New York Antiques Week, Part III

Our second stop at the Ceramics Fair was the booth of Philip Carrol of North Yorkshire, England, where Boy wanted to show me a mid-Victorian period Staffordshire figure of an elephant that he had admired several days before when previewing the show with his assistant, Clarissa Montgomery.

Our Staffordshire figure of an elephant, ca. 1860-1880
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

I was interested in seeing the elephant because, in addition to collecting early-nineteenth century pearlware figures, we also collect mid-nineteenth century Staffordshire figures.  We display our earlier pearlware figures in our drawing room at Darlington House, where much of the furniture is formal and dates from the first quarter of the nineteenth century.  We display our later Staffordshire figures in our cozier bedroom where the furniture is largely from the second quarter of the nineteenth century.  In other words, we place our figures in rooms where the furnishings are from similar eras.  Context.

A colorful Staffordshire elephant spill vase, ca. 1860
Image courtesy of worthpoint.com

In collecting Staffordshire figures* we concentrate on ones made in the middle of the nineteenth century, before their production quality had become degraded, as they did over time.  We prefer ones that are neither too colorful nor heavily painted, and where the subjects are either animals—such as dogs, sheep, or cows—or humans engaged in bucolic or sentimental pursuits.

So what is Staffordshire, exactly, you may ask, and why do we collect it?

An early-Staffordshire reference book
by Bernard Rackham, C. B.
Formerly Keeper of the Dep't. of Ceramics
Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Staffordshire is the name given to glazed earthenware pottery made in the English county of the same name that first appeared in around 1720, and which has remained in continuous production to this day, except for a brief interruption during WWII.  For purposes of this essay, however, I am using the term "Staffordshire" to describe pottery figures made during the lengthy reign of Queen Victoria, from 1837 to 1901, which is when they enjoyed their peak popularity.

A very early and rare Whieldon ware underglazed elephant, ca. 1755
Collection of the British Museum, London

Staffordshire figures were produced inexpensively and in vast quantities in the second half of the nineteenth century both for domestic consumption and for export, and were sold at reasonable prices to middle-class buyers; they were not figures for the most elite customers of the day.  Although less popular with collectors today than thirty years ago, Victorian-era Staffordshire figures remain sought after and are generally affordable, with prices for most figures less than $1,000.

An early and rare Wood family elephant, ca. 1780
Ex John Howard (from whom we bought Minerva)

The variety of subjects for Staffordshire figures virtually knows no bounds.  The most popular forms are pairs of animals, especially dogs; figures also depict solitary animals, both wild and domesticated; human figures—often depicting famous personalities, politicians, and members of the royal families of England and Europe; groups of figures engaged in pastoral pursuits; spill vases, watch stands, pastille burner cottages, and more.

The press molding method of casting figures (19th century)
Image courtesy of English Earthenware Figures, 1740-1840
by Pat Halfpenny

The slip casting method of molding figures (20th century)
Image courtesy of same

Staffordshire figures were produced using molds and decorated with both underglazes and painted overglazes, along with gilding.  Early figures are usually more colorful than later ones and are often of a better quality, with crisper molding and sharper detailing.  Later figures are cruder and less decorated than earlier ones, since over time the potteries' production became more streamlined, and labor-intensive steps were eliminated to cut costs.  Not surprisingly, later figures are also less desirable to collectors.  Production quality declined throughout the twentieth century, and the figures produced today are by and large mostly cheap gift shoppe junk.  They are to be avoided.

Pages from a catalogue of Old Staffordshire Pottery

in production by William Kent of Burslem as of 1955

Images courtesy of same

The elephant that Boy showed me at the Ceramics Fair is pictured at the top of this post.  It is of a substantial size, measuring ten inches tall and eleven and a quarter inches long, and is therefore larger than is typical for such pieces.  It is decorated with painted overglaze enamel to the animal's body and gilt banding around the base.  We both found it appealing not just for its size and subject matter but also because of its muted, limited color palette of gray and white.

Philip Carrol's advertisement in
the Ceramics Fair dealer's directory

Mr. Carrol said that he believed the elephant was made around 1860, but my research since then leads me to believe it could have been made anywhere from then until 1880.  Regardless, I loved it on sight and had to own it when I found out its price, which was very reasonable as these things go.  The elephant looks marvelous standing on the mantle in our bedroom, where he takes center stage, surrounded by a dozen or so other mid-nineteenth-century Staffordshire figures.  I'm thrilled to have him.

A later and more cursorily decorated version of our
Staffordshire elephant (note discolored repaired trunk)
Image courtesy of worthpoint.com

I like to think that our elephant might just possibly be the mighty and beloved Jumbo, the most heralded elephant in modern history.  For those of my readers who may not be aware of him, Jumbo was a large African bush elephant acquired by the London Zoological Gardens in 1865.  He became wildly popular among the English people and foreign visitors, many of whom had never seen an elephant before.  Jumbo's popularity triggered an avalanche of commemorative products, including trading cards, prints, hats, and other paraphernalia known at the time as "Jumbomania."

A Staffordshire elephant, nearly identical to the one we bought
Sold at auction in Texas in May 2010
Image courtesy of liveauctions.com

In 1882, over the outraged protests of many in England, including Queen Victoria and John Ruskin, Jumbo was sold to P. T. Barnum and taken to America, where he lived for only several more years before being tragically crushed to death by a locomotive in a heartbreaking accident that prompted an outburst of national mourning, both here in North America and in England.  Barnum had the unfortunate Jumbo stuffed and then toured with him for several more years before donating him to Tufts University in 1889.  Jumbo became the university's mascot and stood in Barnum Hall until 1975, when the building—along with Jumbo—burned to the ground!  Poor, dear Jumbo.

A carte photograph of Jumbo, ca. 1880
Image courtesy of worthpoint.com

If our figure is of Jumbo, it is from his younger and happier days, when he was the toast of England and a worthy subject for the Staffordshire potteries.  Regardless of whether he is Jumbo or not, I'm glad that Boy pointed him out to me at the Fair and that we now have him in our collection at Darlington House, where he is safe and sound.

* Note: Dear Reader, just as one never refers to curtains as "drapes," Reggie insists that one must never refer to figures as "figurines," at least within his earshot.  It is simply not done.  Of course one may break such a rule when using the term ironically when referring to cheap dime-store figures, which are—quite rightly—often called "figurines."  But then you knew that, didn't you?

Next: A trio of Chinese export porcelain plates with an august provenance . . .

New York Antiques Week, Part II

Our first stop at the New York Ceramics Fair was the booth of John Howard, a specialist dealer in Staffordshire, creamware, lustreware, and pearlware ceramics based in Oxfordshire, England.  We've bought from Mr. Howard at previous shows, and we always make a point of stopping by his booth at the Ceramics Fair because he usually has one or two pieces of pearlware that we are interested in.

Our pearlware bust of the goddess Minerva, ca. 1810-1820
  Photograph by Boy Fenwick

So, what is pearlware, you might ask, and why would I consider collecting it, as I do?

Pearlware is a type of English creamware, made whiter by the inclusion of china clay, and covered with a glaze containing a small amount of cobalt that gives it a bluish cast.  The generally accepted view is that pearlware was invented by Josiah Wedgwood in 1779.  Sometimes called "Prattware," and originally called "china glazed" or "pearl white," it was produced in quantity by Wedgwood and other potteries, such as Enoch Wood & Sons, in England from 1780 to around 1820, and remained in production, albeit in declining levels, until around 1840.

The Enoch Wood & Sons potteries, circa 1840
from Ward's History of the Borough of Stoke-Upon-Trent

Given when pearlware was produced, at the height of the neo-classical revival, much of it is classically inspired in its form and decoration, taking its aesthetic inspiration from ancient Rome and Greece.  We collect pearlware figures of neo-classical deities and the Christian virtues, made 1800-1820, and have a dozen or so of them at Darlington House.  The pearlware figures we collect were made for domestic consumption in the English markets, and relatively few of them were exported to America, unlike later Staffordshire figures.  It is relatively rare to find pearlware figures for sale here in the United States.

 Two pages of pearlware figures, a number of which are in our collection at Darlington

 from English Earthenware Figures, 1740-1840 by Pat Halfpenny

At John Howard's booth at the fair we came across a pearlware bust of the goddess Minerva, circa 1810-1820.  Standing a robust twelve inches tall, the bust has painted enamel overglaze decoration, meaning that it was first glazed and fired in an undecorated state, then paint-decorated, and then fired again.  Typical of such figures, the paint decoration is in pretty pastel colors.

John Howard's advertisement in the
Ceramics Fair dealers directory

The base of the bust is painted to resemble marble, and the figure wears plum and lavender colored classical robes and a slate colored helmet surmounted by plumes of russet feathers.  It is stamped (twice) as being the goddess Minerva, the Roman equivalent of the Greek goddess Athena, the goddess of wisdom, war, art, and commerce.  Minerva was the daughter of the god Jupiter, whose image appears on the bust's peacock blue colored breastplate.

Given the bust's substantial scale it was an expensive piece when originally produced and it is a costly rarity today.  Despite the hefty—although eminently fair—price quoted to us by Mr. Howard, we decided to take the plunge and buy it to add to our collection at Darlington House, where it sits as the jewel in the crown of our pearlware figures collection.

I think our Minerva is really rather marvelous, and I am thrilled we have her.

Next: A piece of Staffordshire of elephantine proportions . . .

New York Antiques Week, Part I

Thank God that New York Antiques Week is over.  Of course one looks forward to its annual arrival every January with fevered anticipation, and one cannot wait to attend the shows and auction previews that fill every conceivable venue in town.  But the sheer number of them can be rather daunting, not to mention exhausting, to attend, and the temptations one is confronted with at every turn can be ruinous to one's financial well-being, at least if one were to succumb to their siren calls.

This year's Antiques Week schedule,
featuring the five shows and two auction houses
Courtesy of Stella Management

Which Reggie did, rather more than he was intending to, I am afraid.  In fact, Reggie thinks he may have lost his head this year.  At the moment he's feeling rather like a drunk the morning after an extended bender, where the details have gone all foggy.  How did I let that happen, he wonders, rubbing his temples?

I started off the week with every intention to keep my wallet firmly buttoned in my jacket pocket, and I only allowed myself to carry two cheques with me when out at the shows.  I did give myself permission to buy one or two little fripperies if I came across ones that I simply had to have.  But that was it.  No big-ticket items this year, I said to myself, avowing financial sobriety.

My resolve remained steadfast when I attended the Winter Antiques Show at the Park Avenue Armory—the grandaddy of them all—which is not surprising, given its ducal offerings and stratospheric prices.  But neither was my resolve much threatened at the Downtown Armory Show, even though that show was full of temptations (a number of which Boy succumbed to) at far more appealing price points than what one found at its uptown, richer cousin.  I even left the even-more-reasonable Pier Show virtually unscathed, unlike last year.

But the Ceramics Fair was my undoing.

The New York Ceramics Fair, which is one of the top shows of its kind in the world, attracts many of the leading ceramics and glass dealers from across the globe and is the hunting ground for serious collectors and museum curators seeking the very best that can be had, at least legitimately.

The cover of this year's dealer directory

It was at the Ceramics Fair that my lofty resolve and noble intentions came crashing down, and I was unmasked as the willpowerless fool that I truly am.  Dear Reader, unless you are just coming to read this blog for the first time, you are well aware, I am sure, that Reggie has rather a weakness for antique china and porcelains.  And no, not just for plates and saucers and cups, at least of the more common garden variety that one would set one's tables with.  No, he has more than enough of those already, and he has ceased lusting to add any more of them to his over-filled cupboards at Darlington House.  His tastes have become far more catholic than that, and much more expensive, too.

It didn't help that we arrived at the show on Saturday well fortified by a leisurely, martini-fueled lunch at L'Absinthe of perfectly shucked, briny, oysters; steak frites washed down with several glasses of rather good red wine; and a plate of lighter-than-air cookies accompanied by double espressos.  I'm not absolutely sure, but I think the house may have stood us to a round of post-prandial Sauternes before we stumbled out the door.

It is dangerous, I know, to go shopping for pretty things when one is under the influence, as we were.  But we did, and so it is not surprising that I felt giddy and almost in a dream state when I first looked around the hall where the fair was held, taking it all in.  For what I found there is truly the stuff of dreams, a veritable Aladdin's Cave of the most beautiful, rare, and costly antique ceramics and glass imaginable, beckoning to me with outstretched arms and the soothing encouragement of dealers all too willing to make my every wish come true.  In short, I became as helpless as an addict entering a fully stocked drug den with his rent money in his pocket.  Heavens!  But I'm not the only one, I might add, for I had my trusty adviser (and partner in crime), Boy Fenwick, with me.  And both of us, I am afraid, are weak-willed fellows when it comes to the crème de la crème of such precious offerings as the Ceramics Fair is known for.

To be continued . . .

Reggie's Bedside Reading

I recently realized that it had been some time since I last posted about what it is that I am reading for pleasure.  In fact, I haven't done so since May of last year.  So, herewith, I remedy that unfortunate situation.

My current bedside reading

The first book on my bedside table, and which I am now almost finished reading, is Frances Osbourne's excellent and compelling The Bolter.  Written by the subject's great-grandaughter, it is the story of Idina Sackville, an English aristocrat who "ran away to become the chief seductress of Kenya's scandalous 'Happy Valley set.'"  The book is ultimately a sad and tawdry tale of a once-enchanting woman who made many rather unfortunate choices in her messy, pleasure-filled life, and who ultimately bore the consequences of same.  It is a delicious, cautionary tale, indeed.

The next book in my stack is Louis Auchincloss' A Voice From Old New York: A Memoir of My Youth.  It is a slim tome, published (I believe) posthumously, of the recollections of the male Edith Wharton of my parents' generation.  I've read about half of it (Reggie, like many, keeps several books running at once), and I find it to be moderately absorbing so far.  Mr. Auchincloss provides a crystalline view into the rarified world of what was once left of the old Knickerbocker families, a subject he considers with somewhat mixed emotions.

I look forward to burrowing into John Julius Norwich's Trying to Please: A Memoir once I finish the first two books on my table.  The author is the son of the celebrated Sir Duff and Lady Diana Cooper, both of whose fascinating memoirs I read with pleasure in years past.  I am intrigued to read the perspective that Norwich, their only child and heir, brings to their stories, as well as to his own.

The fourth book on my table is Ethan Mordden's The Guest List: How Manhattan Defined American Sophistication—From the Algonquin Round Table to Truman Capote's Ball.  Back in my late twenties and early thirties I enjoyed reading (and in some cases re-reading) Mr. Mordden's collections of short stories about a group of young men who frolicked on the Manhattan/Fire Island Pines axis that I also frequented at the time.  Since then we've both grown up, and I look forward to delving into his book on a subject that Reggie always enjoys learning more about: life among the social moths that once circled the flames in the city he is most fortunate to call his home.

The last book in my bedside stack is Kay Thompson: From Funny Face to Eloise, a biography by Sam Irvin.  I've always wanted to know more about the enigmatic Miss Thompson, star of cabaret, movie musicals, and authoress of the famed Eloise at the Plaza series and, apparently, one of the great (and more complicated) creative characters of the twentieth century.  Now that Mr. Irvin has come out with his well-received book I have my chance.

And there you have it, Dear Reader, Reggie's current bedside reading.  I am particularly pleased with this selection of books, and I look forward to wiling away many delicious hours between their covers.

Tell me, what's your current reading list?

Photograph by Boy Fenwick

It's Time to Sprinkle Some Stylish Fairy Dust

Reggie recently was the recipient of a Stylish Blogger Award from his friend Lindaraxa, and then again from Acanthus & Acorn, for which he is most grateful and appreciative.  Thank you, ladies.  Considering who else they anointed, Reggie is all a-blush to find himself in such, well, stylish company.

When accepting such an award there are often strings attached to it, for with recognition comes responsibility.  In this case, one is pleasantly requested to sprinkle the award among ten other bloggers whom one considers to be stylish, too, and therefore worthy of such recognition.

But what is one to do when so many of the choices that first spring to one's mind are already taken by one's nominating bloggers, and by others, too?  How many times can one blogger be awarded the same award, I ask?

The answer is that one must accept that many worthy recipients are already spoken for, and one must dig down into one's treasure trove of "must reads" to find, and then appropriately recognize, those who strike a stylish chord and who keep one coming back for more—and who haven't yet been chosen, to the best of one's knowledge, for such celebration.

But first I'm going to play around with the rules a little bit.  To whit:

1. Thank and link back to the person(s) who awarded you—I have done that;
2. Share seven things about yourself—I've already done that before, too, see here;
3. Award ten other bloggers—If I did that my list would be repetitive with others', so I'm only awarding five today;
4. Contact those bloggers and tell them about the award—That's next on my "to do" list;

So what were my criteria for choosing the five stylish bloggers I'm awarding the prize to?  I decided to look beyond the world of those who post about interiors, antiques collecting, high WASP-dom, entertaining, gardening, and trad-land (in other words, Reggie's primary stomping grounds) to come up with my list.  I wanted to find a group that I suspected many of my readers might not be familiar with, even though I've recently added two of them to My Blog List.  Most important, each of the blogs I chose had to have content of sufficient depth, breadth, and originality to merit such an award, and whose authors had something to say and a point of view.

Interestingly, all five bloggers I selected are—I believe—gay men, and who often, although not exclusively by any means, explore subjects of heightened interest to such, uh, fellows.  But that is, I believe, coincidental.  What is not coincidental is that each of the bloggers chosen are what I consider to be stylish ones, and whose blogs are full of wonderful pictures, thought-provoking content, and well-written prose.

And so here they are, in strict alphabetical order:

1. Hibernian Homme is a stylish young man whose blog regularly features the works of English writers and artists (and a lot more) of the interwar years, and who is moving to Milan from New England in just a few weeks.  Reggie looks forward to following his journey there;
2. Red Mug, Blue Linen presents luscious photography, often of young men (and some of which is at times a bit racy, so be forewarned), along with lyrically beautiful prose and poetry that keeps Reggie returning—even though he admits there are times that he is not absolutely sure he entirely understands what the author is writing about;
3. Stirred, Straight Up, with a Twist drolly features amusing (and sometimes rather wicked) photographs of stars of the stage and screen of days gone by, frequently accompanied by hilarious, information-packed reporting by its stylish author on the subject at hand;
4. The Haunted Lamp showcases an eclectic mix of images of vintage objects and paraphernalia—much of it owned by the stylish young man who writes the blog, photographs of lost mid-century retail and theatrical architecture and interiors, and antique postcards and other ephemera;
5. We could grow up together is the stylish output of a young fashion photographer that gorgeously chronicles his life and work traveling all over the world in pursuit of his very stylish profession;

And there you have it.  These are the five stylish bloggers that I consider to be worthy additions to the Stylish Blogger pantheon, and which I have not (yet) seen on others' lists for this award.  I would like to bring them to your attention, Dear Reader, as meriting your very stylish consideration.

Image of the always stylish Tinker Bell courtesy of Walt Disney Entertainment

Reggie's Greatest Regret In Life

. . . is that he cannot play the piano.  And it is not for lack of trying, either.

Reggie grew up in a house where the children were expected to become proficient in playing a musical instrument, among other basic skills of the well-rounded life.  When Reggie was a little boy, no more than six or seven years old, his mother, MD, asked him what instrument he would like to learn to play.  He wasn't given the option of whether he wanted to learn to play an instrument, but rather which one.  Fortunately, Reggie was more than agreeable to the prospect, despite having listened for years to his older siblings torture their way through practicing on various instruments for which they had little aptitude.  Aside from enjoying singing and playing records, the Darlings weren't exactly what Reggie would describe as a musically gifted family.

A young Reggie at the piano with his teacher, Mrs. Lee

Rather than follow in the footsteps of his older brother Frecky and take lessons on the French horn (a choice that to this day Reggie finds to be a peculiar one for his brother), Reggie asked to be given piano lessons.  He was attracted to the piano for several reasons: he liked the way it sounded, one could sing along to it when playing tunes upon it, and one wasn't expected to cart it about from place to place, unlike more portable but often cumbersome options, such as the cello or bassoon.

Performing classical music in concert halls
wasn't what attracted Reggie to the piano

The prospect of learning to play Beethoven's sonatas and other serious music and then performing them one day in concert halls was not the reason Reggie wanted to play the piano.  No, he was far more interested in learning to accompany himself and others while singing show tunes, popular songs, and Christmas carols in the comfort of fashionable drawing rooms.  For Reggie is a sociable chap, and has been one since the get-go, and he liked the idea of being the lucky fellow sitting at the piano at the parties he imagined himself attending, at the center of all the fun.

Everyone enjoys singing show tunes around the piano!

Yes, even at the age of seven Reggie was already a show tune lovin' laddie, which some may interpret as manifesting the propensity to be "that way," but which Reggie takes exception to since many of the composers of same were well-known for their prowess with the opposite sex—but that's a topic for another day, I suppose . . . .  On a less flibbertigibbety note, Reggie also enjoyed then (and still does) a good hymn sing, at least from the 1940 edition of the Episcopal Hymnal that was then still found in the pews at the church we attended on Sunday mornings.

This is how I saw myself
Photograph courtesy of Getty Images

In short, Reggie was interested in learning to play the piano because he thought it would be his ticket to becoming the life of the party.

But it didn't work out that way.

My parents signed me up for piano lessons with a neighbor, named Mrs. Lee, who lived only two doors from our house and who had three pianos in her large living room where she gave lessons in the afternoon, when her husband, an editor at the Washington Post, was at the office.  Mrs. Lee was a pleasant lady, and I liked her.  She started me with the exercises that one would expect and was encouraging of the progress I initially made under her tutelage.  I remember the pride I felt when I performed for the first time at the annual recital she held for her students, the highlight of which was—at least for little Reggie—the sweet and salty praline cookies she served at such gatherings.  I remember those cookies vividly to this day.

Doesn't Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge?

The problem was, after an initial spurt of facility at the piano, my progress slowed to a virtual standstill, and I barely advanced beyond rank beginner after several years of taking lessons.  Part of the problem, I admit, is that after the first flush of excitement wore off I became less than enthralled with practicing for more than half an hour at a time, and I was frustrated that I was forced to learn the likes of Bartok's compositions for children when what I really wanted to play was "I Could Have Danced All Night" from My Fair Lady.

I played this album to death as a child

It also didn't help that the piano we had at home was a rather pathetic upright one that MD had bought at a yard sale and painted cherry red (she had a thing for painting furniture with bright enamel colors at the time), and that was only rarely tuned, if ever.  MD refused to consider buying a better piano for me to practice on, given my level of skill at the time.  "Why should I buy you another piano when you can't even play the one we've got?" she would ask me when I would complain about the quality of the instrument I was expected to practice upon.

The dreaded, and for Reggie embarrassing, piano recital

But despite that, Mrs. Lee and I soldiered on for the next several years.  Every year at her annual recital concert I was still lumped with the beginners, and I would find myself—with some humiliation, I might add—towering over the little ones who surrounded me there.  By that point, MD had given up attending the recitals as she had—she informed me with a snort—other and better uses of her time.

My piano recital competition

One day, when I was twelve years old, I arrived at Mrs. Lee's house for my weekly lesson.  After several minutes she put her hand on mine as I was stumbling through the day's piece and said, "Stop."

I turned to her to see why.  She had an odd expression on her face.  She hesitated, as if building her courage, and said to me, "Reggie, you are a nice boy, and I like you, but I am afraid that I must tell you that you will never learn to play the piano.  Of all the students I have taught over the years, and there have been many, I have never come across one who has as little talent for it as you do."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes, really.  There's simply no point in trying any more, because you will never learn to play the piano.  You have no aptitude for it, and no matter how much you practice you will never learn to play it.  I am sorry, but I can't teach you anymore.  I simply cannot, in good conscience, accept any more money from your parents.  Today is your last lesson.  We are done."

"But what will I tell my parents?" I asked her.

"I will telephone your mother now and let her know."

It was with mixed feelings that I left Mrs. Lee's house that late afternoon and walked back to my parents' house.  On one hand I was relieved that the burden I had endured for the last four years was now over, but on the other hand I was disappointed to learn—once and for all—that I had absolutely no talent for playing the piano and that I would never find myself the life of the party, tinkling ivories and singing show tunes to the delight of those gathered around me.

That's how I saw myself.  Erroneously, as it turns out . . .

When I got home MD was waiting for me.  "Thank God that's over," she said with a smirk, letting me off the hook.  She had the piano carted away the very next day.

Not for Reggie, as I learned . . .
Photograph courtesy of Getty Images

But it always rankled me that I had never learned to play the piano, and that I had been told that I never would, nor should I bother even trying to.  I still, deep down inside of me, wanted to be that happy fellow sitting at the piano at the smart parties I imagined attending, singing and laughing away.

Half a decade later I got another chance . . .

During my final year at Saint Grottlesex I applied for and was the fortunate recipient of a scholarship to attend school in England for a year, with all of my expenses paid for.  It was an exchange program between English and American boarding and secondary schools under the auspices of the English Speaking Union, an organization devoted to fostering good will among (or as they would say "amongst") the English speaking nations.  I was not given a choice as to which school I would attend under the program, except to request one that was strong in music and where the students were largely drawn from within Great Britain, as opposed to from a broader, more international base.

The school that the E.S.U. selected for me was Sherborne School, a quintissentially English, all-boys public boarding school located in a bucolic market town of the same name in Dorset, a several-hour train ride west of London.  Sherborne (pronounced "Shuh-bn") was founded in 1550 by Edward VI (the short-lived son of Henry VIII) on the site of a deconsecrated monastery.  It was and remains a beautiful school with handsome buildings and grounds, and it was used as the location for the 1969 movie of Goodbye Mr. Chips starring Peter O'Toole.

Sherborne School, Dorset, England
Image courtesy of same

When I arrived at Sherborne I was given the opportunity to take music lessons on an instrument of my choice.  I decided that I would—once again—attempt to take up the piano and show "them" that I really could learn to play the instrument that Mrs. Lee said I would never be able to master.

I was given as a teacher an elderly, archtypal English maiden-lady named Miss Whipple, who looked like a character right out of an "English Cosies" murder mystery of the type filled with village eccentrics, vicars on bicycles, and such.  Miss Whipple, who was in her early seventies at the time, lived in a cottage not far from the school with her equally elderly spinster sister.  Her sensible clothes were from another long-gone era, and she wore stout, sturdy shoes.  I recall that she wore a pince-nez, too.

Miss Whipple looked remarkably like
the writer Agatha Christie
Photograph courtesy of ezdia.com

I told Miss Whipple my story of how I had taken piano lessons as a boy, and that I regretted that I had been considered incapable of ever learning to play one.  She responded encouragingly that she had had great success with her pupils, even ones with only modest innate talent, and that she was sure she would have success with me, too, so long as I promised to apply myself.  With that agreed to, we set off.

Could this still be in my future, I wondered?
Image courtesy of dorisday.net

In the first several weeks under Miss Whipple's tutelage I made leaps and bounds of progress, and she was delighted with me and how quickly I proceeded.  I practiced diligently, hours every day, and I was determined to make a success of learning to play the piano.

But after several months had passed I was no longer making any progress, and—no matter how much I practiced—I had once again become stuck at the very same place I had been when Mrs. Lee put her hand on mine.  Whereas Miss Whipple had initially been pleased to see me and was quite enthusiastic about my progress, over time she became increasingly restless and fidgety during our lessons, which were no longer the pleasant fun they first had been.  Despite my best efforts, she started to become impatient with me and at times quite short with me, clearly irritated by my incompetence.  "No!" she would cry as I fumbled my way through a piece, "That's not how it is done!"  She would then demonstrate once again, with mounting irritation, how I should play the section of music at hand and what technique I should use.

Sadly, no jolly shout-outs for Reggie with a happy gang
of fellows gathering 'round him at the piano

But I didn't make any more progress, and it became increasingly clear to me, as it certainly had to Miss Whipple by this time, that what Mrs. Lee had said to me all those years ago was, in fact, true—that I had absolutely no aptitude for playing the piano, and my attempting to learn to play one was futile and an utter waste of my (and others') time.

After several more painful weeks had passed, by which point Miss Whipple had grown openly hostile to me and was now sitting through our lessons in angry, stony silence, I decided to throw in the towel and put both of us out of our misery.  Not surprisingly, Miss Whipple was more than pleased to let me go and agreed with alacrity that it was far better that I concentrate my efforts on activities where I had at least some chance for success.  So, instead, I signed on for the school's choral society where I was able to happily sing away without unduly embarrassing myself or visibly annoying the conductor . . . or Miss Whipple.

And that, Dear Reader, is why Reggie cannot—nor will he ever be able to—play the piano.

All black and white photographs, unless noted, are courtesy of LIFE Images.  Reggie had rather a lot of fun finding vintage photographs to illustrate his story.  He makes no claims to actually appearing in any of them.

Who She Is, I Do Not Know . . .

I have a very old, cracked photograph of an ancestress of mine, done on glass, and which resides in a pretty rose-colored, oval velvet case, surrounded by gold filigree.   It's very small, only one and a half inches tall.  I keep it in a silver cigarette box on a chest of drawers in my bedroom at Darlington House, where it is safely nestled among other little treasures.

Even though I know that I am related to the sitter, a young woman in her twenties, I do not know who she is.  Looking at her photograph, I suspect that it was taken in the 1870s or 1880s, which would mean that she is of the same generation as my great-grandparents.  I know that I am related to her through my mother, MD, in whose effects I came across the photograph after she died over ten years ago.  I recall a conversation I had with MD many years ago, when I was a boy, in which she told me who the sitter was.  I believe she comes from my mother's mother's side of the family.  But beyond that I know no more.

Who, exactly, is this young woman in the photograph, I wonder?  Is she my great-grandmother, known as Giggy, whose Paris porcelain I now own?  Or is she one of the maiden great-great aunts who lived in a house on my great-grandparents' compound, who became the subject of sometimes cruel family fun in later life due to her eccentric and absent-minded behavior?  Is she the one who would spend days on end, lost in reading out-of-date newspapers?

The young lady's photograph appears to have been framed as a keepsake, a memento.  Was it for a doting parent or a loving husband?  Was it a token for a suitor who never returned to be given it, leaving the young lady in question wondering what might have been, if only?

I will never know the answer to these questions . . . for those who could answer them are no more.

I regret that there isn't a slip of paper, tucked into the little velvet case, with the name of my ancestress upon it, written in faded ink in an antique hand.  I recall that there may have been one once, when I was a boy, but if so it is now long lost.

Dear Reader, I implore you to query older members of your family and have them identify the un-named faces in your old photographs, so that the identity of the sitters will not be lost to future generations.

What a fleeting life it is we lead, and how fragile and ephemeral are our memories . . .

The photograph of a photograph taken long ago is by Boy Fenwick