Category Archives: Arts

Books Environmental politics Feminism Women's history

Women, nature and history: combining my interests

When I came across a description of Sylvia Bowerbanks’ Speaking for Nature: Women and Ecologies of Early Modern England, as a book combining women’s and ecological history, I had to lay hands on it. Which isn’t to say I didn’t have my doubts: would this be one of those books that seeks to imprint, wholly inappropriately, modern thoughts and approaches into history? But I needn’t have worried, for this is an impeccable well though-out, academic book, that examines its characters in the terms of their own time, while applying understanding and research of the following centuries.

Bowerbanks begins by explaining that she wants to go back into history to seek the origins of the apparent modern links between women and nature. If, as Ynestra King claimed in “The Eco-Feminist Imperative”, women are “the repository of a sensibility” that can save the planet, where does this begin, what does it go back to?

Of course in early modern times the talk was not of “environment”, but “nature”.

“In theory, woman remained the subordinate mediatrix between man and nature and yet, even this degraded placement afforded her compensatory powers. Insofar as woman was ‘man’ on the one hand, she could potentially lay claim to agency in the modern project to civilise nature. Insofar as she was ‘nature’, she could lay claim to a special capacity to speak for nature – especially as men began to pride themselves on their increasing detachment from nature. Furthermore, insofar as woman was both ‘nature’ and ‘man’, she could critique the modern project of mastery, even as she reached towards a distinctive knowledge of nature, based on the radicalized concept of compassion that might be termed the beginning of an ecological sensibility.” (p4-5)

Bowerbanks begins with Mary Wroth’s The Countess of Montgomeries Urania (1621), walking to the famed Penshurst (immortalised by Ben Jonson’s economium, which has the estate as a haven of balance of the human and natural orders. Yet, she explains, this was no such haven for the young Mary, who as a girl was whipped around England and the Continent, which marks Wroth’s work, which has “an extistential homelessness, together with a longing for a lost past”. (P.30) This nostalgia, Bowerbanks suggests, develops as a tool for early capitalism/consumer culture – the grieving for a lost green world can encourage the purchase of attempts to recover it.

And for Wroth, nature herself participates in this grieving, a labour mostly performed for Wroth by women, becomes at one with it. e.g. Liana lies “her head on the roote of a weeping willow, which dropped downe her teares into the Christalline streames…Shee lay betweene the body of that sad tree, and the river which passed close by it, running as if in haste to carry their sorroes from them” (p.34)

This was published in the same year as Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, but Urania is profoundly modern – a symptom of malaise and scepticism, whereas for Burton it was medieval, rooted in sin.

For while Wroth often seems to wallow in the disappearing pleasures of the aristocratic hunt, the absolute powers granted to her class by the forest laws, which were gradually being eroded, she’s also, Bowerbanks finds, questioning, critical: “evokes an environment — so abundant, so various, so yielding and so flattering to a noble woman’s charms — she does so to expose the grim realities of rape, abuse, violence and alienation that, in every grove, threaten woman’s safety and well-being.”(p. 50)

For Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle, recently recovered as a serious, original 17th-century thinker from the ridicule of centuries, there’s also this sense of loss, but also a clear desire to modernise, to reinvent, in line with the “male science” of the time from which she was firmly rebuffed. One of her interests was Sherwood Forest, which together with similar stretches of previous royal land by the Civil War was being steadily and indiscriminately used up. The great oaks of Welbeck Park were the particular focus.
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Books

An interview with Slavoj Zizek

It was an interesting experience. As I said in another context, he has a huge intellect, a huge ego, and a beard to match. When I get time I’ll also be writing for a different forum a review of his latest book, Violence.

Books History

Tasty morsels

Have been snacking my way through the fun The Rituals of Dinner – The Origins, Evolution, Eccentricities and Meaning of Table Manners by Margaret Visser (available for a fiver from Judd Books in Bloomsbury, should you happen to be in the vicinity. It boasts lots of fascinating cross-cultural snippets:

* The original modern spaghetti, in Naples in the 19th century, was eaten with your hands. “You had to raise the strings in your right hand, throw back your head, then lower the strings, dextrously with dispatch, and without slurping with your open mouth.” (p. 17-18)

* Children in Europe often stood at the table to eat – partly for practical reasons, partly to reflect their lower status, but also for “health” reasons: “It was believed eating food while upright facilitated digestion: to this day Scots like eating their porridge standing up.” (p. 49)

*Visiting the Outer Hebrides in the mid-19th century, Osgood Mackenzie reported his hostess “was busy prepar,ing the breakfast, and bade us to sit down on little low stools by the fire, and wait until she could milk the cow. The wife took up an armful of heather and deposited it at the feet of the nearest cow, which was tied up within two or three yards of the fire, to form a drainer. Then, lifting the pot off the fire, she emptied it on to the heather; the hot water disappeared and ran among the cow’s legs but the contents, consisting of potatoes and fish, remained on top of the heather. Then, from a very black-looking bed, three stark-naked boys arose, one by one, aged I should say, from six to ten years, and made for the fish and potatoes, each youngster carrying off as much as both his hands could contain. Back they went to their bed, and started devouring their breakfast with apparent great appetite under the blankets.” (p. 55-56)

* Among the oldest etiquette guides: Hesiod – “at the abundant dinner of the gods, do not sever with bright steel the withered from the quick upon that which has five branches.” (i.e. don’t cut your fingernails at the table. Ptah-Hotep’s Instructions written to his son in c. 2000BC, but copied from one at least 500 years older.

* “The French word for household is a foyer, literally a hearth. (Our theatres have foyers because they once offered their patrons a fire in the vestibule, so people could warm themselves on arrival. (p. 80)

* The words host and guest come from the Indo-European ghostis (stranger), reflecting the bond that unites them. (p. 91)

* A Roman banquet would include parasites . . . clients or retainers, fed at the table of a rich man … they were guests who would never turn into hostss… they were made the but of jokes, and were expected to fawn, flatter and be ridiculed for it. The emperor Augustus had an Etruscan parasite called Gabba, whose wife was as welcome at any dinner as he, for Maecenas, the emperor’s powerful friend and patron of the arts, was fascinated by her.

* Henry II of England gave a sergeantry to a man named Roland “de Pettour” or “le Fartere” and to his heirs, provided they could be counted upon to perform at his annual Christmas Day banquet saltum siffletum et pettum or bumbulum (“a leap, a whistle and a fart”) and a minstrel in Piers Plowman (ca 1380) complains that he lacks the skill to “fart in tune at feasts”. (p. 105)

* 13 has long been an unacceptable number for dinner. “An institution called the quatoriemes existed in 19th-century Paris. These were men who waited at home beetwen 5pm and 9pm every night, all dressed up and ready to step into the breach where any dinner party threatened suddenly the number 13. You could hire a presentable, experienced “fourteenth” whenever you needed one.” (p. 107)

* European medieval ceremony required that in a noble house hand-washing should be followed by an elaborate, often extraordinarily lengthy tasting ritual, where the food for the lord or his high table was “assayed” by officers whose job it was to die if the food should turn out to be poisoned. Tasting was called ‘credence,’ because of the belief or confidence which the ritual was meant to instil; side tables at feasts were known as credence tables” (hence credenzas)… Assaying could be done by touching the food with substances reputed to change colour or bleed if poison should be present. There were serpents’ tongues which specialized in testing salt (these are now said to have been in reality sharks’ teeth), narwhal (“unicorn”) horns, rhinoceros horns pieces of rock crystal, agate, or serpentine, and jewels said to be found in toads’ heads. (p. 139)

* The withdrawing chamber, which split from the great hall for the important people, “eventually split into two. The table, which it now normally contained, moved into a room of its own, which was known first in English as the ‘eating-room’, and then the ‘dining room’, a word which is first found in 1601, and which attained common usage during the 18th century … the diners could sit facing each other, not ranged along one side only, as they were when ‘on display’ in the hall.” (p. 147)

* In the 19th century, “a luncheon tablecloth was allowed to be only a runner, or lacy or pierced, so that the table showed through. … the dining table had become a valuable part of middle-class household furnishings, made of precious wood, polished till it gleamed, and proudly treasured. It became perfectly correct in the late 18th century to show of the table by removing all coverings for the last course, the dessert, of a formal meal, leaving only ‘doilies’, rather substantial flannel squares, in place to protect the wood from being scratched by the plates. These doilies, named after the 17th-century London draper called Mr. D’Oyley were the forerunners of our placemats.” (p. 157)

Feminism Theatre

Long-awaited revenge

Just landing in my inbox is a piece recalling Mary Daly’s “The End of God the Father: A little castration is called for if we are ever to get away from phallus-centered faith,” an article from 1972, which is appropriate really, since I’ve just returned from seeing Linda Marlowe’s very fine Believe, in which the women of the Old Testament really, really get their revenge on malekind. My review is on My London Your London – but in short: go and see it if you possibly can.

Theatre

Enough already. Please!

Over on My London Your London I have a review of Walking on Water at the White Bear Theatre. Great acting, a decently written script, but why oh why does the scenario have to be that old, despressing, “family abuse finally uncovered” as abused, damaged women get together. It’s supposed to be a comedy – no doubt someone will call it a “black comedy”, but I really needed that interval drink to get through the second act!

Arts History

Sleeping and dreaming, or mixing science and art

Over on My London Your London I’ve a report on my visit to the “Sleeping and dreaming” exhibition at the Wellcome collection – a bit of science, a bit of art, a bit of history, some snappy trivia – it might not make a whole, but as an approach it has interesting possibilities.