Vine art: an illustration from Les Ignorants, by Étienne Davodeau.
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In the beginning, supposedly, was the word

But surely the grape arrived first?

In the beginning, supposedly, was the word; but surely the grape arrived first. Words, in my creation myth, appeared when harvest time came round and the winemaker realised he needed help to get the grapes in, but it’s probably a good thing they did, because what is a glass of wine without a conversation to accompany it?

Wine needs no translation – but then translation, rather like wine, can bring lucidity or muddle, depending on how you approach it. The Japanese, according to David Bellos’s wonderful book Is That A Fish in Your Ear?, have around 20 words for it, including one used for popular novels of the Danielle Steel variety, which means “translations that are even better than the originals”.

That word won’t be needed for Les Ignorants, by Étienne Davodeau, a charmingly odd graphic novel. Davodeau and his old friend, the Loire winemaker Richard Leroy, spend a year enlightening the other about their respective professions. Wine, so often the producer of mental fog, becomes instead an agent of clarity; the two men, to say nothing of Davodeau’s readers, learn a great deal about the painstaking processes that make a comic book or a bottle.

Whether you’re interested in wine, graphic novels or neither, it is hard not to warm to a book that has a chapter entitled “In praise of cowpats”. Étienne tries a lot of good wine and learns a great deal about the purist philosophy known as biodynamics, including more about sulphur than anyone except a biodynamic winemaker could reasonably wish to know. (Sulphur stabilises wine, which is particularly important when transferring it from barrel to bottle: biodynamic winemakers endlessly debate the advisability of adding even this.)

In return, Leroy visits editors, exhibitions and graphic-novel festivals; he even sits in on an editorial meeting (first question from this maker, and generous sharer, of white wines: “I presume you have a fridge?”).

He also reads his way through a library prescribed by his friend. The two visit novelists and winemakers; the conversation, as befits a book on wine, is rich, sophisticated and spiced with gentle mockery. The wine man can pinpoint a producer just by sniffing the contents of his glass, but he keeps forgetting the names of the books he’s read; after the first few bottles are opened, the writer’s tastebuds go on strike.

So it’s particularly irritating to learn that Les Ignorants, a book about ignorance and the joys of lessening it, has been translated not as The Ignoramuses (or even, Ignorami) but as The Initiates. Why? It’s an awful management-speak word; it puts me in mind of a 1934 New Yorker story by James Thurber, in which that great comic writer superciliously explains that the phrase mise du château on wine bottles means “mice in the chateau” and is intended to show that said chateau is authentically old, so makes good wine.

The phrase “is extremely simple,” he says repressively, “and it is astonishing how many Americans are puzzled by it.” The phrase is doggerel: a mouse in French is une souris, and even French “mises” are less than fussy about the vintage of their accommodation. Thurber was patronising the wine snobs – what the French call les buveurs d’etiquettes, (label drinkers): the people who care only about the words on the bottle rather than what’s inside it.

Words should enhance wine, and vice versa: if you want a creed, there’s mine. And not mine alone: at Drink and Draw, on 1 June, part of the Institut Français graphic novel festival, Davodeau will discuss wine and drawing while the wine writer Tim Atkin talks about wine and serves it, too, thus proving that even experiences that require no words do really, because what is a wordless experience if we don’t talk about it afterwards?

The books and the booze come out of Les Ignorants neck and neck (or should that be neck and spine?), whichever started first; but then again, it was never a race.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 20 May 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The Dream Ticket

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Windows on the soul: AS Byatt on Simon Schama's The Face of Britain

Britain’s portraits tell stories of subversion and obsession in a book which reveals something new on every page.

The Face of Britain accompanies Simon Schama’s BBC Television series on British portraits, and the form of the book keeps very closely to the form of the broadcasts. There are examinations of single faces, in single lives, ranging from the earliest days when real faces were studied and represented, to photographs of life in Notting Hill in the 1960s and 1970s taken by the Jamaican-born Charlie Phillips. The studies are roughly but not narrowly chronological, and are arranged thematically in groups – “The Face of Power”, “The Face of Love”, “The Face of Fame”, “The Face in the Mirror”, “Faces of the People”. Most of the studies concentrate on one face, one person – the historical and psychological moment, the relation between artist and subject.

Schama begins with a meditation on faces and how we scan them. Like him, I knew my children were searching to see my face from the moment of birth, even though theory then said this was not possible. Eyes, he says, are the part of our body that does not change size. How do we recognise individuals in their portraits? How do we know what Francis Bacon or Thomas Gainsborough saw when they made their works – or Samuel Palmer, or Gwen John?

Schama’s first example is the painting that Graham Sutherland made of Winston Churchill in 1954. He writes succinctly and splendidly about the historical moment, Churchill’s expectations, Sutherland’s lack of prior thought about painting history. Churchill and his wife disliked the work intensely and it was covertly destroyed. Schama shows us a transparency that survived – and remarks that it “is enough to make it painfully clear what was lost in the fires of Lady Churchill’s sorrow and anger”. He knows the history, the biography, and the art history, and connects them subtly.

The succession of finite broadcasts, one after the other, turns out to be a wonderful form to read. We meet the individuals, painters and painted, in their own worlds, as we would in an art gallery, before moving on to the next – and yet the juxtapositions change the individuals.

“The Face of Power” shows us the iconic images of Charles I by van Dyck and others, as well as Cromwell in a marvellous miniature by Samuel Cooper, warts and all; Schama comments on the painterly brilliance of the warts: “so lovingly rendered that they cast their own individual shadows, from the pimply one at the crease of the brow to the majestic King Wart beneath his lower lip, incompletely concealed by a small beard”. This section also contains the family faces of power – the ambivalent domesticity of Victoria and Albert, the aristocrats of the 18th-century Kit-Cat Club – and also James Gillray’s ferocious mockery of royalty and politicians: Pitt as a toadstool on a dunghill, or as Death in a lethal parody of Milton. Yet the image that sticks most in the memory is Gillray’s image of himself, drawn as “the dimness closed in” and titled Pray Pity the Sorrows of a Poor Blind Man. He is grey, with closed eyes and few teeth, begging; and this sadly decrepit figure is scribbled over with shadows and spidery blots in fine black lines, unfinished faces and figures.

Towards the end of “The Face of Love” Schama juxtaposes two studies of obsession – Lewis Carroll’s photographs of Alice Liddell and Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s repeated paintings of William Morris’s wife, Jane, or Janey. It is interesting that I, too, keep these images side by side in my mind. My primary emotion about them is a ferocious embarrassment.

Carroll’s photographs of prepubescent girls were part of a cult in the early days of photography. They represented innocence. He had to proceed with caution in asking for permission – above all for photographs of naked nymphets in their purity and truth. Alice Liddell lived her life as the girl to whom the Wonderland was told. Reading little girls like me admired the written Alice, for her brave and intelligent independence, whatever mad thing came her way. Yet what we see here of the real Alice is not loveable.

Schama juxtaposes three images of Alice Liddell. One in carefully arranged tatters, a little girl holding out a begging hand, both quizzical and sad. It is hard to like her and hard not to feel she is being used. Then there is the photograph Carroll took of Alice when she was 18 – an image to which I return again and again. She is a young woman with her hair up, sitting in a leather-covered chair, in a pretty dress, and corseted. Her head is turned aside. She is looking down. Her mouth is sulky – or something stronger than sulky. Her body is embarrassed in an angry way. What was the Reverend Charles Dodgson thinking?

And then Schama prints a photograph by Julia Margaret Cameron from 1872 of Alice as Pomona: looking ahead, still with the corners of her mouth downturned. Schama argues that Cameron’s strong woman, long-haired and inviolate, is both a deliberate reference to Dodgson’s poses and an assertion of female independence.

There is something terrible about Rossetti’s renderings of Janey Morris’s louring beauty. Schama prints a photograph of her at Morris’s ideal country home – Kelmscott, from which Morris generously went away, in order to leave Rossetti and Janey together. Janey is brandishing willow boughs, part of the language of Morris’s life and work. She is unforgettable, threatening and a captive. I was amazed to find that L S Lowry of all people collected paintings of Janey – because he found her terrifying. I try to imagine how Morris felt, at home with these images by his wife’s lover on his wall. Janey, like Alice Liddell, is being used by her artist-lover.

“The Face in the Mirror” deals with self-portraits, and particularly the rendering of women, and women’s bodies, by women. Schama interweaves the stories of two great artists – Laura Knight (1877-1970) and Gwen John (1876-1939). How does a woman present herself, in a world where nudes have been desirable or repellent; objects, not subjects? There is a wonderful discussion of Knight’s self-portrait of 1913, which Schama says is a masterpiece. In it, she is standing in the foreground, seen from behind, in businesslike clothes, a scarlet working jacket and “her favourite high-crowned black fedora”. She is painting a female nude from the back, whom we see on a raised stage and on canvas – an intricate form, rendered exactly. The impression of work being done, the relation between the women, is complicated yet simple. Schama’s background descriptions of other standing naked women with clothed companions is masterly. He made me look and learn.

I know of Gwen John, I thought – I look at her paintings whenever I can, and have always been happy that her then more famous brother Augustus insisted she was a better painter than he was. Like Knight, she painted herself clothed with a naked model. Schama shows two self-portraits, one from 1902, calm in a red blouse with a cameo at her neck (the only painting she signed) and the other, a few years later, in a brown shirt, holding a letter. Schama recounts her wild and desperate affair with Rodin in heart-rending detail; it changed her from poised New Woman to maniacal letter-writer and obsessive sex object: “My master. I am not an artist. I am a model and I want to remain your model for ever.” Later she went back to drawing and painting: nude women, a series of nude self-portraits, “executed with a kind of wistful tentativeness, images that seem to stir and move a little in the empty white space as if blown by a draught coming through the window”.

As he does throughout The Face of Britain, Schama deepens our understanding and excites our interest – the two women illuminate not only each other but also the work of Tracey Emin and Yoko Ono. He is a great storyteller and we learn something new on every page.

A S Byatt’s most recent book is “Ragnarok: the End of the Gods” (Canongate)

Simon Schama appears at the Cambridge Literary Festival, in association with the New Statesman, on 29 November

The Face of Britain: the Nation Through its Portraits by Simon Schama is published by Viking (£30, 603pp)

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis

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What Jeremy Corbyn can learn from Orwell

Corbyn’s ideas may echo George Orwell’s – but they’d need Orwell’s Britain to work. It’s time Corbyn accepted the British as they are today.

All Labour Party leaderships since 1900 have offered themselves as “new”, but Tony Blair’s succession in 1994 triggered a break with the past so ruthless that the Labour leadership virtually declared war on the party. Now it is party members’ turn and they, for now at any rate, think that real Labour is Jeremy.

To Keir Hardie, real Labour had been a trade union lobby expounding Fellowship. To the Webbs, real Labour was “common ownership” by the best means available. Sidney’s Clause Four (adopted 1918) left open what that might be. In the 1920s, the Christian Socialist R H Tawney stitched Equality into the banner, but during the Depression young intellectuals such as Evan Durbin and Hugh Gaitskell designated Planning as Labour’s modern mission. After the Second World War, Clement Attlee followed the miners (and the London Passenger Transport Board) into Nationalisation. Harold Wilson tried to inject Science and Technology into the mix but everything after that was an attempt to move Labour away from state-regulated markets and in the direction of market-regulated states.

What made the recent leadership contest so alarming was how broken was the intellectual tradition. None of the candidates made anything of a long history of thinking about the relationship between socialism and what the people want. Yvette Cooper wanted to go over the numbers; only they were the wrong numbers. Andy Burnham twisted and turned. Liz Kendall based her bid on two words: “Have me.” Only Jeremy Corbyn seemed to have any kind of Labour narrative to tell and, of course, ever the ­rebel, he was not responsible for any of it. His conference address in Brighton was little more than the notes of a street-corner campaigner to a small crowd.

Given the paucity of thinking, and this being an English party for now, it is only a matter of time before George Orwell is brought in to see how Jeremy measures up. In fact, it’s happened already. Rafael Behr in the Guardian and Nick Cohen in the Spectator both see him as the kind of hard-left intellectual Orwell dreaded, while Charles Cooke in the National Review and Jason Cowley in the New Statesman joined unlikely fashion forces to take a side-look at Jeremy’s dreadful dress sense – to Orwell, a sure sign of a socialist. Cooke thought he looked like a “burned-out geography teacher at a third-rate comprehensive”. Cowley thought he looked like a red-brick university sociology lecturer circa 1978. Fair enough. He does. But there is more. Being a middle-class teetotal vegetarian bicycling socialistic feministic atheistic metropolitan anti-racist republican nice guy, with allotment and “squashily pacifist” leanings to match, clearly puts him in the land of the cranks as described by Orwell in The Road to Wigan Pier (1937) – one of “that dreary tribe of high-minded women and sandal-wearers and bearded fruit-juice drinkers who come flocking towards the smell of ‘progress’ like bluebottles to a dead cat”. And though Corbyn, as “a fully fledged, fully bearded, unabashed socialist” (Huffington Post), might make all true Orwellians twitch, he really made their day when he refused to sing the National Anthem. Orwell cited precisely that (see “The Lion and the Unicorn”, 1941) as an example of the distance between left-wing intellectuals and the people. It seemed that, by standing there, mouth shut, Comrade Corbyn didn’t just cut his wrists, he lay down full length in the coffin and pulled the lid shut.


Trouble is, this line of attack not only misrepresents the Labour leader, it misrepresents Orwell. For the great man was not as unflinchingly straight and true as some people think. It is impossible, for instance, to think of Orwell singing “God Save the King”, because he, too, was one of that “dreary tribe” of London lefties, and even when he joined Labour he remained ever the rebel. As for Corbyn, for a start, he is not badly dressed. He just doesn’t look like Chuka or Tristram. He may look like a threadbare schoolteacher, but Orwell was one twice over. Orwell was never a vegetarian or a teetotaller, but, like Corbyn, neither was he interested in fancy food (or drink), he kept an allotment, drove a motorbike, bicycled, cared about the poor, cared about the environment, loathed the empire, came close to pacifism at one point, and opposed war with Germany well past the time when it was reasonable to do so.

In Orwell’s thinking about socialism, for too long his main reference point was the London Marxist left. Not only did he make speeches in favour of revolutions, he took part in one with a gun in his hand. Orwell was far more interested, as Corbyn has been far more interested, in speaking truth to power than in holding office. His loyalty was to the movement, or at least the idea of the movement, not to MPs or the front bench, which he rarely mentioned. There is nothing in Corbyn’s position that would have shocked Orwell and, should they have met, there’d have been much to talk about: belief in public ownership and non-economic values, confidence in the state’s ability to make life better, progressive taxation, national health, state education, social care, anti-socially useless banking, anti-colonialism and a whole lot of other anti-isms besides. It’s hard to be sure what Orwell’s position would have been on Trident and immigration. Not Corbyn’s, I suspect. He was not as alert to feminism as he might have been but equally, few men try to write novels from a woman’s point of view and all Orwellians recognise that Julia is the dark hero of Nineteen Eighty-Four. In truth they are both austere types, not in it for themselves and not on anyone else’s expense account either. Corbyn won the leadership because this shone through from the very beginning. He came across as unaffected and straightforward – much as Orwell tried to be in his writing.

Except, as powerfully expressed in these pages by John Gray, Corbyn’s politics were made for another world. What sort of world would he need? First off, he’d need a regulated labour market: regulated by the state in partnership with a labour movement sensitive to what people wanted and experienced in trying to provide it. He would also need capital controls, a manufacturing base capable of building the new investment with Keynesian payback, an efficient and motivated Inland Revenue, a widespread public-service ethos that sees the country as an asset, not a market, and an overwhelming democratic mandate to get things done. In other words, Corbyn needs Orwell’s Britain – not this one – and at the very least, if he can’t have that, he needs the freedom to act that the European Commission forbids.

There’s another problem. Orwell did not trust left-wing intellectuals and spent half his life trying to work out their motivations as a class who spoke for the people, went in search of the people, and praised the people, but did not know them or believe in them. True, Corbyn says he wants to be open and inclusive, but we know he can’t possibly mean it when he says it will be the party, not him or the PLP, that will decide policy, just as we knew it couldn’t possibly be true when he said he’d turn PMQs into the People’s Question Time. Jeremy hasn’t changed his mind in forty years, appears to have great difficulty (unlike Tony Benn) in fusing socialism to national identity or experience (Hardie, Ben Okri and Maya Angelou were bolted on to his Brighton speech) and seems to think that not being happy with what you are given somehow captures the historic essence of socialism (rather than its opposite).

Granted, not thinking outside the ­circle is an inherent fault of the sectarian left but some of our most prominent left-wing journalists have it, too. Working-class support for nationalisation? Good. Right answer! Working-class opposition to benefit scroungers and further mass immigration? Bad. Wrong answer! Would you like to try again? In his essay “In Defence of Comrade Zilliacus” (1947) Orwell reckoned that left-wing intellectuals saw only what they wanted to see. For all their talk of representing the people, they hated the masses. “What they are frightened of is the prevailing opinion within their own group . . . there is always an orthodoxy, a parrot-cry . . .”

The game is hard and he may go down in a welter of knives, yet Corbyn still has time. He may go on making the same speech – on the benefits of apple pie to apple growers – but at some point he will have to drop the wish-list and get on the side of the British people as they are, and live with that, and build into it. Only the nation state can even begin to do the things he wants to do. The quicker he gets that, the quicker we can see if the latest incarnation of new Labour has a future.

Robert Colls is the author of “George Orwell: English Rebel” (Oxford University Press)

This article first appeared in the 08 October 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin vs Isis