Saturday, 19 September 2009

THE REAL STORY BEHIND THE PAINTING OF THE HAYWAIN, BY JOHN CONSTABLE


John Constable.  Landscape: Noon (The Hay-Wain).

February 1821



THE REAL STORY BEHIND THE PAINTING OF THE HAYWAIN, BY JOHN CONSTABLE 


February 1821



It was a brilliantly overcast day, the humid clouds banking down on the horizon and the rooks cumbersome in the cold Suffolk air. The wind was futile and restrained, the air heavy and somnolent.

Ebenezer Worzel and his cousin, Thou Sluggard (a name inspired by his mother totally misunderstanding a sermon on Sloth) were walking along a country lane when all of a sudden Ebenezer was run over and instantly killed by a passing haywain. 

The only other witness, apart from Thou Sluggard, was John Constable the famous Painter, who was chasing after the haywain at the time in a fruitless attempt to sketch it.

As he said afterwards “What a bloody useless day, from now on I’m only doing landscapes.”

Thou Sluggard ran to Ebenezer's succor. But he was too dead to help. So he made a quick search of the body for any valuables that the undertaker might nick.

“Excuse me” came a cultured voice from behind him. 

Thou Sluggard turned in one lithe movement, as opposed to his usual several flabby ones, to behold a small crabby little man with protuberant eyes, bloodshot nose and indeterminate teeth.

“He looks awfully dead. May I sketch you?”

For yes it was John Constable.

"No probs" quoth Thou Sluggard pocketing a very flat and now totally useless fob watch which had been Ebenezer's pride and joy.

Within no time at all Constable had drawn a passing fair likeness of Thou Sluggard.

“Would you like to star in my next painting?” queried Constable highly impressed by Thou Sluggard’s stationary abilities. 

“You could earn a pretty penny.” And with this aesthetically pleasing financial inducement Thou Sluggard stepped into his new career.


Many years later he confided to his brother 'A tooth for a tooth' the story behind Constable’s famous painting The Haywain.

“Oh yes that were a grand toime, that were, Mr Constable invoited me to come and stay at Willy Lott’s cottage and there I lived for the entire shoot.

(A word to the ignorant. The cottage in the left hand corner is called Willy Lott’s cottage.)

“Of course as soon as the painting got well known Willy made a fortune from the tourists but when I knew him he was as poor as a church mouse. So he was grateful for the little fee he got from Mr Constable for putting me up. That’s my bedroom window on the left of the house. 


The painting? Yes I know the whole story. First of all you see the Haywain in the pond? Well there wasn’t no pond there at all, he put that in afterwards, said the painting looked too dry. A stickler he was Mr C. And the clouds! Don’t talk to me about them clouds, took him months until he was happy with them. Mustn’t be too sunny, mustn’t be too overcast,  had to be just right. So he would get up in the morning and just wait for the right clouds meanwhile I’d be sitting there all day on the Haywain bored out of me skull.


By the way that’s me sitting in the Haywain though you can only see my back. He originally intended to have me facing the easel. It happened like this. I’d already spent every day for three months sitting in the cart facing him while we waited for the right weather, then one day he shouted:

“By Jove, those are the right clouds!” 

So naturally I turned to look at them and quick as a flash he had painted the clouds and me looking at them! So I never got my face in it, but I still have the shirt as proof. 


Another interesting fact, when Mr Constable shouted “By Jove those are the right clouds” his dog Sparky rushed right into frame and just stayed there wagging his tail, so Mr Constable had no choice but to put him in. Mr Constable said afterwards that Sparky must have thought he said: 

“Come on Sparky time for walkies.” 

But between you and me I think he did it on purpose, I never got on with that dog he was just too pushy for words - always ‘just happening’ to make himself the centre of attraction.

Well that’s show business I suppose -  there is Sparky in the foregound hamming it up and I hardly get a look in. Sickening.


Interestingly enough there was a whole crowd of gawpers from the village, which were also originally in the painting. Some were leaning out of the windows of the cottage to get a good look, others were lurking behind that tree in the middle and peeping out from that bush in the middle, a few had even climbed up that tree on the left to get a good look and young James Postlethwaite that was later decorated at Waterloo, the station not the war, he was standing in the toilets while they were being redecorated and got covered in paint, but that’s another story. Anyway young James was right in the centre next to the dog. He was waving at the easel and shouting: “Hello Mum!”

Mr Constable kept him in for a bit but later decided that although factually true he wasn’t artistically credible so reluctantly had to paint him out. In fact he painted everybody out. He even had a mind to paint me out but I complained. I said look Mr C, I said, I’ve been sat sitting like an idiot on that cart every day for three months it’s just not fair to paint me out and leave the dog in.” Luckily he relented but it was touch and go for a moment .


That horse was a bloody nuisance too. You never saw such a fidgety animal. You can see two horses in the painting right? Not so. Mr C painted his backside and then went on to do a bit of clouds and when he looked again blast me if the bloody animal hadn’t moved in front so he had to paint him there and pretend there were two. That’s why it all came out a bit blurry. Mr Constable pretended he didn’t mind he said he’d invented impressionism, but I think he was just trying to make the best out a bad job. 

I told him before we started I said “That nag is too highly strung, it’ll make problems,” but Mr Constable didn’t pay no heed. Stubborn old cuss he was. But happen he was right after all, who’s to tell?






Wednesday, 16 September 2009

Did you want serving? The dangers of SINTAX.

INT: SHOP - DAY

Burton Sinclair enters and starts sorting through a basket of ski hats.

An adenoidal female shop assistant with a vacant look approaches him.


                                      SHOP ASSISTANT

Did you want serving?


                                      BURTON SINCLAIR

Pardon?


                                      SHOP ASSISTANT

Did you want serving?


                                      BURTON SINCLAIR

Yes I thought that’s what you said. When?


                                      SHOP ASSISTANT

When what?


                                      BURTON SINCLAIR

When dId you think I wanted serving?

 

                                      SHOP ASSISTANT

(Quite baffled)

Um now. Did you want serving now?


                                      BURTON SINCLAIR

(Painstakingly as to an idiot)

Did I want serving now? That doesn't make any sense at all. I can’t wanted to be serving now. It’s an impossibility even for Quantum Physics.


The Manager bustles in.


                                        MANAGER

Was there a problem sir?


                                        BURTON SINCLAIR

When?


                                        MANAGER

Now sir. 


Jump cut to:


INT. COURTROOM - DAY

Burton Sinclair is on the stand giving evidence.


                                        BURTON SINCLAIR

...and that’s when I shot him your honour.


                                        JUDGE

Mm well that’s quite understandable. I once garrotted a member of the sales staff at Selfridges for a comparable offence. 

Why on earth was this frivolous case ever brought?


                                        PROSECUTING BARRISTER

I did want to talk about another offence, Your Honour.


                                        JUDGE

And when did you want to talk about this offence?


                                        PROSECUTING BARRISTER

Now m’lud.


The judge nods to the court bailliff who pulls a lever. 

A trap door opens underneath the Prosecuting Barrister who hurtles out of shot in a downward direction.


                                       JUDGE

Case dismissed. 

(To Burton)

Fancy a drink?


The Nude Ghost of Lady Jane MacTavish


Have you ever seen a ghost?

 

Yes I have and It was a highly enjoyable experience. She was nude, nubile and in her twenties with a real wanton look. One drawback, though, was her ghostly features, she never seemed to be quite in focus, which I suppose you'd expect really. The other minus was the large wooden stake which had been plunged into her right breast, but it was alright as luckily I got a very fine view of the left one, even though, there again, it did look pretty ghostly. Those were all the naughty bits I could see as the rest were hidden by judiciously placed swirls of ectoplasm. Her stomach seemed bigger than usual but that was probably  a phantom pregnancy. 


What was she doing?


Nothing much. Haunting, I suppose. She seemed quite bored.


Some people say that ghosts are merely recordings in time.


She didn't look like a recording. Unless maybe a DVD.


Where was this?


In a very old Inn in Edinburgh.


Not the Mactavish and Haggis?


Yes I think it was?


My God you must have seen Lady Jane the Wanton Witch of the West, the world's rarest ghost!


Oh really? Well I'll tell you this, judging by the one I could see, she had a great pair of tits.

In The Tempafrost


For some months the tempafrost had been imperceptibly replacing the permafrost. Spring was inching in over the huge silent plateau as winter yarded out. We sat hunched in the separate round corners of our igloo.


In one corner Borodin Hicks, the madman, sat hunched in fur coat and slippers, discussing German Poets with Habnort Springy, the other madman, who was sitting also furred up to the gills and hunched in another corner. I was sitting in fifteen anoraks hunched in yet another corner scratching notes of their conversation with an icicle on the igloo wall, which was nearly covered with row upon row of my tiny yet elegant handwriting. Mute witness to the ineffable amount of indescribably senseless literary conversations I had Boswelled over the past three months.

"I hate effing German poets"  monotoned Borodin, "Can't understand a word of the buggars."

"Might it help if you spoke German?"  Habnort queried, absently peeling a duck.

"I don't see what that's got to do with it." Retorted Borodin acidly "They should have written in Bloody English, I mean what's the point of learning German just to read some sodding poet? Anyway I hate poetry, not to mention the bleeding Krauts."

There was an intense literary pause.

"I hate effing Russian authors and all," said Borodin abruptly, "what's the point of learning Russian in order to read, at a conservative estimate, a kilo and a half of drivel?"

"Yes they're massive sods them Russki tomes," Habnort agreed. "I've seen them on display in bookshops, piles of the buggars, so bleeding heavy the tables were actually bending in the middle. Perfectly decent tables, unusable after a week. That's your Ivan, a terrible man for writing any rubbish that pops into his head."

"And who can read them anyway? Only bloody Russians."

"I mean what's wrong with English for God's sake?"

"Not to mention the Frogs." Grunted Borodin. But actually if he had grunted it who could possibly have understood it? No, he probably just said it. 

"Oh don't get me started on the effing Frogs." Frowned Habnort. But there again, how can you frown a phrase or sentence? Surely a frown is a facial grimace, I mused, you can't facially grimace words, can you? Well maybe you can if you're some sort of facially acrobatic interpretive twat. And anyway what's musing?


The point of my icicle was now blunt. I snapped another from the collection hanging from my nose and continued scratching my notes on the igloo wall even though I knew that it was merely a matter of time before those I had taken over the last three months would soon disappear in the spring melt. 

Outside a large male polar bear, whom I recognised as Bumface, capered nimbly by. In the last few months Bumface had only managed to lumber slowly past, obviously spring was in the air.

Habnort leant forward gratefully (how can you lean forward gratefully by the way? The world is full of these impossibilities, I think I'll lie down)  

"You know," he said sincerity dripping from every syllable, "these literary conversations are the only things that have kept my sanity together over the past three months."


In the distance over the icy tundra I could see a French film crew filming a rogue Emperor penguin that had got bored and was playing football with the egg it was supposed to be guarding. The chill air was full of muted "ooh la las" at each skillful shot, and even the occasional "Oh good one!" from an Arsenal supporter, named Vertical Pink, who just happened to be there. 

"Down with Chelsea, up the Emperors." He yelled as the egg narrowly ovoided flying off a glacier that was in the process of melting.


I put down the book. What superb writing, what insights, what an unbelievably deep intellect. Feeling humbled under the influence of his giant mind, I glanced at the author's photo on the back cover. A handsome devil-may-care face met my view. The depth of the striking eyes was unmistakable, they held you with an hypnotic glint. It was almost more than I could do to tear myself away from their mesmeric influence...


I put down the book in some confusion. Firstly literary arguments in the tundra and then, without any explanation whatsoever, a very impressionable bloke suddenly arrives out of the blue reading a book jacket. 

With shaking hands I opened the packet of crisps I had been keeping for just such an eventuality. The wafer thin crunch resounded round the walls of my cell and swiftly brought me the solace that I had so long sought outside my marriage to Fiona, my flawed ex-debutante wife. For the first time in months I found the peace that had eluded me for so many years.

"Letter for you." A missive shot through the bars of the door and onto the Welcome Mat ironically provided by the misanthropic warden.


"Dear Glarns, hope all is well. I hear you're in prison, well it couldn't happen to a nicer bloke. Ha ha. Joke! No seriously, obviously there has been a serious miscarriage of justice. Sorry I was out of the country at the time, still am in fact, otherwise I would confess. Yes it was me twaddle face, twas I, as they say in Women's Romances. I did it! I know no-one will believe me now. I'm in the clear. But it was I and no-one else who pulled the trigger and shot the foul-mouthed bitch."


Saturday, 31 January 2009

"CLOWNS!" Liron Gillerman, Gil Alon & Gaby Cohen Groendland, directed by Julian Chagrin


Sunday, 25 January 2009

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Stage, by Meirav Yudilovich, YNET, December 12, 2008

The delightful comedy of the absurd, "Clowns", written by Maor Gillerman and directed by the pantomime and actor Julian Chagrin, concludes the Short Theatre Festival.
The location: back stage. The time: twenty minutes before curtain call.
The characters: the world’s greatest theatre clown, and with him his apprentice/dresser and the supporting actor in the performance. Gil Alon, Liron Gillerman and Gabi Cohen Groendland perform clowning at its best, using every tool available to the clown apart from juggling and stilt walking.
They conduct a dialogue that begins as an interesting one and becomes gripping -- about an incident that occurred to the famous clown during his last series of performances. The play is amusing, it is captivating, it is intelligent, and above all it is beautiful theatre. Here we encounter a wonderfully facetious spirit, entertaining and original, that reinforces the notion that comedy is a very serious business.

"Clowns", by the way, is the play in which the greatest effort was invested in stage decoration and costumes (credit going to Michal Ya’akobi), and in lighting (by Martin Adin), whose presence is felt precisely because it does not draw attention to itself.