Apologies
to Bill Nelson and Be Bop Deluxe. Or maybe not, he lives round here after all.
NORTH YORKSHIRE is so very neat and
trimmed. Aldborough, with its maypole, even the ruins look fake. It stinks of
money, it absolutely reeks of it, and it is empty most of the time as people
are out earning or doing whatever they do, the elite. It was like being in an
episode of The Prisoner sometimes.
I expected someone to cycle past in a cape and boater, “be seeing you”.
This place is
where recirculation should begin. We went to the Treasurer’s House in York. I
spoke to a vicar who told me to read James Lees Milne’s diaries on the last owner
of the house. “Very racy”, he said. Then he told me that wallpaper was hung
loose until around 1800, and pointed out that the floor was effectively
hand-axed oak veneer. One room had the wood grain re-drawn on to it. The vicar
told me this was “flawless craftsmanship”. It looked like some kids had done it
with a felt tip. National Trust properties are often such bizarre collages.
On Wednesday we
went to Thirsk, a pretty town, with its Herriot Museum. I find it amazing that
it is still there after the popular TV series stopped broadcasting; I thought
it would be a dead attraction, at least after its first set of repeats. I can’t
get Patrick Wright out of my mind on this trip. The “modern past” is the very
fabric of North Yorkshire, its atoms, its dark matter.
Then we set off
to Kilburn, to the White Horse, a bit of mid-19th century medieval
fetishism, with an airfield at the top. More big toys. We passed the religious
college and giant cross at Ampleforth, then went through Byland Abbey, Rievaulx
Terrace, with its mock temples for rich dining, then on to Nunnington Hall.
Here were Joshua
Reynolds mezzotints, including one of Lawrence Sterne. I wondered what the
connection was, but there wasn’t one, the lady just liked to collect them.
Reynolds was called “Sir Sloshua” for his supposedly sloppy brushwork. I can’t
remember exactly which critic it was, but there’s one bit of information that
survived the onslaught of my art school hedonism. The rest of the house is
filled with pictures of aesthetic slums, sorry “the picturesque”, and a
mezzotint of the Governor of Burma. The Empire looms large here.
There was a tiny
“fake” Turner, actually it wasn’t even an attempt to fake one, or I don’t think
so, it just looked like his later abstracted seascapes. I don’t care about its
authenticity. It’s a good picture, but the volunteer looked puzzled when I
expressed this.
On Friday we
went to Richmond, to find soldiers, tanks, and a “Gaza Base”. The Empire is
still here, in North Yorkshire, with its glimpses of Prisoneresque white globes
on the horizon, nuclear early warning systems, to alert The Prisoner villages
that they have 10 more minutes to exist.
We passed right
through Bedale, as it looked completely boring, so we went on to our
pre-arranged visit to Moulton Hall a little early. You have to book, which
means phoning the life peer Lord Eccles beforehand to arrange for him to show
you around. We get there and he’s gardening, and is quite welcoming. We look at
his art collection; he has a Walter Steggles and the influence on John Nash, or
vice versa, is clear.
Byron owned the
house at one point, as it was his wife’s, Anne Millbanke, who he harassed for a
year and then left. Eccles starts talking about form, in regard to the
staircase, and I can’t stop thinking about Ada Lovelace and her work on the
first machine algorithm. It is unclear if Lovelace would ever have been in the
house, but my imagination explodes.
On Saturday we
go to Beningbrough Hall, its snooty staff match the content; at the moment an
exhibition of Royal portraits. A huge picture of the Royal Family hangs in the
entrance. It tries to show them as a “normal” family, and of course they are
not. That is the rhetoric of the image. But the monolithic scale of the picture
and the height at which it is hung makes them loom over the viewer, in spite of
all the jolly colours and casual poses. Beningbrough houses all of the county’s
18th Century portraits, and so there they are, more Sir Sloshua
pieces, and the Kit-Cat club pictures, anti-Catholic “Wits”, all hanging in the
half-dark to conserve them.
There are breaks
in the rhetoric though, an unfinished sketch of an 18th century
noble without the wig, his face suspended in grey. There is something
unintentionally active about this. Ultimately though, they just don’t get it here.
There is a Warhol of the Queen. They don’t understand that there is nothing
more meaningless than an image of the Queen of Britain, which is why Warhol selected
the image. But here the Queen is made meaningful again, by the iconic status of
“the Warhol”.
Meaning, here,
is the snake that eats its own tail. I’ll say it again: North Yorkshire is one
of the places on the island where the process of radical recirculation and
re-ordering should begin.