Tuesday 27 November 2012

The chaperon

There are a couple of notable paintings from the 15th century that usually spur a slightly quizzical or bemused response when they're first encountered. One of these would be Jan Van Eyke's Man in Red, considered to be a self portrait, the other, contemporary with that example, is attributed to Robert Campin. The cause of this puzzlement, usually expressed as: is he wearing a turban or why has he got a towel on his head?, is a quite extraordinary garment, the chaperon. The chaperon is of interest for a number of reasons, firstly it's an early example of a garment where we can examine it's appearance, construction and evolution, in reasonable detail and with some degree of assurance. The evolution of the garment is also of interest and throws valuable insight into the historical period in which it occurred. Then there's the period itself, the 15th century is, of course, a pivotal period in European history, marked both by, turmoil and strife but also by advancement, discovery and enlightenment in diverse fields of human endeavour. It's a period that is often thought of as the terminator between the medieval and modern eras, which is probably fair but occasionally slanders the earlier era. For instance there's a broad assumption about the prevalence of superstition that is consigned to the medieval period that doesn't really belong. The catastrophic abhorrence and follies of superstition, the witch burning, moral panic and strife actual belong more to this period, the 15th century, than the earlier period.

One of the major social changes that occurred in the 15th century is the emergence or advancement of a certain social class. There's a tendency today to assign social divisions solely by income and while it can useful to consider income, it's important not to ignore class culture and role within a social structure. You see, before this period, there's only one kind of person who enjoys the full privileges afforded by their social context, and that's the man with the army. That's right for the most part, status is extracted through the point of a sword, sure there's a degree of privilege and status conferred upon peripheral characters, the courtesans, the hangers on but that's appointed, gained through sufferance and strictly administered only to those who's faithful obeisance is assured.

So who're these newly influential people that form this emergent class, well I suppose they should be called middle class, although today that moniker is associated with an income bracket, the wealth and affluence of the people concerned here could often outstrip that of their ennobled contemporaries. They're merchants mostly, occasionally artisans but trade is the big winner in the 15th century, aided by the lifting of the economic burden imposed by the crusades. People like Giovanni Arnolfini, the Medicis, sure people like this were always around but now's the first time we start to learn about them, they're important, significant enough to appear in the art of the period.

So what's the significance of a piece of headgear, well something funny happens when the people getting rich don't go round threatening to slap you irons, cut your throat, rape your children, steal your livelihood and generally leave you destitute and broken if you don't cough up your taxes. When wealth is acquired through endeavour, rather than coerced through threat, those rich people tend to be, less, well, you know, psychopathic. That being the case, they have all social and emotional needs of their ordinary peers. They like nice food, art, social graces, cloths, ever notice the sartorial impoverishment of the notorious dictators, Mao, Stalin, Hitler,  their insistence of control over artistic expression or their constant expansion of those activities they categorize as vices? Most ordinary folk don't really care about those kind of things their preoccupations are more prosaic. They'll go along with the imposed social strictures either through convenience or a sense of responsibility but for the most part they just want a better mobile phone or if you're in the 15th century a fancier hat.

That's how the transformation of the chaperon came about, it started out as a utilitarian garment a short hooded cape, usually woollen, the kind thing you've seen in filmed depictions of the medieval period. Chaperon is the French term for such a garment, in English I believe it's just called a hood, chaperon being adopted from the French for it's later incarnations because there's not much evidence for them within an English context and it would seem incongruous to refer them as hoods at that stage of their evolution. This gives rise to a slight problem, in that when does a hood become a chaperon,  it's led some to adopt chaperon for both garments. The first stylistic enhancement to the hood was the tippet, this being the pointed summit of the hood, which is usually turned in on modern examples but was left external during medieval times. This was extended to become the liripipe, you've seen those too, a long extension of the summit that dangles, sometimes to the feet of the wearer. Of course having a this dangling around your feet could pose problems for practical use so people started to wrap this extension around their heads or necks. This in turn led to, you've guessed it, longer liripipes, that were intended to be worn solely in this manner. There were more stylistic enhancements, staggered hems, rosettes but the really big change came when some bright spark decided to put his hood on upside down. That is, place the hole intended fro their face atop their head with the rest of the garment either dangling dangling or wrapped decorously around the head instead of around the shoulders, the medieval equivalent of putting your baseball cap on backwards. It's been speculated that this occurred through practicality, you know the sort of thing, "Ooh it's hot I must put my hood on backwards so I feel cooler". Of course, no one really knows but I suspect, it was just some dick head who wanted to look special,"Ooh look at me I'm wearing my hood on backward, aren't I a trend setter".

By now we can say the hood has safely transformed into the chaperon and this when all the artifice and stylistic enhancements start to come thick and fast. Fine fabrics, vibrant dyes, patterns, variations in form and size of the brim,  It's no longer a utility, it's a personal expression of style and affluence, This is something the thug overlords of the previous era couldn't share, not because they're beyond expressions of affluence and power it's just that when style is dictated, it's bereft of variation and creative flair, creative flair is what marks the chaperon out as an item of interest. Yeah they'll spend fortunes on exotica beyond the pockets those beneath them, fancy armour, jewels, silk from the orient but investing in something as prosaic as a woollen hood would be incomprehensible.

The chaperon didn't last, it was far too flamboyant for the grim times ahead, by the 16th century it was deader than a duck under a steamroller. The affluence and influence of the trading classes diminished somewhat too, there's the been the occasional recovery, probably you could cite the late 18th to early 19th century and late 19th century to early 20th century as such periods but on the whole it's a process that continues to this day. To make that point I'll ask a question, how often do feel you're being treated fairly by the interests that exercise near monopolies, like the utilities, insurance and bankers. What's your thoughts on the government, do approve of the concept of policing the world, do you feel you're engaging in a free, mutually beneficial association or do you feel coerced, robbed and threatened? Interesting question isn't it? I wonder if Patrick McGoohan ever wore a chaperon, I doubt it, far too dour, it's a shame really it would have suited him.

Tuesday 20 November 2012

Ignorance and want

First drawing I've done in a while, I've lost a bit confidence in my ability and shied away from it. I bit the bullet yesterday though and knocked out a sketch for a subject I've been meaning to tackle for a while. You never know I might get something finished for Christmas.

``Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,'' said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, ``but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw!''

``It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,'' was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. ``Look here.''

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

``Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!'' exclaimed the Ghost.

They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

``Spirit! are they yours?'' Scrooge could say no more.

``They are Man's,'' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. ``And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!'' cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. ``Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!''

``Have they no refuge or resource?'' cried Scrooge.

``Are there no prisons?'' said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. ``Are there no workhouses?''

Monday 19 November 2012

The Q -- the V (ammended draft 01)


About this: I know I mentioned that I don't approve of explanation, so forgive the inconsistency in attitude that this brief introduction represents. Writing this represented something of a personal revelation to me, which is good because it's garnered precious little appreciation from anyone else during its, I think, two prior airings. I don't really care to illuminate those revelations at the moment so I'll just mention that this story didn't end the way I'd intended. Yes it's a deliberate allegory, that's obvious I hope but from the reaction it's garnered I suspect my intention is more obtuse than is readily apparent. I have to admit that In my conceit I was rather pleased with this story and somewhat naively expected to instill instant recognition of the subject I was addressing. Alas no such recognition has been forthcoming, which was a disappointing but illuminating lesson to learn.


My CSA arrives today, well it's due today but I live in a Q status housing block, postage to Q addresses has least urgent priority so it's not certain it will arrive today. Still I've been listening impatiently for the postman since I had breakfast this morning. The scrambled eggs rest uneasily as the creeping tension torments my restless belly I feel like a cat is baiting a canary in there. I wonder about the others, the ones also waiting for the postman, the ones waiting to learn what road the rest of their lives will take. Q or V, for me it's a foregone conclusion all the males in my family are Qs yet I'm still here waiting, fist clenched, a sparrow clutching to twig in a gale. How must it be for those less certain, the marginals with an even chance of either a Q or V assignment? I know I'm a Q, it's in my blood, I walk, speak and think like a Q. Still I can't help wondering how it would be if my CSA had a V stamped all over it, I briefly visualize myself gliding down a vstat motorway express lane in my air conditioned vstat car on the way to my preferentially assigned vstat job. My idle fantasy is broken by a hand alighting gently on my shoulder, it's mother, “Here I've made you some tea” she says quietly, “Don't fret too much about it Mac, it's not the end of the world.” Her unguarded fatalism smarts like a knife in my side but I hide the torment with a forced smile.

Everyone gets their CSA, Culpability Status Assignment, on the September after their 19th Birthday, it's supposed to be assigned after you attend a compulsory assessment tribunal. They're called tribunals but it's more of an exam, you see our education system primarily serves two purposes, asses your Culpability Status and inform students of the role of Culpability Status in our society. Indoctrination, that what my brother called the last part, he got his CSA three years ago today. It's not a day that my family remembers with any fondness and its legacy casts an uncomfortable shadow over today.

It's a day I remember well, David was reading as usual, some underground rag, not one on the forbidden list just one rated substantially incorrect and get a you a months mitigation credit cancelled if the authorities caught you in possession. His unconcerned demeanour had an unsettling effect on the family mood. Father hid his concern behind his weekend Truth Journal but he was already a third through his daily nicotine ration, the clicking of his inhaler the only sound to break the silence save the rustling of his and my brothers reading matter. The audible snap of the letter box did not stir David as his focus remained fixed on his rag. “David, I think its arrived,” Mother prompted gently.

David glanced at her with a feigned indifference but even my brother's reluctance couldn't stand up to my Mother's silent plea. He retrieved the manilla envelope from the doormat and walked unconcerned back into the room with it in his hand. Standing as he opened the letter, he read out a single syllable, “Q!” And that was end to it or so it seemed for a while, it wasn't till the afternoon when father's nicotine ration had expired and his withdrawal started to bite that the shouting started. I'd popped out to get some milk and stretch my legs, as I returned the I herd them rowing. “... I can look in the mirror dad, I know the colour of my eyes, how straight my teeth are, how many V’s do you see without a perfect smile? The Tribunal's a fraud, it's just dangling a carrot before a donkey.”

I saw father holding David's mitigation log “There are people who've done it, people who've applied them selves and followed best practice . You didn't even try, this, this is a disgrace” my father shook the log in David's face with his clenched fist.

“Best practice! What kind of aspiration is that? Here's a thought for you, ambition, initiative, hard work, how many have been assigned vstat on the back of those attributes? And how is it a disgrace to take their lies and spit the truth back at them, You're the disgrace, you know the truth, yet you eat up their lies as if it was bread and butter to you, you make me sick.”

“David” mother cried.

I could see the regret on my brothers face almost before he finished speaking but it was too late, the wound betrayed by my father's face could not be concealed, he placed David's log on the table and left the room when he returned with his coat and cap he spoke to mother, “I'm going out, I'm not sure what time I'll be back. Don't bother getting food for me, I'll get a sandwich in the pub.” Then he walked out of the front door which he closed behind him with incongruous care.

David broke the silence after father's departure “Mum I didn't mean it, I know he's putting our welfare before his pride”

“That's the kind of man he is,” mother replied.

“I know, it's just...” David slumped into a dinning char , his head tucked toward his chest “... it's just that sometimes a son, doesn't want to see his father that way, deferential, submissive. Sometimes a son would be willing to go hungry for a day or two just to see his father with some pride, not burning his flame in shaded lantern.” He sighed, then lifted his head sharply. staring beyond the walls of our flat he asked,“Why does he have to always wear that cap anyway, can't he just let the sunlight on his face for once?”

David, left home within a month, his work took him out of town. His official post was construction labourer but my brother had worked hard at a vocational out of hours school, that father had paid for. His engineering qualification saw that he'd never be swinging a pick but the blanks in his mitigation credit ensured that he'd be certain to be at the basic qstat employment rating. We see him when his work brings him to town or the occasional weekend. On his last visit the two of us went out for the evening, I don't leave the house much so my circle of friends is small but we visited one of David's old haunts where we met up with a few of his friends. There's no official segregation here and Qs and Vs do mix socially it's just that more often than not you find yourself socializing with your own kind, this place was like that. David and his friends where eager to catch up on each other's news so the conversation began with personal trivia, work, sex etcetera but after a while a more political tone arose. David's views it seemed were held in some esteem by his friends and although I admit my brother was articulate it was something of a revelation to witness them being treated seriously rather than the perfunctory dismissal they received at home. Before long there was a deeply earnest discussion taking place that I started to find rather tedious and repetitive, one of the crowd a man introduced as Jason seemed to be a particularly vociferous contributor. I was observing without any real interest when I notice the expression suddenly change on David's face, “You're a V!” he shouted at Jason,

Jason was taken aback at the ugly look of contempt and disgust on my brother's,face “I thought you knew.” The other members of the group fell silent for a moment, after eyeing Jason carefully it seemed obvious now that he was a V, his uniformly distressed attire the unblemished complexion should have made it obvious. Some of the group were trying to placate David, one of the girls seemed particularly perturbed by the turn of events.

Someone said, “Jason is a friend...” I didn't see who, maybe it was the girl. David stood abruptly and walked over to me.

“We're leaving,” he announced, then made his way toward the door without pausing. I followed like an obedient spaniel of course but not before looking back at the at group. They were all standing now, Jason the centre attention, except the girl who's eyes fixed upon David as he hurried towards the door. David left the following morning, he was gone before I got up, that was nine months ago.

I've retreated to my room, the sedate crawl of the hands of the clock has driven me from the living room, as I peer through the window at the lengthening September shadows in the street. I hear the rattle of the letter box. For the few seconds the gravity of the moment has me pinned, immobile I recall David's reluctance three years ago. I get up and move towards the door and open it with a creak, a sound which must echo like a flock of startled starling through our flat. I see my manilla envelope where it has fallen on the mat. As I retrieve it I'm overcome with the certainty that it's not mine and it's been delivered in error but as I check the address I can see that the postman rarely makes mistakes on this day, even to least urgent priority addresses. My parents are seated as I walk into the living room with my unopened envelope, I open it swiftly and read the contents to them.

No one laughs, no one cries, mother puts the kettle on and father gets up to put on his coat and cap. I go back to my room to look at the September shadows.

Thursday 15 November 2012

It's written on the wind

Alright I know this the second post in row with a music video but I promise I'm not gonna make a habit of poncing off other folk's Youtube efforts. It's just that I found this video again recently after a while of trying to find it. It's quite interesting, I suppose, from a music video perspective because it's a rare example of such, replete with symbolism and cinematic artifice, from an era when the art was though consist solely of the guys from the band playing on a rooftop.  I suppose you could carp on about the tin foil and wallpaper but for me the way it employs these cheap props enhances the appeal and a 405 line TV screen is very forgiving in that regard.

The song, Love is all around by the Troggs is probably better known for the cover performed by Wet Wet Wet, their version is a bit too teary and emotional for my taste, with that strangulated hernia sound so representative of that era. The Troggs themselves recorded three distinct arrangements of the song that I know of, this one is probably my favourite with its carefully measured vocal harmony. The Troggs are also famous or perhaps infamous for The Troggs Tapes, a recording of er -- colouful banter during a recording session. During the bickering, which sounds to me to be inspired by nicotine withdrawal, someone is heard exclaming, rather prophetically, something along the lines of: "We need to sprinkle some fairy dust on it and we could have a number one".

Another facet of this video that appeals to me is that The Troggs were my local band and although I can't be certain, I'm pretty sure that's the train I used to travel on many years ago. I always kept a watchful eye out but I never did bump into that girl.


Wednesday 7 November 2012

Feeling stressed?

I'm not a really a fan of Ralph Bakshi or Duran Duran but I am a fan of Frank Frazetta. Bakshi's best work is a little known flick with a minor cult following called Wizards. Although Wizards is shamelessly plagiaristic, Vaughn Bode being the victim of Bakshi's aquisitive creative instinct in this instance, and a production that ran in to rather obvious funding issues, it does work rather well. Amongst the tell tales of the funding deficit are the frequent story board sequences and reprocessed live action footage segued, no sot seamlessly, into the edit.

Bakshi does deserve recognition for his perseverance though, he continued to produce animated features on a pittance and amongst these is an even lesser known flick called Fire and Ice. This time Backshi at least had the grace to hire Frank Frazetta, who's work inspired the film, for the production. This laudable shift in attitude doesn't really pay off though, the animation is rather blunt and stilted and only hints at Frazetta's sublime visual style.

There is however, a rather nice fan edit on Youtube, that I really like and it's probably got the best of the animation sequences from the film, The animators did seem to put extra effort depicting the alluring heroine of the plot, Princess Teegra, in all of her scantily attired, sumptuous, Frazettaesque - curvy glory, mmm why could that be I wonder?

Well here it is, so as the saying, ubiquitous in American eateries goes: enjoy!