Thursday 12th December - Winter Beauty

Hello My Winter Darlings!  We are now half way through Blogvent and it's high time we had some muff!

Winter Beauty (1910) Emile Vernon

Good Lord, but this woman is muff-tastic.  Not only does she have a coat of dead animals, but she has actual little faces incorporated into her muff.  That is called not wasting a bit of the mink, or ferret, or whatever unfortunate animal looked cosy in range of her shotgun.  I wonder how many little critters went into that ensemble?  Lawks.

Woman with awesome muff, 1882

Now, this time of year makes me suffer from terrible muff-envy.  Look at the woman above.  I want to be wearing literally everything she has got on, even if it would make me look just like my Granny's sofa.  She looks amazing.  I want to look that cool.  The problem is, even if I got my muff out, it's hard to look natural with a muff in public these days.  In the olden days it was different, you could have an outrageous muff in public and no-one batted an eyelid.  These days muffs seem to be for mentalists.  For example...

Olden Days Muff = normal

Modern muff = little bit odd

Oh, there is a third category...

Stripper with muff  = specialist

I would love to bring muffs back into fashion.  A muff is such a useful thing.  You can put your car keys in it, your muff pistols (should you fear foot pads and highway men) and at least one tube of Smarties.  Also, I hadn't considered it until I saw the following picture, but it could disguise a personal problem...

Winter (1882) Francesc Masriera

Now, this young lady obviously has completely out of control facial hair but she has cunningly disguised it as a fashion item, therefore her blushes are spared.  Everyone thinks she's really coy and she'll be married before she knows it.

Well, look, if I'm going to be at the vanguard of fashion, bringing back muffs this winter, I'm definitely going to need one of these...

Discrete and practical, it's a muff warmer.  Not sure of the scale, but I'm guessing it's small enough to fit into even the bijou-est muff.  Lovely.

If I have a Christmas wish for you, my darlings, then may your muff be ever toasty...

See you tomorrow.

Wednesday 11th December - Christmas Carol

Almost halfway through Blogvent already!  Goodness, doesn't time fly when you're weeping over puppies abandoned in snow?  Anyway, onwards, ever onwards...

Christmas Carol (1904) Robert W. Wright

This day-glo wonder is a very jolly scene of domestic loveliness.  A chap, we shall assume father of the children, is playing a jolly Christmas carol to the assembled kiddiwinks.  There is nothing at all to depress you here.  Mind you, I was wondering where Mum was...Uh-oh....

Firstly, I wonder about the figure of Dad.  He looks quite pensive, melancholic.  The violin points downward and he doesn't look very happy.  I get surprisingly teary at quite a few carols as they are quite emotional.  'See Amid the Winter Snow' is quite moving, and I always end up crying during 'It Came Upon a Midnight Clear', but mainly because it was used in the movie version of Little Women and I haven't got over what happens to Beth yet.  Or that Jo doesn't marry Laurie.  Sob!  How could he marry Amy?!  How?! Moving on.

I was struck by how much light is in the picture.  Light streams in from both the door and window, and for a scene in a house, it is bright and colourful, which contrasts with the seemingly sombre mood of the people in the room.  The girl in green leaning over her sister is smiling, but the sister in front of her looks pensive.  The light that enters the room makes me think that the mother is present in spirit and that the little family will be alright.

I'm also struck by the fact that although the music is out, the father is not referring to it as he plays.  This either means that he knows it off by heart or he's blind.  I'm guessing the former, otherwise why would the music be there in the first place?  Unless he's hoping his children will join in with their instruments.  T'uh, kids.  Maybe he's playing a tune he has played year after year, now he doesn't need the music.  Maybe the wistful expression he wears is because he is remembering other Christmases, past Yules where people were present that aren't there now.  I get the same thing every year where I unpack the decorations my mother made.  One of them is made out of fabric she made me a dress in too.  Lawks, it is the season for rum melancholy if you open that particular door.

I'm off to find some jollier images for the rest of Blogvent or else we're all going to end up drinking the cooking sherry for breakfast on Christmas Eve.  Either that, or I am going to drink the cooking sherry in order to cheer up.

See you tomorrow...

Tuesday 10th December - Turned Out

As many of you will know, we adopted a dog last year from Battersea.  We are the proud owners of an epileptic mongrel called Blossom.  She is delightful...

Mr Walker and our ever-alert guard dog...

She is a lovely dog, very affectionate and only a tad over-excitable.  It's a nice feeling to be able to give a home to a hound who otherwise would be without a family to lean against and fall asleep.  That's why today's picture is this knuckle-biter...

Turned Out John N Rhodes

Oh deary me, I feel the weeping coming on.  Look at the poor dog, all alone at Christmas, locked out in the cold.  It doesn't say why he's been turned out, but I'm guessing it's because his family are too poor to function and so they have all been thrown out.  The Victorians had a thing about being homeless at Christmas, not only because of the harsh weather but also the moral, symbolic sense of people being without comfort at the most spiritually comforting time of the year.  Possibly there was also a feeling that home should be offered to the less fortunate, even if it is only a stable.  Well, you never know...

Busy Bodies and Busy Bees (1892) Lucy Ann Leavers

The Victorians loved an anthropomorphic picture.  Don't we all?  I have often used images where dogs or other animals stand in for humans.  I wonder if dogs especially represent our more base self, in the best possible way, rather like the hobbits in Middle Earth.  Dogs are us in our most essential human way: silly, nosy, vulnerable, jolly, loyal and loving. Look at the little scamps in Busy Bodies and Busy Bees, aren't they funny?  They represent people, more than likely children, looking where they shouldn't, endlessly curious, the better, more honest side of ourselves. In that sense then, our dog who is 'Turned Out' is a person, tossed out in the street at Christmas, a good person, possibly you or me.  There's a sobering thought.

There is a tradition for things to make us feel miserable at Christmas.  Just as we can't have a Saviour without the Slaughter of the Innocents, we can't have our turkey without being reminded how many people, or in this case dogs, are out on the street.  In some ways it's annoying not allowing us to appreciate what we have.    I've worked very hard for what I have, why should I feel sad about it?  But then again, I have so much, possibly I should be reminded that what I have is great riches before I go hankering after more.  It's a troublesome tightrope to walk, especially at this time of the year.  It's hard to know that what you have is enough when the great machine of commerce is drowning out such thoughts with their endless call to come and buy more.  We have had the dubious pleasure of having to explain to Lily how much she has in comparison to others.  It's a tricky concept to get when you are constantly bombarded with the offer to get more and more.

I love the rendering of the dog in Turned Out.  The sheen on the legs where the short hair lies flat is beautifully done and the hacked off expression on his poor face is very familiar.  Blossom often wears that expression in response to such questions as 'Why have you pinched my seat?', 'Who ripped up that cardboard box?' and 'What's that awful smell?!'  Mind you, looking to the dog's right, there seems to be something that resembles a kennel.  Maybe the story behind this picture is not as dire as we think.  I think the kennel contains Mrs Dog and a brood of about seven puppies and possibly his in-laws, Mr and Mrs Hound.  Possibly the look on this dog's face is reminiscent of many people with a house full of relatives at Christmas.  Yes, I think I would be sitting outside too...

See you tomorrow.

Monday 9th December - Christmas Time

Now Miss Lily-Rose's birthday is over, I can now concentrate on the matter in hand, that is to say Christmas.  I was eyeing up the holly in the park this morning...

Christmas Time (1858) J Aitkin

I rather think this may well be me, apart from the fact that I'm not a tiny urchin.  Otherwise, it's uncanny.  I think I would wear the same disgruntled look too.  He knows any moment, Scrooge will send him off to the butchers after having some sort of night-time revelation and he's been told he's not allowed to go home until he's fetched a goose for someone.  It's a hard life being an urchin.

Our lad seems to come from the proud tradition of poor sellers of flowers from baskets that populate an awful lot of Victorian art.  I suppose they count as 'the good poor', those people who are poor but will obviously work.  But, you know, they are still poor because that's what they are.  But at least they can be comforted by the fact that they are the good sort of poor.  That must cheer them up no end.

Kitty of Frying Pan Alley Oswald Birley

I think there is a feeling in images of flower sellers that they exist in a very fragile state of respectability.  Usually they are women who spend all day on the street earning money.  Now, it obviously wasn't a big jump in some people's minds between that and another profession.  Moving on.  To be reliant on nature for your money, your survival must have seemed uncertain.  The little boy who has gathered a basket of holly is not doing it for fun.  He looks quite hacked off and the weather looks bitter but he has to collect and sell holly.  You begin to wonder if he is the breadwinner.  Maybe he has no father and he alone has to support his twelve sisters and alcoholic mother at Christmas.  Only the resilience and resourcefulness of a seven year old in rolled up trousers stands between the family and starvation this Christmas.  This time of year brings back especially bad memories for the poor little mite as his father was pecked to death by an enraged goose last year.  True story.  Heart breaking stuff.

I'm not sure how many people the little chap is hoping to sell to as he seems to be in the middle of nowhere, without even a dead sheep for company.  Possibly business sense isn't his strong point.  The future of his family is looking less certain and I strongly suspect it might only be gin for Christmas dinner this year.  If they can wrestle it out of Mother's hands, that is.

I'll be seeing you tomorrow...

Sunday 8th December - The Weary Waste of Snow

I'm not sure if it is because we have reached the other side of Lily's birthday weekend, or whether it is because I had to do battle with Ikea this morning (not pretty), but I am filled with anti-climatic melancholy tonight.  I suspect also a giant sugar-low brought about by eating far too much birthday cake and now I'm paying for it.  It was worth it though.  Anyway, here is today's picture...

The Weary Waste of Snow Joseph Farquharson

Nothing says Happy Christmas like a dead sheep being pecked by a gull.  I'm so exhausted I don't have the energy to pretend the sheep is having 'a little lie down'.  That sheep is dead and so will all of us be soon, happy Christmas!  Now, I'm guessing that might not be the most winning sentiment for a Christmas card, so you have to start looking for a reason why Mr Farquharson painted it.

Strayed Sheep (1852) W Holman Hunt

It is obviously from the genre of despair, possibly making some comment about a lost sheep, in the religious sense. The 'waste of snow' may hint at our condition without God.  It looks a little chilly.  Famously, Holman Hunt pictured imperilled sheep, who have been allowed to stray by a useless shepherd.  These are about to drop off a cliff rather than freeze to death and be pecked, but the result is the same.  Without guidance and protection, we are lost.

Mr Walker kindly drew my attention to the genre of 'lovely, bleak Scotland' and Mr Farquharson did some cracking Scottish pictures, including a rather fetching selfie...

Self Portrait (1882) Joseph Farquharson

Mr Farquharson did a nice run of 'sheep in snow' pictures, with actual alive sheep, which is a bit more cheery, plus a lot of images of rivers, trees and landscape of Scotland.  I find it interesting that for the Victorians, even the Scottish Victorians, Scotland is more often than not shown as being beautiful but bleak, a country that beats its inhabitants.  The landscape looks punishing, and anyone who lives there looks like it could go either way.  There are images of floods, of hard winters, of clearance.  Very few images seem to be specifically of the Lowlands, rather painters concentrated on the more spectacular Highlands.  The Victorians were in the grips of three great writers who formed that idea of Scottishness that we think of now: Burns, Stevenson, and the aptly named Scott.  Together with Queen Victoria's adoration of the Scotland and everything Scottish (hello Mr Brown!), the fascination with our northern neighbours took root.

It strikes me that the Victorian period also sowed the seeds for a less useful view of Scotland. Until the 19th century, it would be easy to argue that Scotland was our intellectual superior.  It was involved politically and intellectually in Europe and the world stage.  Scotland's involvement in the eighteenth century Enlightenment was impressive, and its part in Tudor politics was forceful and active.  By the time that we reach the Victorians, we have a conflicting image of a proud past and a present where the people are seen like the favourite 'children' of the Queen.  It  becomes a place to go to escape modern life, to get back to nature among more primitive people.  The wonderful thing about Scotland becomes how flash it makes England look.  No wonder they want their independence.

Anyway, stay warm and try not to wander off before tomorrow.  The gulls are always waiting.  Or something.

See you tomorrow.

Saturday 7th December - Christmas Fortune Telling

So I'm now recovering from a My Little Pony party (I've just taken off my Princess Luna tshirt) and just returned from seeing a post-party viewing of the new Disney film.  I'm exhausted but am here to bring you today's Blogvent window...

Christmas Fortune Telling Konstantin Makovsky

I seem to remember we have had scenes of  rapt audiences on wintry nights in previous Blogvents.  There is something about the darkening afternoons and cosy evenings that inspires the spinning of tales from the smoke and embers of our crackling fires.  Here we have a group of Russian women not telling stories, but casting the futures of the assembled sisters.  I was frankly a bit puzzled by the chicken, but having done a moment's searching, I think the young ladies are practicing the 'hungry chicken'.  Now, what you are supposed to do is this, and please feel free to try this at home:  You will need a bowl of grain, a bowl of water, a mirror, and one chicken.  Unmarried lady holds on to chicken while a mirror, a bowl of grain and a bowl of water are laid out on the floor.  Chicken is unleashed and the bird's preference is noted.  If the chicken pecks the mirror, the woman's future husband will be vain.  If she pecks the grain, the husband will be rich.  Unfortunately if she pecks the water, he will be a drunk.

Now all that seems very scientifically sound, if you ask me.  If you want the best results, you should try this and other such predictions on old New Year's Eve, 13th January but any when during the Christmas period is good.  Some other ones you may want to try include placing the King of Diamonds under your pillow (you will dream of your future husband), and using candles to see what's coming...

Divination (2008) Simon Kozhin

Young, mainly unmarried, women gather in the 'banya' or bath-house and the fortune telling begins.  The women in this very nice modern canvas seem to be staring into the flames of the candle.  You are meant to be able to see what the next year will hold.  Most women hope to see the handsome, not drunken, face of their fairly affluent future spouse, but if you see a coffin, you are done for.  Most women report seeing their husband, oddly enough.

Woman with Burning Candle Alphonse Mucha

You can also examine the patterns of melted wax and what shapes it makes.  A bit like tea-leaves, the shapes can be taken very literally - for example a house shape means you will acquire a house - or symbolically - a tree with upward branches signifies joy.  Possibly the most terrifying method of all is the mirrors.  A girl places two mirrors facing her on a table in a dark room with only a candle for light.  She then looks into the mirrors, slightly angled towards each other and watches her endlessly repeated reflection.  At some point she will see another figure join her, looking over her shoulder.  He will be her future husband. Lets hope your future husband is quite tall.  I am somewhat taller than Mr Walker so I think I would have been waiting for a while...

Well, I'm off to bring Cagney, my chicken in to the house so Lily can find out who she will marry.  I'm not sure that just the three choices of husband are enough - surely there are gentlemen who fall outside the categories of rich, vain or drunk?  Mr Walker doesn't fall into any of those.  In my case, I should have had a fourth bowl, full of Hobnobs.  Then I would have known I was going to marry a museum curator.

See you tomorrow...

Friday 6th December - Woman with a Snowball

Evening chaps, here is today's Blogvent door.  This one is being hurriedly typed as I prepare our house for Lily-Rose's birthday party tomorrow.  She is 8 today!  Anyway, on with the Wintery madness...

Woman with a Snowball (1887) 'FW'

I'm guessing this is from something like the Pears Annual as it has that commercial, pleasant look to it.  Here were have a comely looking lass awaiting someone with a snowball in her hot little hand.  Actually, thinking about it, if her hand is hot the person it is intended for will be in luck as there will be nothing left when she throws it.  Possibly she is an example of 'cold hands, warm heart' and her frosty palm will keep the ball has hard as stone, ripe to be lobbed into the face of her intended victim.  On second thoughts, that doesn't sound too warm hearted...

Nothing worse than getting a snowball straight in the muff...

As you can imagine, images of snowball fights abound in Victorian illustration.  They are cute, seasonal and can be easily and lucratively converted into Christmas cards.  Children are often shown pelting hell out of each other in all out snowy warfare.  The most popular subject is obviously boys, grubby faced urchins and posh, public school boys, all reduced to annihilating each other with snowballs in streets or parks.  Less common are little girls engaging in such rough and tumble, but this little lass in pink is obviously game.  What her tormentors don't know is she has a load of gravel secreted in her muff and she's about to start spiking her frosty missiles.

 My guess is that the woman in the first image is going to snow-ball her beloved in his desirable face.  Nothing says 'I love you' like a face full of ice with possibly a rock tenderly hidden for extra impact.  In my experience nothing says 'woman of mystery' like an solid snow-wall, behind which is a stock pile of tightly packed snowballs.  Boys love that sort of thing.  Trust me.

Men love a woman who can hold her own in a snowball fight...

Well, I shall go on hoping for snow and when it comes, I shall be waiting on my front lawn.  With a stockpile of snowballs and my game face on.  You have been warned.

See you tomorrow....