Summer Exhaustion

Hello my darlings and I must apologise for my absence.  I have been working my little socks off for my day job, including a stint at History Live! (The exclamation mark is part of the title of the event, I wasn't getting over-excited).  Anyway, I am now absolutely knackered, having spent the weekend in a marquee being slowly boiled to death in the humidity.  I thought, as I recline on my sofa at home, I ought to show you some nice pictures of summer, just to remind myself that it is a beautiful season, even if you are wearing a polyester corporate polo shirt...

Flaming June Frederic Leighton

No discussion of summer collapse can begin in anyway other than Flaming June.  I used to think the lady's name was June when I was little and that possibly the painter was cross with her.  Flamin' June!  She must be the archetypal woman who can no longer cope with summer, but she does it so elegantly and with only a hint of nipple flash.  I am going to pretend I look this elegant, sprawled on my sofa.  You can't see me and therefore can't point out that I am more of a disorganised heap of womanhood rather than a gorgeously curled goddess.  Moving on...

Midsummer Albert Moore

If you want images of summer heaps, then Albert Moore is definitely your man.  This is such a lovely image and always reminds me of Flaming June.  I wonder if Moore had seen Leighton's orange-y masterpiece when he produced this?  Anyway, I want to be the one in the middle of this picture, gently fanned by my loyal handmaidens who really aren't muttering 'lazy cow' under their breaths.

A Summer Night Albert Moore

I like to think the one in the middle is laying there thinking 'Why does it always end up like this?  Three bottles of Lambrini and a boob contest!'  Actually, I find the palette he used for this one rather chilly, compared to that of Midsummer.  Maybe someone turned the air-conditioning on?  I really like the pale gold of the furniture, with the white drapes and the black lacquer.  Albert Moore always seems to do jelly-mould boobs, it's most peculiar.  They are solidly set, that's for sure.  Incidentally, I have a boob jelly mould; it was a present and they also gave me some gold leaf to gild the nipples.  Nothing says decadent jelly like a gilded nipple.  Moving on...

Summer Pleasures (1890) Hugh Cameron

 I get to go to the seaside on holiday in a few weeks time, I can' wait.  I used to live by a beach and there is no more lovely feeling than cool water over your toes in the heat of a summer's day.  Look, even the dog knows it in the picture above.  Glorious.

July Sun (1913) Henry Scott Tuke

I have a soft spot for Tuke as he evens the score for the endless nudey ladies there are in art.  Well done that man!  He does a great line in collapsed young men in the sunshine too, so it's good to know it's not just the fairer sex who just can't cope.  The man in the picture above is looking at the sea while sitting on a rock.  Now, I don't mean to be picky but he can't be very comfy and surely he'd do better to go into the sea and cool down.  Maybe he's waiting for someone?  Hang on...

Noonday Heat (1903) Henry Scott Tuke

That's good.  If you are going to recline in sunshine, do it with a friend.  At least you have someone to talk to.  One of these gentlemen is still vaguely dressed.  What's that all about?  Really, that's not in the spirit of it at all.  How did he get into a Tuke painting with his clothes on?  The water looks rather splendid behind them, all twinkling and clear, but they are too absorbed in each other. I do hope they are wearing suntan lotion.

Summer Morning Interior (1917) Ernest Townsend

This might win as my favourite image of summer as it is just beautiful.  It is awfully Vermeer-y, and also reminded me of some of William Paxton's pictures of this era, although Townsend is at the far end of it.  The parasol is delightfully furled against the wall, waiting to go out.  It is an image of summer which is joyous and sensible.  The woman looks happy as the sunlight streams on her face.  She is literally all lit up.  However, she is dressed sensibly, with a parasol to hand and is not venturing out in the heat, merely observing the glory of it from a window.  Sensible lady.

When Apples were Golden and Songs were Sweet but Summer had Passed Away
(1906) John Melhuish Strudwick

Strudwick's catchily titled ode to the passing of Summer is my endnote today. However hot and floppy I feel, it will soon be autumn.  I will endeavour to enjoy the sunshine, probably from indoors, while it lasts, liberally sprayed with my rum and clove mix to keep off the mosquitoes.

 Remember to take care in the sunshine, m'dears, and I will catch up with you at the end of the week...

The Lady of Guildford...

For my Masters in Literature, my thesis was on Pictorial Tennyson, or a discussion on how illustration and fine art illuminate his poems.  Obviously, a fairly large amount was available on a certain Lady of Shalott, you know, the woman in the boat...

Elaine John Atkinson Grimshaw

Dying in a boat, floating off towards Camelot...hang on, who's that in the boat with her?  Oh yes, this isn't your actual Lady of Shalott but the Lady of Astolat, an unfortunate girl called Elaine, who died for the love of a man with shiny thighs...

Elaine and Lancelot Eleanor Fortescue Brickdale

Once upon a time, in a land where ladies wore pointy hats with scarves coming out the top and tables were round, there lived a lovely girl called Elaine.  Her dad, Bernard of Astolat (Bernard? I ask you...) decided to have a tournament and all the likely chaps of the country turned up, apart from Lancelot who was washing his hair.  Lancelot finally turned up late, like the diva he was, and looked fabulous.  Elaine begged him to wear her token for the tournament.  Lancelot said 'Sorry Babe, my best mate's wife is out there and I can't act like I fancy anyone else.'

Obviously, she fell in love with him, utterly.

Elaine and Lancelot Arthur Dixon

He agreed to fight in disguise, and when he was injured Elaine begged to nurse him back to health, while no doubt sighing in a smitten manner.  She did indeed tend him back to his former strength at which point he said 'Thanks for that, how much do I owe you?'

Elaine was somewhat disenchanted by this, and no doubt did a bit more sighing.

Lancelot left with some vague murmur of 'Sure, I'll call...' but after ten days of waiting, Elaine decided dying was a far more dignified exit than waiting for the telephone to be invented and then finding out he still won't call back.

Elaine Briton Riviere

Before she popped off, she left very specific instructions and in accordance she was rowed down to Camelot clutching a lily in one hand (in case anyone was wondering) and a letter of explanation in the other.  After he heard the contents of her letter, Lancelot felt a bit guilty and paid for her funeral.  He might have been cheating and shallow, but he had some manners after all.

The reason for my sudden interest in Elaine was occasioned by flicking through 'Country Life' (it arrived at my place of work and I always check out the deb and the picture of the week) and it was this rather gorgeous painting...

'The Dead Steer'd by the Dumb Went Upward With the Flood...'  (1904) Ernest Normand

Oh, sigh and swoon, what a lovely picture!  Rather than having just one lily in there with her, she looks like a mobile branch of Interflora, with a couple of decent candles and Bob the Boatman for company.  So I got to thinking about how Elaine is often the poor relation when it comes to 'Arthurian women who die in boats', even though she is the original.  Inspired by her appearance in Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur, Tennyson wrote her story in his Idylls of the King, and also used her as source material for the doomed maiden, The Lady of Shalott.  Often the iconography in illustrations of the two tales is similar, take for examples the above picture and this rather well known image of that Shalott woman...

The Lady of Shalott (1888) J W Waterhouse

The imagery of guttering, snuffing candles reflecting departed life, the luxurious fabrics, the shape of the boats.  Of course, poor Shalott didn't have Bob the Boatman, so had to do all the casting off and stuff herself, lucky old Elaine could snuff it in the comfort of knowing that there was staff available to do the rowing.

Elaine Edward Reginald Frampton

 Illustrations of Elaine follow one of three patterns.  A bit like her sister, the Lady of Shalott, her story seems to have three moments.  Whereas Shalott is either 'Half Sick of Shadows', 'Oh look, shiny thighs!' or 'Oops, I'm dead in a boat', then Elaine seems to be either snuggling up to Lancelot (and who wouldn't? I don't care if he's feckless and has the moral depth of a puddle), mooching around wondering if he'll ever love her (clue: he won't), or 'Oops, I'm dead in a boat'.  I love the above image from Frampton (who I think sounds like a Prog Rock star...) as it is so delicate and yet so powerful.  Elaine looks at Lancelot's shield, which she is keeping safe for him, and she is holding a beautiful cloth.  I love the warmth of the floor as compared to how ghost-like she seems.

Lancelot and Elaine (William Warder and May Princep) Julia Margaret Cameron

Julia Margaret Cameron did a marvellous set of Elaine photographs, including the above, which is a nice 'Elaine and Lancelot' moment.  It is what she excelled in; beautiful images of bygone, mythical years, full of romance and emotion, and slightly silly hats.

The Death of Elaine Julia Margaret Cameron

'Come, people of Camelot, gather in strange helmets and what might well be your pyjamas!'  This equally might be Lancelot saying the Lady of Shalott has a nice face, but I suspect the beardy type at the end is Bob the Boatman.

Elaine Emma Sandys

Possibly the best known and enigmatic of Elaine images is this one by Emma Sandys.  What point of the story is illustrated?  The angle is a little odd, is she lying down?  Is she dead in the boat?  It is an image of deep riches, the pearls glinting and the head of the skin behind her just peeking out.  What exactly is her left hand doing?  Is she thinking or is her ear itchy?  Strange and beautiful...

Elaine John Melhuish Strudwick

This offering by Strudwick is so damn Burne-Jones it's untrue, I had to check twice.  Look at the bending willow figure as she gazes on Lancelot's shield. It's another mooching shot, as poor, doomed Elaine looks at the shield (they didn't have telly) and sighs.  And sighs. And sighs.

Elaine (1899) William Loudan

Aside from illustrations from collections of Tennyson's work, or possibly illustrated Arthurian tales from the Victorian period, more painters than I expected addressed the subject of Elaine, and her pointless love of a handsome rat-weasel.  I love Loudan's work for its dark beauty and that rather splendid pot of Lilies that remind me of Rossetti's lilies in his Virgin Mary pictures.  Look at that poor lily, on the ground, ready to get stomped on.  I love the smell of symbolism in the morning....

The Lady Elaine the Fair Howard Pyle

I will leave you with this lovely pen and ink Elaine, her enigmatic expression and romantic surroundings.  Poor Elaine.  To add insult to injury, it is rumoured that Astolat, or Shalott, is actually Guildford in Surrey. Well, I guess the shopping isn't bad, but somehow it doesn't have the same ring to it... 'The curse has come upon me' said the Lady of Guildford... and it doesn't rhyme with Camelot, however clambering into a boat and dying seems a tad melodramatic to me.  If it was me, I'd saddle up a horse and ride off to Camelot and give that shiny thigh-ed wastrel a smack.

But then, I'm not from Guildford.  They are obviously more romantic and fragile up there...