Michael Horovitz & the children of Albion


Liverpool Muse by Alan Ginsberg

Albion, Albion, your children dance again 
Jerusalem’s rock established in the basements of satanic mills 

In the Sink , stone basement of City 
Vibrations of Vox electronic shudder thru brick & flesh, 
Children beautifully collared and sleeved, with tapered 
silk dungarees, 

each pubescent body thin & handsome shaking his hips, 
each darling daughter alone on the concrete snapping 
her fingers — 

The longhair guitarist snarls into a silver microphone 
& builds the drum beat to a heavy charge 
and screams on the high note — a circle 
of flesh is formed 

he screams claps and shudders, a circle of 
flesh dances round, 
six boys and two girls, shuffling left 
shuffling right hey hey, 
shuffling left shuffling right the Yoruba 
dance step come back to Mersey’s Shores — 

I stop writing and move my hips — 

the Circle is 


— England, ca. May- June 1965 

Published in: Pete Morgan ed., C’Mon Everybody (Corgi Books, 1971), p. 39.

I have written here previously about William Blake and his vision of Albion, about the myth of Albion in British culture and about the power of the concept in the art and writings of the neo-romantics such as Paul Nash and Graham Sutherland.

I want to focus on a more recent exemplar of this fascination with the meaning and perpetuation of William Blake’s ideas.  Michael Horovitz is a performance poet known for social protest in his verse: in 1969 he edited and published the collection Children of Albion- poetry of the underground in Britain (Penguin).  This was at the height of the sixties counter culture and at a time of great hope for change.

In 1969 Horovitz predicted “the return of Albion’s golden age” which would be a movement following the “Blakean way.”  He saw the confirmation of this prediction all round him on swinging London of the late 60s:

“Albion’s children are strongly in evidence all over the country and- most colourfully and plentifully- all over London, at work and at play in their gardens of love, where only ‘Thou shalt not’ is taboo.- in an atmosphere of their awareness, radiating a sense of community and a more open, humane and practical way of life.”

NPG 2146; William Blake replica by John Linnell
replica by John Linnell, watercolour, 1861 (1821)

Those hopes were soon to be disappointed, but Horovitz continues to keep the dreams alive.  Interviewed in 2010 by Dazed magazine, he explained that “Albion is William Blake’s name for the soul of England.”  It represented, Horovitz went on, “England as internationalist; England as a joining of all nations, as the spiritual Jerusalem.”  His various anthologies published since 1969 (the grandchildren and great grandchildren of Albion) have all shared this Blakean impetus for internationalism.  This is perhaps well represented by his work with such artists as Damon Albarn, known for his own cross cultural musical experiments.

Horovitz regards Blake as “great grandfather William.” His thought is as urgent and relevant now as it ever was.  Albion remains an inspirational concept- politically as well as artistically– and it is a theme to which I will return in posts in the near future.


The totem pole on Forest Hill


hm-totem-poleOn my recent visit to the Horniman Museum, I was delighted to see a totem pole facing the main road outside the building.  For decades I have admired the art of many of the Native American peoples but, living in Britain, have largely had to rely upon pictures in books and online, as well as the odd museum exhibit.  House posts and the like in particular are rare (given their size) so it was good to be able to examine one up close.


This particular pole was carved by Nathan Jackson, a Tlingit from Alaska, in summer 1985. It’s twenty feet high and made of red cedar.  At the very top is an eagle, Nathan Jackson’s main clan crest; below that are a girl with a bag and a grizzly bear, illustrating a North West coast legend.  The bear is identifiable by his short snout, open mouth and small ears. Often they are shown with their tongues sticking out, but not in this case.

So-called ‘totem poles’ are amongst the most impressive examples of native American art, because of their size,  striking imagery and bold colours.  Luckily there are a few others in the UK that can also be studied in person.

Although these sculptures are conventionally known as ‘totem’ poles this is a misnomer.  A totem is, strictly, an animal spirit guide of an individual person and it will be associated with a number of special taboos for that person.  The preferred term for this Northwest Coast art now is crest poles.  Northwest Coast society was extremely hierarchical and concerned with status.  Each family fiercely protected its position and its property.  The symbols shown on the poles represented valuable property; the family displaying them had to have a legal right to do so and the erection of a pole partly advertised these rights. The symbols referred to episodes in the lineage or clan history or to the myths and stories of the tribe.  Culture heroes and ancestors are therefore represented in the carvings.

The poles were used for heraldic and for mortuary purposes.  They were raised to commemorate important mythical, historical or family events and to assert social links and status.  For example, the defeat or humiliation of a rival might be recorded in a monumental pole for all to see.  Five different purposes for poles have been identified:

  • memorial poles for deceased tribal leaders;
  • house poles that formed structural elements in timber houses and also bore family crests;
  • mortuary poles, that were both memorials for the dead and their tombs- the dead person would be placed in a hollow at the rear of the pole or in a box at the top;
  • freestanding heraldic poles that were erected separate from houses announcing their social messages of rights and status; and,
  • house portals– very large poles would be attached to the front of a house, incorporating an entrance hollowed through them.

Other poles that can be seen in Britain include:

  • two Haida poles dating from about 1850 at the British Museum in the central court. The Kayung totem pole is 12 metres (39 ft) high and was carved and originally located in the village of Kayung , Graham Island, in British Columbia, Canada. Kayung had been an important village for the Haida before European contact. After the population was decimated by successive smallpox epidemics in the late 1800s, Henry Wiah, the town chief, encouraged the remaining population to move to nearby Masset and the village was slowly abandoned.  Weathering on the pole means that there is no remaining paint on the surface, but the explanation of what the carvings represented is available.  The second pole was almost identical to the first one. The figure at the top represents yetl, and the design also incorporates Haida crests.  The story carved into the pole, which involves a man who tricks his wicked mother-in-law.


  • a pole by the Grand Union Canal in Berkhamsted.  This pole may seem unexpected  in Berkhamsted, so far from where it originated in British Columbia. It was commissioned by a director of the J Alsford Ltd, timber merchants and importers in 1968 and stands on the site of one of the company’s wood-yards, now the gardens of some flats. The red cedar wood pole was carved and designed by the Kwaguilth (Kwakiutl) artist Chief Henry Hunt.  This pole possible depicts how the Raven brought light to the world.  The figures shown on the pole are:Bottom: Sisiutl- a mythical two-headed sea serpent. He is a source of good fortune and a protector and as such is often depicted on house fronts;Hawkman Sun- can easily be identified by the rays protruding from his face. The figure is the essence of light;

    Top- Raven- who is many things, including the creator and also known as the trickster. He is a powerful figure who brought light to the world.



  • at the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford.  This Haida  totem pole is from Star House in Massett village on the Queen Charlotte Islands, Canada.  It is carved from red cedar and is  11.36m high.  The house was built around 1882 and belonged to chief Anetlas (c.1816 – 1893).  The pole was originally raised at a ‘potlatch’ marking Anetlas’ adoption of a young girl. A potlatch is a ceremony held by peoples of the Northwest Coast at which a person is given traditional family rights; it involves reciting family lineages and rights in front of witnesses from other families. The guests are given gifts and a feast, and their acceptance of these marks their agreement to uphold the rights transferred to the person in that potlatch.  The figures depicted on this pole include: a bear holding a man.;  three seated figures or watchmen- these figures are typical of Haida poles.  They sit with their knees up  at the top of the pole providing supernatural protection.  Their hats are composed of rings marking previous potlatches; bear with a frog in its mouth and a bear cub between its legs; bear holding a human with two bear cubs at its feet; and, raven with a human between its wings- raven is identifiable by its long beak and its wings at its side.


pr pole

As will be seen, three separate tribes’work are represented in Britain.  There are stylistic differences between them:

  • Haida– they are renowned for the number and scale of their poles.  Their work tends to emphasise the animal characters to the exclusion of people.  A wide range of creatures are used;
  • Tlingit– their poles are smaller, seldom over 30′ high.  They tend to be memorial or mortuary poles and are often very simple with a single bird or animals;
  • Kwakiutl– these are often the most colourful and animated of poles.


I will also mention that this trip was preceded by lunch at Persepolis cafe in Peckham.  Chef and food writer Sally Butcher runs this tiny shop and restaurant; if you overlook the cheery chaos of the heaped up shelves and the dire need for a refurbishment (I loved the ceiling held up with sellotape) you will enjoy excellent vegetarian Persian food.


Amadeus at the National Theatre


One of my Christmas presents from my wife was tickets to see the current production of the late Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus at the National Theatre.  After an impatient wait of two months, last night we finally attended.

I have been a fan of Shaffer’s work for many years.  During my A-levels our English teacher took us to see Equus at Leeds Playhouse.  Seeing the play live reinforced the powerful impression made upon me by the 1977 film.  At about the same time I saw the 1969 film version of The royal hunt of the sun, starring Christopher Plummer as Atahualpa.  I already had a fascination for the Incas and Shaffer’s stylised  representation of their rich and alien culture struck a chord with me.  Then, early in 1985, I saw the interminable film version of Amadeus.  I’m no great fan of classical opera, although I had seen an amateur production of the Magic Flute with my mum at the local college  in Barnsley when I was 15 or 16.  If one of the criticisms of Mozart made in the play was that his work featured rather “too many notes”, it was without doubt my complaint about the film, in which the scenes from the various operas went on at unnecessary length (so far as I was concerned).  It was overlong and rather dull, I thought.

Nonetheless, I was prepared to give the play a second chance and looked forward to the production at the National.  It is impressive in its staging.  There is a small orchestra on stage most of the time, providing a dramatic backing track to scenes as well as the excerpts from Mozart’s work, which are paired with Salieri’s envious commentary upon them.  The musicians and singers also double up as extras, keeping the stage lively and engaging throughout.  You have to compliment some of the musicians for being able to play whilst lying down, whilst moving and whilst dancing and posing.


The set is simple, but is used to great effect.  The centre of the stage of the Olivier Theatre rises and lowers into a ‘pit’ and clouds and suns come and go from above.  Lucian Msamati as Salieri and Adam Gillen as Mozart are both extremely good; the costumes are dazzling- I especially liked Mozart’s Dr Martens- and the whole production maintained a brisk pace without the risk of there being longeurs or “too many notes.”

All in all, then, a great production- as we might anticipate from the National Theatre.  A few years ago I saw a very good version of The royal hunt of the sun in the Olivier and in 2015 I saw the Civil War drama Light shining in Buckinghamshire.  This was better than both of those.

“Sous les pavés, la plage!”-revealing the real Britain


Sous les pavés, le plage!” ‘Under the paving stones, the beach!’ was one of the Situationist slogans of the Parisian students during les evenments of 1968.  It was a literal reference to the fact that, in lifting the street cobbles for use as missiles against the police, the bedding layer of sand beneath was exposed, but simultaneously it fitted well with the more surreal slogans that were being adopted by the protesters at the time: ‘Be realistic, demand the impossible!’; ‘It is forbidden to forbid.’

In this posting I want to adapt this slogan and instead to declare “Under the streets, the fields!” (Sous les rues, les champs!)  I want us to remind ourselves that, in contemporary Britain, an older, more natural world is not far away.  Under the motorway is the Roman road; beneath the tarmac runs the green lane.  Our deep history is not far below the surface: modern concrete and glass sit on foundations of Tudor brick, medieval stone, Roman tiles and the traces of the timber frames of British huts.  Britain is a long-inhabited land and we are surrounded by the traces of the former occupiers- not just the obvious castles and churches, but a farmhouse marooned by encroaching suburbs or an old inn on a high street.  The relics may be more subtle still- the marks of old ploughing in fields, the way that old hedge lines shape modern street plans.

Geoffrey Household captured this sense of age and long usage when he described the green lanes between Bridport and Axminster.  Depicting Marshwood Vale in his novel Rogue male he described “a ridge of a half moon of low rabbit cropped hills, the horns of which rested upon the sea, enclosing between them a small lush valley.”  The outer and northern slopes of this crescent look down on Marshwood Vale.  Within the crescent were lanes worn down by generations of pack horses that ran fifteen feet deep or more below the level of the fields.  “The trade-worn contours of red and green upon the flanks of the hills are very dear to me.”  He described “an ancient little high road” deep and dark, with thick hedges grown together over the top, hidden to all but the most observant.


The tendency of the English to seek solace from their land and from the traces of former residents is a very old one.  Bede, as a very early example, often referred to British forts, Roman earthworks, ruined tombs and so on; Peter Ackroyd notes that, like Aubrey and Stukeley a thousand years later, Bede “was already possessed by a vision of English antiquity among old stones and broken monuments…”

We all need the reassurance of a sense of constancy.  Poet and artist David Jones, writing In parenthesis (1939), evoked “the creaturely world inherited from our remote past.”  As T. S. Eliot realised, “whatever happens began in the past and presses on the future:” “the past is about to happen and the future was long since settled.”  Our past informs our present and our future: this is true in cultural as well as material terms.  For the neo-romantic artists of the 1940s, British history provided “a projected past which found its origins in the land of Britain itself.”  Linking together Blake, King Arthur and other visionary legends, they created “an organic myth of rocks, hills and Arcadia: a myth of origins to be drawn out by artists like Sutherland and Craxton …  Some other Eden was mapped upon the country … a national fantasy of Britain-as-Eden … turned into a blitzed ruin by the Second World War.” (David Mellor, A paradise lost, 1987)

We can respond broadly in two ways to our landscape.  One is a response to its mystical meaning, the other is the feeling of profound age and inheritance that I have described. The two are not separate, of course, as the sense of the physical past can conjure up in our imaginations a Britain as ahistorical as the legendary realms of King Arthur.

The searchers for the (imagined) past include painter John Piper, who responded to the English landscape by searching out old buildings and sites; for him these relics embodied the core of the ‘real’ England.  Peter Ackroyd expresses similar sentiments in his novel First light.  One character remarks “This landscape looks so deep.  It looks as if it’s been inhabited for thousands and thousands of years.”  The landscape in question is the Devon/ Dorset border, with which another character is ‘obsessed.’  “He believed that this place had its own sound- he had always heard a peculiarly soft quality in its bird song- and its own smells.  And when he saw the cattle and sheep peacefully grazing in the fields he could feel the pressure of its beneficence, its curves and folds cradling the life which seemed to have issued from it.  It possessed an almost human presence, as if the generations of those who had dwelt upon its surface had left some faint echo…”  In his history of Albion Ackroyd draws upon W. G. Hoskins’ Making of the English landscape when he states that “Much of [the English] landscape still rises and declines in ancient patterns, which hold their own stories of lives laboriously led.  The lines of ditches and hedgerows represent an ancient order; even densely built urban areas can reflect an older reality. Nineteenth century Nottingham, for example, was ‘largely determined by the medieval footpaths and furlongs of the open fields.'”  The echoes of the past reverberate around us, then; the very landscape is a palimpsest.  In the same history, Ackroyd remarks that “it has been argued that, if antiquity is deeply embedded in place and time, the extant physical memorials are not necessary.”  He does not, however, appear to be wholly convinced by this: later he contends that “the power and forces of past time … are not easily destroyed; they remain visible beneath the surface of the earth.”  He suggests rather that “the whole of Anglo-Saxondom [is not] a matter of race but one, quite simply, of place- of place and of spirit, the spirit being born of the environment.”

For English artists landscape can portray allegorical images that conjure up another dimension, an unseen reality beyond everyday appearances .  Mystical ideas of a hidden landscape and ‘psychogeography’ have become woven into our culture, so that the evocation of past habitations and past inhabitants can elicit deeper reverberations of old myths- old gods and old heroes- the ‘magical and spiritual realm of Britain” (Peter Woodcock, This enchanted isle, pp.1, 3 & 4)- as well as the mere imaginings of a material past that has passed away.  Paul Nash sought for ‘the things behind’ the landscape, the dweller in the inner-most, the concealed significance of Albion.


Wildlife writer Richard Jefferies is just one author who experienced the intersection of the mystical and the antiquarian.  Living just outside Swindon, he loved the ancient Ridgeway route, lovingly describing how a “broad green track runs for many a long, long mile across the downs, now following the ridges, now winding past at the foot of a grassy slope…” (Wildlife in a southern county, 1879).  For Jefferies, as many for many of us I suspect, contact with nature had something of communion about it.  “To me, everything is supernatural,” he said, even to the degree that walking over London Bridge he could be conscious of “the sun, the sky, the limitless space and was in the midst of eternity, in the midst of the supernatural.”  (The story of my heart, c.3)

Being in a landscape (urban or rural) can transport us: we can be carried through time and we can travel in the imagination.  In his history of Albion Peter Ackroyd asked “Can dwelling become a form of indwelling or imaginative life?”  This posting argues that it can- and that it has.  A sense of the past can give a sensation of security, of continuity and of solidarity.  We are part of a material and narrative texture, a fabric of history and inheritance that we can use to give meaning and form to our present and to shape our future.  To revert to Eliot: “Time present and time past/ Are both perhaps present in time future/ And time future contained in time past.”

Peter Ackroyd concludes his history of ‘Albion’ with an epilogue meditating upon the ‘territorial imperative,’ as he terms it.  He thinks it is the most powerful impulse in British culture, “by means of which a local area can influence or guide all those who inhabit it.” This ‘local area’ can include the entire nation.  “English writers and artists, English composers and folk-singers have been haunted by this sense of place, in which the echoic simplicities of past use or past tradition sanctify a certain spot of ground … in England the reverence for the past and the affinity for the natural landscape join together in a mutual embrace.  So, we owe much to the ground on which we dwell.  It is the landscape and the dreamscape.  It encourages a sense of longing and belonging.  It is Albion.”

‘Sussex modernism’- a review of Two Temple Place



Edward Burra, Landscape near Rye, 1943-45

Previously I visited a very good exhibition of Newlyn School painting at this impressive Thames-side gallery, so I was keen to see the latest show, Sussex modernism- retreat and rebellion, which runs until April 23rd  (see website for full details).

I have written elsewhere on this blog about such artists as Paul Nash, Eric Ravilious, John Piper and Graham Sutherland and in this small three rooms show samples of their work are conveniently collected together.


Eric Ravilious, Interior at Furlongs, 1939

It is a free exhibition and the venue itself is a very grand panelled mansion with beamed ceilings and stained glass windows.  In itself it is worth the visit but the opportunity to see so many works together and to discover artists  (David Jones, Eric Gill and Pavel Tchelitchew) and new links between them was unmissable.

Members of the Bloomsbury Group- Vanessa Bell, Virginia Woolfe and others- settled in Sussex seeking inspiration away from London.  They attracted others to them and an astonishing roll call of artists forged links with the Sussex coast.

Paul Nash based himself in Rye during the early 1920s when painting the sea at Dymchurch; his friend Edward Burra was also present, along with Nash’s alter lover Eileen Agar.  Burra did not appreciate Rye, which he described as a “ducky little TinkerBell towne … like an itsy bitsy morgue, quayte dead.”

Bronze Ballet 1940 by Edward Wadsworth 1889-1949

Edward Wadsworth, Bronze ballet, 1940

Wadsworth’s picture above reminds us that war encroached twice upon this apparent idyll.  Wadsworth recalled hearing the guns in France from the Downs during 1914-18 and the view of Le Havre painted above was made within earshot of the German assault upon Calias and Abbeville.   Burra too has war art displayed.

My favourite painting I cannot reproduce presently; it is from the Edward James Collection at West Dean College, outside Chichester, and is  ‘Hide and seek’ by Pavel Tchelitchew (1934).  It is a splendid gothic image of girls climbing a strange, contorted tree, whilst a ghostly white moth hovers near.  The message is mysterious and unsettling and for m (perversely perhaps) it was star of the show.  If you are near the strand between now and late April, I strongly recommend a visit, if only to enjoy this picture!



“Choose life”- Hacksaw Ridge, La La Land & Trainspotting reviewed


In the last three weeks I have visited our local cinema (Empire, Walthamstow) to see three very different films (it’s those half price Tuesdays that are so attractive!).  I wanted to reflect here on these three major films.

Hacksaw Ridge I saw alone one afternoon as I knew I wouldn’t be able to persuade my wife to go with me.  Mel Gibson has very efficiently constructed a story that effectively elicits a succession of emotional responses: to the PTSD still being suffered in 1944 by a World War One veteran; to the military’s physical and mental abuse of the conscientious objector volunteer; to his selfless courage; to the subsequent repentance for their actions by  fellow servicemen and officers.  The narrative in this respect follows a very conventional arc- the hero’s background and makeup, his challenges, his struggle to overcome unjust obstacles, his threatened love affair; the vindication of his principles- but it does all of this briskly and well.  A good half of the film is the battle for Okinawa and this was perhaps the most impressive and surprising part: Mel Gibson- wittingly or not- has made a powerful anti-war statement.  The sheer noise, violence and confusion is intensely realistic and overwhelming; the horror and fear are palpable.  The Japanese troops, by and large, are reduced to a banzai-yelling ‘asiatic horde’ which, in its depersonalisation, detracts somewhat,  but most war films will take one side and exclude sympathy for the other.  Comparison might be made with the recent Fury.  This was an entertaining story of tank combat, but by its nature it isolated the Sherman crew from everyone else- not just the German troops but most of their comrades too- and the violence had greater CGI spectacle without the sense of terror and destruction that Hacksaw Ridge so successfully invokes.  This film is a strong statement on the mental as well as physical damage that war may inflict.

I approached Trainspotting 2 with a good deal of trepidation.  I had admired the original Trainspotting, but its moments of humour were tempered by its unflinching representation of the degradation and destructiveness of heroin addiction.  It’s hard to forget the toilet (and duvet) full of shit or the dead baby crawling across the ceiling.  It was brilliant- but bleak.  Although the professional critics have rated the new film less highly than the first, I actually preferred it.  It was funnier, a lot funnier; it was visually and aurally exciting; it was more inventive and it was more hopeful.  Trainspotting 2 has a lot of really splendid moments and scenarios, but I particularly enjoyed the song in the Unionist pub: ‘No more Catholics left.’  I didn’t expect to leave the cinema smiling and singing (Lust for life, actually) but I was very agreeably surprised.  I have the video (yes, video) of Trainspotting and in truth I’ve watched it maybe two or three times in the last two decades.  I can imagine re-watching and continually enjoying the DVD of Trainspotting 2 for many years to come. Go and see it!


Then there was La La Land, as complete a contrast as it may be possible to find.  This is an excellent film- uplifting, entertaining, visually gorgeous.  Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone give great believability to the story by the simple fact that neither of them are professional singers or dancers- they are competent at both- and the story is better for that lack of polish; it is real people expressing their feelings through words and music.  This sense of a complex, painful reality is reinforced by the ending: it is not completely ‘happily ever after’ (unlike the hero at long last justified, recognised and respected in Hacksaw Ridge) and there is a glimpse of the ‘might have been’ which, courageously,  the film does not give us.  The conclusion is more nuanced, more authentic and, for me, it is another strength of the story.  Some of the songs are great; the opening dance routine is stunning- and I even started to tolerate the jazz!  Highly recommended.

I’d recommend all these films as good entertainment and good stories.  They all, I think, have a common narrative trajectory that is a key element in a satisfying story: there is in each an account of human spirit and creativity overcoming challenges.  Desmond Doss in Hacksaw Ridge is despised and condemned for his beliefs, but proves their worth in the face of blows, bombs and bullets; Spud in Trainspotting  renounces heroin and discovers his artistic potential and is on the verge of becoming a writer by the close of the film; in La La Land the two lovers pursue their dreams, surmount obstacles and achieve their goals.  This is why, in their different ways, these three films all have something to say to us.

“War in the sunshine”- a review of the Estorick Collection exhibition

Carline, Sydney William, 1888-1929; Among the Anti-Aircraft Bursts at 20,000 Feet above the Alps: A British Air Squadron Crossing the Anglo-Austrian Line along the River Piave, Italy

I have lived a short tube ride away form the Estorick Collection in Highbury for 22 years.  I am ashamed to say I had not visited before yesterday.  Part of the reason, I confess, is that ‘modern Italian art’ didn’t sound so thrilling to me.  Fra Angelico, Botticelli, Cima da Conegliano and the like all excite me- but these early twentieth century pictures all sounded about 500 years too late.  I was mistaken.

The current special exhibition, War in the sunshine, is subtitled The British in Italy 1917-1918. As it was a centenary exhibition of First World War painting from a very poorly known front, I was interested to go- not least because it was so convenient a venue for me.  It’s a small show, just two modestly sized rooms.  One is given over to the paintings of Sydney Carline, the other to photographs by Ernest Brooks and William Brunell.  These are images of Italy, but not created by Italians- a bit of a cheat by the Estorick, perhaps, but we’ll forgive them.  The photos are interesting as reportage; they are mainly taken behind the lines and feature Italian women working for the British expeditionary force, flirting with the Tommies and feeding them in their homes.


The real interest for me was Carline.  I was aware of him as a friend of Paul Nash, and realised I had seen some of his work before.  He had flown in the RFC defending London from Zeppelin and Gotha raids before being transferred as a war artist to the Italian front.  There are not very many paintings in the exhibition, but the ones they have are little jewels.  The show is called War in the sunshine and undoubtedly Carline captures the amazing light high above the Alps brilliantly.  It always looks like early morning or late evening, with deep shadows and contrasts.  Amazingly, being a pilot, he would take his initial sketches whilst airborne and then complete the pictures later.  He also depicted the conflict on the ground.  I had not known that the Austrians bombed Venice and other cities- the image below shows the population fleeing Padua during an air-raid.  The moonlight and searchlight beams are especially effective in the original.  After the armistice, Carline was transferred to the Middle East and there produced some equally striking aerial pictures of Mesopotamia and Kurdistan.

Although Carline was an English artist working only briefly in the north of Italy, there is an important link to Italian Futurism, which displayed a particular interest in flight and aerial warfare.  Following a manifesto, Perspectives of flight, issued in 1929, the ‘second wave’ of Futurist art was particularly fascinated by the new realities and new perspectives offered by the fast developing technology.  Amongst the aeropittura artists Gerardo Dottori, Tullio Crali, Fortunato Depero and Enrico Prampolini are most notable.  This exhibition is therefore especially apt, given that the First World War was the first truly mechanised war, on land as well as in the air.

Carline, Sydney William, 1888-1929; Italians Leaving Padua on Account of the Raids

Having paid for entry, I then took the chance to explore the rest of the collection.  There were another four galleries to explore.  I had expected to see Modigliani, and was pleased to see his famous portrait of Francois Brabander.  I had been aware of the Futurists, but I had never really examined their work.  A minor conversion may have taken place yesterday afternoon and I now want to know more about and see more of Dottori,  Crali and others…


I’ll conclude with an image by Carlo Carra.  Its title is Atmospheric swirls- a bursting shell. If you study the cartoonish text, you’ll see the words Zang Tumb Tumb.  This phrase is the title of a 1912 poem by Futurist movement leader, Filippo Marinetti.  For those of us of a certain age, you may also recognise it as the name of Paul Morley’s record label which released (most notoriously) ‘Relax’ by Frankie goes to Hollywood.  It was an added pleasure to make this link to my early twenties!

War in the sunshine runs until March 19th, to be followed in April by a show featuring Futurist Giacomo Balla.  If you find yourself in the vicinity of Highbury and Islington tube station, you should definitely make the effort and visit!