covered in ‘Cherwell’ and ‘Chrysanthemum’, and tea-towels made up of ‘Willow Bough’. “He has arbitrarily piled layer upon layer of pattern, grabbing anything Morris without consideration of color or scale . . . and then he wanted to discuss all of them! He knew the date, the designer, and the number of colorways for each pattern—every fact, every anecdote, and yet there was no artistry in his display! It was a collection, like baseball cards or vintage lawnmowers.” 

Butchy peered over the top of his pince-nez and smirked. “Too much pattern? Too much color?! I can’t imagine you uttering those words, any more than I expect to hear you say, ‘oh that desk is worth far more, let me give you another two hundred dollars’.”

“Duly noted. I was terrified at this point that he was going to discuss the minutiae of Morris’s life, so I feigned having to go to the loo. Would you believe the high-tank toilet was stenciled to look like one of the panels of the Green Dining Room? And I have no idea where he got it, but there was actually ‘Strawberry Thief’ bath tissue.

“When I returned, Topsy had produced a ceramic tea service fashioned after a series of Burne–Jones nymphs. I hastily asked about borrowing the Sussex chair as we sipped the Lapsang. He was flattered and offered up several.”

“You poor dear,” Butchy mock-gasped; “—did you actually bring home a Sussex chair?”

“Yep. I wrapped it in a rug and got it to the museum. I will confess that the night before, I did drag it into the house for safekeeping. And I tried it in various spots. But its mere presence offended each of my furnishings, so I had to put it in the cellar.”