Derek Nice in the Studio

I’ve currently been reading Lisa Tickner’s new book on the ‘Sixties; pretty well every sentence so far sparks off exciting memories.The jibe is that if you can remember the ‘Sixties, you weren’t there. Not so: we do, and we were. So much was going on that there can only be a skein of overlapping narratives. You felt at the time that anything you could think of was possible, so impossible things happened too. Here is one memory.

One morning I rang Derek Nice. I’d been reading Huxley, who wrote that the most vulgar painting possible at the moment he was writing would be “Sunset over Ben Nevis, with Long-Haired Highland Cattle,” so naturally I wanted to paint it at once. I said ”Where can I get to see Long-Haired Highland Cattle?” and he said “I’ll ring the Zoo.”

DN was at that time living in a basement flat in Moscow Road , over the road from the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Divine Wisdom, with a couple of pin-ball machines as main furniture. It must have been the time when he was being a photographer, doing shoots with Annette Green for the stop-frame titles of the BBC series “Diary of a Young Man.” A bit later on he designed the titles for Ken Russell’s Debussy film.

Anyhow, he rang back to say “They haven’t any Long-Haired Highland Cattle, but they do have Gnus. Come over anyway, and we’ll do the Zoo.” So I went straight out and took the tube to Bayswater.

When I arrived we piled into the car. By this time there were four of us: Pauline had been DN’s girl-friend at Southend Art School but she had gone off, married an architect, and had two delightful daughters; more recently DN had been giving her driving lessons. The fourth person was Eric Clapton: DN had shared an apartment with him and others in the recent past, and had evidently invited him to join the party.

Once arrive we wandered rather disconsolately – but not slowly: it was freezing. Half the animals remained snugged up in their hidey-holes. DN and Clapton strode ahead, leaving me behind as a sort of companion for Pauline. DN was evidently distancing her, rather afraid that he might get involved in her divorce, marry her, and add two more children to what would be their joint family, as indeed happened in due course. The Zoo visit was clearly no longer the animal study event I had in mind, but had morphed into something entirely different.

The weather continued glacial, so when DN and Clapton turned into the Parrot House, we followed: it was much warmer inside. Clapton did not look entirely out of place, wearing a large shaggy coat, which I remember as reddish, over skinny trousers. Both he and DN struck up an acquaintance with a large important looking parrot, and having a comb handy in the recesses of his coat Eric poked it into the cage: the parrot seized it with a rugged claw. There was a brief tug of war, which the parrot won. After closely scrutinising the comb, it began a triumphal dance on its perch. hopping from one foot to the other. Observing this, Clapton joined in, hopping from foot to foot in front of the cage and increasing the tempo, which the parrot happily matched. Other cages began to follow suite, and soon the whole house was hopping. I began to imagine an incursion of indignant zoo-keepers, so I took Pauline by the arm and wheeled her smartly out to the pathway, where we waited for the others at a discrete distance. Eventually the two chaps emerged, the noise subsided, no keepers turned up, and the four of us resumed our brisk walk in search of a cup of tea.

I never met Clapton again. Walking as we did, two by two, we hardly spoke to each other on that walk: certainly Long-Haired Highland Cattle never came up. I didn’t paint the painting either – but the rest fell out as I have explained.

Derek reading, Wells

Storm Lady Immogen hammers our doors and our windows

it’s the fault of Aeolus for letting her out of his bag

and our fault as well, for tattooing a name on her

innocent shoulder.

Is she tempted to blow as when all Suffolk’s windmills

indignantly groaned into flame, with their arms madly whirling,

ripped oaks out like sprout stems, demolishing church-towers and drowning

some eight thousand sailors?

‘A once-in-five-hundred-year tempest,’ could blow up again, any minute.

because Gaia’s provoked, or a force generated at random ?

Either way we can’t see, cannot draw, this fierce air that we picture as sinister

isobars, sliding and clenching.

“But I love wind” you say, and we know what you mean is

the scent on spring breezes and bracing brown gusts in the autumn

that whirl leaves round our heads and throw rooks like old rags round the sky

But beware what you love, for

the Wind-God has ungentle daughters, his feline avengers:  

watch out for a day which is still, with the grass hardly moving,



when we peer through the pane, and we ask ourselves

‘What is that roaring?’

02 2016

Vicki Feaver’s welcome new collection of poems (“I Want! I Want!” Cape Poetry, London, 2019) has no fewer than 16 dedicatees – all family. It leaves me wondering why pictures are generally not dedicated, but have to stand alone in the chilly world of the 21st Century like frosted undies on a washing-line. Way back, they would have been commissioned, and in that sense certainly dedicated. Are we losing out? Should we painters be dedicating our pictures?

I don’t usually have anyone in mind when I paint a picture. Is this ‘normal’ or have I just been conditioned not to do so? Sometimes, afterwards I think “X might like this picture,” but strictly afterwards. I did paint a cubist still-life version of one of Nick Page (‘Dubulah’)’s guitars, because he asked me to, dedicated to him, obviously, but also inscribed on the back “ A long way after Georges, Juan and Pablo.”

Not possible to get them out of my mind. 

That somewhat special situation apart, I can only think of two pieces of my work which were, so to speak, “dedicated”. In both cases they were ‘To the memory of…’  The first of these was occasioned by the death of Georges Braque, painted in Dec/Jan ‘63/4. I always felt I should have tried to meet him. Someone who did introduced himself to Braque saying  “M Braque, I am a painter…..” to which Georges replied “Tiens! so am I!”  In “Flowers for George” the flower colours are broadly reversed, a sort of through-the-mirror concept as in “Orphee.”

The other piece, which I rediscovered recently, going through old work, was an aquatint of flowers in grass which I made somehow as a personal memorial to a colleague and friend, Hannah Gavron, whose loss in ’65 made me very sad.

The next time I start on a picture I will try to think who it should be aimed at.

How I met Derek Nice

I am on the whole a timid person, looking a very long time before I leap. My friend Derek Nice, who died recently, was the opposite. He seemed positively to enjoy the very act of leaping. As he precipitated many exciting events in my life, I can’t write about me without writing about him. We first met in Rochford Hospital in 1956.

Rochford was then a very small town a few miles north of Southend on Sea: I suspect it’s a lot bigger now. I knew it well then, because my friend and classmate David Austin (later the renowned Guardian pocket cartoonist), lived there: I often walked the dog out that way and he walked down to meet me so that we could stroll about, talking our heads off. On this occasion, however, I was in Rochford expressly to visit Yvonne Patterson, who was in hospital there. As I went up the stairs to an upper ward I saw that I was accompanying a tall rather handsome chap with a red neckerchief, obviously an arty type, probably on the same errand as me. We were introduced across her bed.

It was surprising that we had not met before because he had been studying at Southend Art School, where I had several friends; we had both taken part in Southend Shakespeare Society events, though not the same ones. Mine was merely ‘First Lord’ in “Love’s Labours Lost,” where I had two lines: “Lord Longeville is one” and “Here comes Boyet”. However, the SSS was a large, well organised society, and the spectacle was great. with the Royal Hunt coming up over the hill  chasing the ‘Stag’ across Chalkwell Park. Derek had a more distinguished SSS career: he had played “Othello” in a reading of the play, and knew speeches by heart, ready for declamation – literally on the tip of his tongue.

I hope we paid due attention to Yvonne that day, but we certainly did to one another. I had finished my first degree; he had finished at the Art School, and we both had a summer of freedom ahead, My parents went away on holiday, so we took over the breakfast room of 52 Earl’s Hall Avenue as a studio, drew, painted, made prints, threw pots, made and fired a kiln at the bottom of the garden, ending up with an Open Studio event. When we weren’t doing that we were careering round the place on various types of transport – DN borrowed a small car, or drove a Vespa, and on odd occasions we borrowed my parents’  tandem, me on the front & DN on the back, which must have looked very odd,  given that he was much taller than me. There was a round of parties, at which we took turns to tell interminable shaggy dog stories, with the unspoken rule that any embellishments added by one of us had to be retained in the next telling, so that the stories got longer and longer, culminating in a deeply groan-producing gag-line:  “And they all sang We’re Sliding a Gong on the Breast of a Slave….” for instance. When the Summer ended I went back to Oxford to write a thesis on some of Robert Browning’s poetry, and he went off, would you believe, to become (temporarily) Assistant Stage Manager at Bromley Repertory Company.

I’ve written elsewhere about how I came to live in 3 St John Street, Oxford in post-graduate days. Ethel Slay, our landlady, took to Derek immediately she met him. She enjoyed the charm he could put on, but she saw through that to the real person: “He can come and stay any time there’s a room free” she said, and her husband Wilf (son of an Oxford College Servant, and at that time a traveller for Chunky Marmelade), concurred. I remember vividly a party in the digs when we covered the walls with murals on brown wrapping paper, and various guests brought a dish; Paul Banham, who was still around, brought a large bowl of Chilli con Carne. And all the people in the house joined in. 

At some point in ‘57 or ‘58 ( the letter only says ‘Tuesday’, and for some reason there is no date-frank on the stamps) Derek wrote:

You may have heard already about DN and RN, anyway here possibly is a re-iteration.

 I have just received a splendid letter from the Admiralty informing me that My Lords Commissioners are offering me a post in Secondary Bilateral (1000+) TAL HANDAX Malta. And DN will be going in early Sept. 

THREE YEARS MATE!

Of course there are small-pox vaccinations/ Medicals/X-rays

And all that. And trunks and outfits allowances and London allowances and living out allowances and a 3 weeks course on how to dance the hornpipe. And I shall have to check up on me knot tying.

Later I left Oxford to teach as a Lektor at the Philipp’s University, Marburg, West Germany . We both got around in those days, though ten moves for him to every one of mine, along with, in today’s jargon, a great deal more band-width. I went on honing the skills of teaching and painting, and later on rediscovered that I could write poems. I became active in politics, (always from the ground up), which he never was.

Once back in England he taught himself photography, and did the intro sequence of the BBC’s 1964 series “Diary of a Young Man” directed by Ken Loach. 1965 brought titles for Ken Russell’s  Monitor Debussy film, and titles for Clive Donner’s “What’s New Pussycat” with Woody Allen. He directed commercials for ITV, a source of income for many young Film/TV people. Alas, the tv commercials eventually slumped, and he moved into house restoration. But then the house prices slumped too, and he went bankrupt. And had a breakdown. And then he picked himself up and carried on with the mixture as before.

He had  acquired a very substantial range of skills. If he could draw it, he could build it  – or run a team – and he loved being at the centre of a team’s energy. So he could and did build a Saharan Fort in a Dorset sand-pit – and a replica Viking longship, and the inside of a glacier for a Norwegian Glacier museum. And all the time he drew, painted, and made things, endlessly. 

We had always talked of working together professionally, as we had done in the past informally. One day I received a phone-call: he said ‘Come over here to Malta: I need you to write a script for me: I’m sending you a ticket. I said ‘I don’t know much about Malta…’ ‘Oh’, he said, ‘ It’s Gozo. You can mug it up.’ So we worked on that project for about a year; his son Adam did some of the sculpture, and my son Nick, with his friend Simon Walker made the music track. You could say it was a family event.

After “The Gozo Experience” in 1988,  a history of Gozo packed into an installation walk-through, finally cut down to fifteen minute  which then operated successfully as a tourist attraction for more than 20 years, he never found the Big One  –  the one which would provide him with continuing income and renown as well as a one off fee. Eventually he gave up anxting and settled, in these later years with Mary, to what he basically was, namely, a substantial, and very versatile, artist of our time, with all the values of a good craftsman.

His life exemplifies a truth which the conservative/capitalist mind-set denies: namely, that many lives which enrich society are spent cooperatively rather than competitively, without their own individual talent being disabled or diminished by this.

 A Jack of All Trades can be a Master too.


Redenhall Church from Green Lane. Oil on Canvas 60 x 70 cm. ©

Rosefield Corner, Dicky Hill Oil on canvas 08 2020 40 x 70 cm. ©

Ripping Out the Rose-rows, Dicky Hill oil on canvas 2021 65 x 100 cm. ©

In 1960/61 I was a lecturer at the West German University of Marburg/Lahn. My professor asked me to lecture on ‘British Institutions’. I wrote the ‘Monarchy’ lecture as a socratic dialogue, performed by one of my students and myself. Many students thought it presented the German view versus the British view, but it was more complicated than that. Anyway, here it is – the view from sixty years back.

A. I was reading the Grune Blatt the other day (I read it regularly of course, like most students): the main article was about Farah Dibah. I find that when it isn’t about her it’s about ex-Queen Soraya, or King Baudouin, or Queen Elizabeth, or Princess Alexandra. Even the ex-Kings of Jugoslavia and Spain, and old Farouk, and people with claims on the throne of France are in and out of the newspaper every day. (I can’t imagine why they’re so newsworthy).

B. Yes, I agree with you: it is odd that in our democratic countries the common people are so whole-heartedly concerned with the affairs of Royal Families – the elite, who read the Times and the Observer, like me (Top People, you know), don’t learn so much about them. The Court Circular in the Times tells us what the Royal Family is doing, and we’re sometimes discretely told that the Queen is suffering from a slight cold, but there it ends, and a good thing too,I think. Constant prying into the affairs of the Royal Family is a danger to the Monarchy, in the long run.

A. My God. You don’t really approve of the whole thing, do you?

B. Certainly I approve of it. It’s a much better system than a Presidency, with all the dubious political shuffling that goes with it. Look at America, where the highest representative of the state will be the leader of a Political Party – where, in other words, he won’t have the respect of more than half the population. Or look at France, where the President is a kind of lay Pope – a respected spiritual leader who is unable to to use his temporal power to ge anything done. Or again. look at Germany. Imagine the Prime Minister of England announcing that he’d decided to become King, and then a bit later. that he had decided not to, after all What a lot of Humbug! No, our solution is much more satisfactory, far more dignified.

A. I’m not sure I agree with this view of the American or German Presidencies, but then I’d rather have the leader of the State a human being, with some admirable qualities, and some faults, like Heuss was in Germany, or Tito is in Jugoslavia – he’s a very good example. I’d always prefer human beings to dignified puppets.

B. This only goes to show what a Romantic you are at heart. Tito is really a mediaeval King who fought his way to the throne through personal combat, and united a grateful people. Very Balkan, of course. But he wouldn’t do in a democracy – after all, he’s not only President of the State, but President of the National Assembley too – very powerful, in other words. You can’t bracket him with Heuss.

A. It’s interesting that you should bring Democracy into it: in the first place this raises a problem of definition. The President of America has as much power as Marshall Tito: does that mean America is not a democracy? In the second place I have serious doubts as to whether a Monarchy is compatible with a Democracy. But we can come back to this in a moment, The question is, what does work in your Democracy. In other words, if you think Tito has too much power, how much does Queen Elizabeth have?

B. Can I rephrase that, “What’s her position”? Well, she’s the Head of State, and the symbol of the State. She’s the permanent part of Parliament: laws are enacted by her together with the Houses of Lords and of Commons. Some things are theoretically hers – the Queen’s Government, the Royal Airforce, the Royal Mail= this is a convenient fiction. She’s also Queen of some other countries – Canada and Australia, for example- and she’sthe Head of the Commonwealth, recognised as such by even by Commonwalth Republics like India, and lastly she is the temporal head of the Church of England, which is the official State Church.

A. Let’s take the first matter. If the Queen has to give her assent to laws before they can be enacted, this ought to mean that she can interfere by refusing to give her consent. But this doesn’t in fact happen, does it?

B. There’s a long delay -a number of years – before official papers about the Monarchare released, so it’s difficult tosay for sure what’s happening, but I think recent Kings have abided by constitutional practice and simply accepted what their ministers presented to them. All the same, the King has certain rights. Bagehot, in his English Constitution, put it like this

,,,the sovereign has, under a constitutional monarchy such as ours, three rights – the right to be consulted, the right to encourage, and the right to warn.

and he pictures the Sovereign as saying: I do not oppose, it is my duty not to oppose, but observe that I warn.

The King often does this. Prince Albert, as he was dying, made suggestions about a message from the British Government to the Northern States in the American Civil War – it was so severe that if it had been sent, the North might have declared war on us. As it was, the message was softened, and they didn’t. Albert, , acting with Victoria, was fairly powerful. A constitutional monarch can’t really refuse to sign something in the long run, but he can put pressure in his Ministry. King Edward VII once delayed the announcement of official changes from early July to to late october simply by refusing to sign the necessary papers until his Minister explained to him in full detail what the changes would mean. [King Edward VII: A Biography by Sir Sydney Lee vII p.213 seq andp273 seq]

In those days there were Kings all over Europe, and they were generally related. The Tsar was a relative of Edward VII, the Kaiser was his nephew, and Leopold of the Belgians was his great-uncle. This meant that a good deal of diplomacy could be carried out by subtle hints in family letters . The Prime Minister would have an audience with Edward, who would write letter to Wilhelm, who would have a conference with his Chancellor. So that communications would be made without any official government notes. Edward himself had the concept of a sort of Trades Union of Kings. He refused to recognise the new King of Serbia until the assassins of the former king had been punished. He said:

.. I have another, and so to say, a personal reason. Mon metier a moi est d’etre Roi. KingAlexander was also by his metier ‘Un Roi’. As you see, I cannot be indifferent to the assassination of a member of my profession, or, if you like, a member of my guild.

We should all be obliged to shut up our businesses if we, the Kings, were to consider the assassination of Kings as of no consequence at all. I do regret, but you see that I cannot do what you wish me to do.

.. I have another, and so to say, a personal reason. Mon metier a moi est d’etre Roi. KingAlexander was also by his metier ‘Un Roi’. As you see, I cannot be indifferent to the assassination of a member of my profession, or, if you like, a member of my guild. We should all be obliged to shut up our businesses if we, the Kings, were to consider the assassination of Kings as of no consequence at all. I do regret, but you see that I cannotdo what you wish me to do.

This kind of Happy Families diplomacy has naturally died away. Within England, however, more recently, King George V persuaded Ramsay MacDonald to head a National Government; again, according to Herbert Morrison, George VI discussed particular death sentences with him when he was Home Secretary, Morrison did not accept his advice, but at least the King made his point. What it comes to is that the King sees all Government papers and signs many of them. If he is diligent in reading them he’ll have a very wide knowledge of what is going on, and since he is permanently there,and is above Party Politics,he’s in a good position to give impartial advice.

A. Assuming he isn’t also a normal human being with prejudices and preferences., but let’s stick to powers. It’s my turn to give an example. Have you read Lytton Strachey? Do you remember Queen Victoria’s advice to the First Lord of the Admiralty about the reform of the Navy?

“Her own personal feeling” she wrote. “would be for the beards without the moustaches, as the latter have rather a soldier-like appearance; but then the object in view would not be obtained, viz. to prevent the necessity of shaving. Therefore it had better be as proposed, the full beard, only it should be kept short and very clean.” After thinking over the question for another week, the Queen wrote a final letter, “to make one additional observation respecting the beards, viz. that on no account should moustaches be allowed without beards. That must be clearly understood.”

B. This is a very nice example of Victoria’s general tone. But I don’t see how it fits into the power question.

A. I admit I used it because it amuses me. But look at the way it is phrased: “on no account….. that must be clearly understood.” It sounds pretty uncompromising – almost dictatorial, What about Victoria’s memorandum to Palmerston, the Foreign Secretary in 1950, when she threatened to dismiss him if he altered dispatches after she had approved them, although the right of appointing or dismissing the Foreign Secretary properly belongs to the Prime Minister? Or what about her remark “a democratic monarchy is what she will never belong to”? If Albert had lived longer she might seriously have opposed giving the vote to the working classes. What is there to stop the present Queen from hindering the Government in the same way?

B, Nothing at all – except custom. That and the fact that Kings have become more and more democratic.

A, You mean more and more middle-class.

B. Perhaps, but as that’s the only class that’s left, it is democracy.

A. I suppose I asked for that. Anyhow, it all boils down to the fact that the Monarch has theoretically the power to do a great deal, but in practice doesn’t dare to do a thing.

B. There is one exception, The Monarch decides which people are to be honoured with the Order of Merit, The Garter, The Thistle, and the Royal Victorian Order. Apart from that you’re quite right. But it isn’t that the Monarch doesn’t dare, it’s that Monarchs havea great sense of duty – public service.

A. Oh, really. I thought I was supposed to be the Romantic. Let me put it another way. A satisfactory constitutional Monarch must either be very lazy or very stupid, or, if they dare to be intelligent, mustn’t use that intelligence to get anything done. The Monarch must try not to let anyone notice them until after they are dead.

B. I shouldn’t dream of contesting that Kings have been stupid and lazy, but you see it doesn’t matter! It’s the institution which counts, not the person.

A. Can you really believe that? What would happen if the next King happened to have a personality like Henry VIII – intelligent, wilful, and a natural leader? He’d hardly fit in, would he?

B. I imagine he’d eventually abdicate, as Edward VII did

A. And everything would go on as if nothing had happened?

B. I expect so.

A. We shan’t make much progress here. What about the second part of the Queen’s position, that she is the titular head of the Commonwealth. What powers does that involve?

B. None at all, as far as I can see. The Preamble of the Statute of Westminster of 1931 describes the Crown as the symbol of the free association of the members of the British Commonwealth of Nation. But you shouldn’t place so much emphasis on power. Symbolic

values often achieve a great deal. For example, during the War, George VII used to travel in from Windsor to work in Buckingham Palace. I’ve seen this ridiculed by AJP Taylor, but it must have been an immense boost to the morale of the British people to know that he was in England, and in London, during the worst German air attacks. Or again, for symbolic value, think of German President Heuss’ State Visit to London. I think that public respect for Heuss did a great deal to improve British feeling about the Germans.

A. This is probably a good example for the assertion that Presidents are just as good as Kings, for practical purposes.

B. On the contrary: Presidents change. and by vote. And the next one may not necessarily command as much respect as the last one.

A. I think you wll find that Monarchy is as vulnerable as Presidency: I doubt whether respect for the Monarchy would survive a succession of really bad Kings -and of course no-one can really make a King abdicate if he doesn’t want to, whereas a President is under control. What’s more, there’s a bit of a choice when iit comes to Presidents. Kings have an awful inevitability. But let’s come to the last thing you said about the Queen. About her religious position. Does this give her any real power,or is it just another formality?

B. The Queen is the temporal head of the Church of England. Her title to the Crown derives from the Act of Settlement 1701. which said:

The Crown shall remain and shall continue to the said most excellent Princess Sophia and the heirs of her body being protestant.

Because of this a King may not be a Roman Catholic or marry a Roman Catholic, and must swear to maintain the established Church. Before you go on, A, let me say that I can see the corner you are trying to drive me into.

A. In you go, all the same. Do you realise what all this adds up to? The King is obliged to carry out his Royal duties, which occupy most of his time and may work him to death, as they worked George VI to death. He may not go where he pleases or do what he pleases because his time and his person are at the disposal of the nation. He may not do anything positive for the good of his subjects except to warn ministers, and he must stand by powerless and watch these ministers when they do various things which make the nation appear aggressive or idiotic. He may not marry whom he pleases; he must choose from foreign Royalty – with one or two honourable exceptions a scruffy lot of rootless emigrees – or from British noble families, on whom I won’t comment, and furthermore, only from those of them who are Protestants. Naturally he can’t worship which god he pleases. And lastly, or perhaps first of all, he can’t choose Royalty as a career: it’s thrust upon him, and he can do nothing about it. Really, B, it’s intolerable. He hasn’t the democratic rights of his subjects, whom he is supposed to represent. Isn’t that a subtle corruption, the just British State with its head in an iron mask?

B. Oh come. No-one has to become King. And of course anyone who feels he can’t do the job properly can abdicate, like Edward VIII.

A. That’s a very naïve point of view, Kings are brought up as Kings: they are educated from the start In the idea that they are above the level of others, that they have a duty to the State, and so on and so forth.Your suggestion that no-one has to become a King would be a reasonable one if you could point out one example of an heir to the throne who refused to take up the crown. As for your example of abdication, Edward VIII provides perfect fuel for my argument. He abdicated and married, and then what? Does he seem to be living a full and satisfied life? I can’t believe it, Look at the photographs. Just consider this. After he had abdicated when he wrote an article in a Sunday paper in 1953. an article critical of the Labour Party, Herbert Morrison could write this – and remember that Morrison was a Labour Home Secretary, and, mind you, an important member of the Labour Party:

Such an expression of opinion critical of any political party on the part of any former Monarch is, I think, unfortunate. It confirms my personal view that ex- Monarchs are wise to be silent and not to live in a country or countries over whch they formerly ruled.

The Labour Party is the one which is supposed to believe in equality! In plain words when personal honesty leads him to give up the one job he has been brought up to do, when he realises that he’s not trained to do anything else, the advice from the Labour Party is, Shut up and get out. Take a more recent case. Mr Armstrong-Jones married Princess Margaret. He’s a commercial photographer: I’ve seen some of his photographs and they are really good, But from now on he won’t work as a photographer, because Royalty don’t engage in commerce. Another good man reduced to opening flower-shows and twiddling his thumbs.

B. I can understand your feeling here, in fact I think I more or less agree with you. Monarchs and Princesses ought to be allowed to live natural lives, and in Norway and Sweden they approach far nearer to the ideal than we do. I would certainly like to see certain reforms to the way the Monarchy is treated; some reforms have been suggested by Lord Altringham (a good Royalist if ever there was one). But you see what happened to him. He was abused in the daily papers, and his face was slapped in the street. The British Public just don’t seem ready for these reforms.

A. An argument I’ve heard before for not reforming anything of social importance that needed to be reformed – the Death Penalty, the Homosexuality Law – it’s even used about joining Europe, though there isn’t a scrap of evidence to prove that the Public are so unprepared.

B. Or a scrap of evidence to prove the contrary. So we shall stick to our very different estimates. But I want to return to your argument. I suppose that I should have agreed that a great deal of sacrifice is expected of a King and a Royal Family; fortunately their devotion to their indispensible office gives them the strength to make that sacrifice. Because my fundamental contention is that the Monarchy is indispensible. You’ve used Morrison: let me add Attlee, who was Prime Minister from 1945 – 51. He recently said that democracies with a Monarchy are more democratic than ones with a President. Well then, if the job is essential, someone has to do it: I’d hate the job – and I’d hate others too. Think of being a dustman – but there have to be dustmen; I think it’s terrible that there are still miners. I’d like to abolish mining, it’s degrading and appallingly dangerous, But you know that we have to have miners, and we also have to have Monarchs. But I expect you won’t agree there.

A. No, I certainly won’t. I would like to see the Monarchy abolished, and I don’t think it at all essential,

B. You know that Philip Toynbee said that wanting to abolish the Monarchy was the sign of a false radical?

A. Toynbee’s remark was a sillly one: all he really meant was that some things are more urgent than others. In any case I’m not the spiritual heir of Toynbee, or or of Atlee, or of Morrison, You can’t talk about ‘Radicals’ just like that, any more than you can talk about “The English.’ As I said, I’d like to do away with the Monarchy. But it doesn’t depend on me. It’s bound to come to an end anyway. We can’t tolerate this inequality in a democratic state. Think of the things which are hitched to it. An established Church – a kind of in-built religious intolerance. The Nobility – a self-renewing growth of class-distinction and social inequality. A focus for the most vicious of vitues, Patriotism ( you can’t deny that the extremest nationalists are the most fervent Royalists). An encouragement of inequality in education (since the Royal children will receive Public School education outside the State System). And the utter ruin of the design of our Postage Stamps.

B. Whatever you say, I should hate to see it all disappear, and I wonder how happy you would be with the mangled remains left after your reforms? But I won’t argue about these things, because I want to show you how impractical your ideas are. Supposing you had a party whose members had decided to abolish the Monarchy. Before those who were elected became Members of Parliament they would have to take the oath, which goes like thi:

I swear by Almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, her heirs and successors, according to Law. So help me God.

Anyone who refused to swear wouldn’t become an MP. And if your Republicans did swear, they would have to break their oath to carry out their programme. For this they could be, and probably would be, tried in a court of law. Even withut the Parliamentary Oath they would probably be committing High Treason, which includes trying to kill the King, the Queen, or the heir to the throne, or starting a revolution to overthrow the Government (by action, not by speaking or writing). The punishment for High Treason, by the way, is Public Execution, so the Republicans might end up hanged in rows on Tower Hill, just as, in A P Herbert’s story, the whole Parliamentary Party was sent to prison for breaking the electoral laws. If the MPs got into Parliament, they might not be allowed by the Speaker to debate the abolition of the Monarchy, because it is quite ‘Out of Order’ to ‘utter treasonable or seditious words, or to use the Queen’s name irreverently, or to influence the debate’. Even if Bills were passed, they would have to be given the Royal Assent – and under the circumstances the Queen might refuse to give it – and she might be constitutionally right to refuse too. As long as there was any opposition in Parliament or the country it would cripple the Republicans, because the system is weighted very strongly in favour of the Monarch. The Republicans would have to keep on holding General Elections to make sure the Public were supporting them, otherwise they couldn’t find out what the Public thought, since there isn’t any machinery in England for the holding of plebiscites As the Queen was the head of the Established Church this would also lead to a religious conflict.

A. It’s alarming that we can’t abolish the Monarchy without fighting the Church down to the very last vicar. But at the same time that we can’t disestablish the Church without abolishing the Monarchy. It’s really an insoluble riddle.

B. Only insoluble if you want to disestablish the Church. Why not leave it alone? It doesn’t do any harm, nobody takes the least bit of notice of it – which may be bad for it spiritually, but at any rate stops it from being effectively intolerant. And the Church helps the National economy by putting all its money into steel shares. But I haven’t finished yet. The Queen is the figure-head of the Commonwealth, by the Statute of Westminster, which we mentioned before. If a member of the Commonwealth wants to alter its status, the other nations have to approve its staying in the Commonwealth. You will see this process in action soon, because South Africa has decided to become a Republic. If you had your way we might get the ridiculous situation of Britain being thrown out of the Commonwealth and Queen Elizabeth continuing to rule as Queen of Canada and Australia – I daresay they’d be glad to have her. We should be a minor hive-off, like the Irish Republic, only without the dignity of having fought for it. And so, eventually, your reform would take years to achieve, would split the nation, and wouldn’t bring about enough changes to justify the vast sums of money which would have to be spent on it.

A. Here we are, back at money again. How much does the Queen cost, by the way?

B. No, you can’t escape that way.The Queen’s grant from Parliament (The Civil List) was £475,000 per annum as from 1952. That’s not quie two pence per head of population. I don’t suppose they mind paying 2d per year for King or Queen, do you? The money covers a lot of necessary expenses, remember. Then on top of that Prince Philip got an annuity of £40.000. But consider what a marvelous tourist attraction they are. We must make millions out of that. Presidents don’t excite the tourists, but I bet you they don’t cost much less.

A. I’ve no idea how much a President costs, but you don’t tempt me into this argument. This is the big financier excuse – it makes money, so it can’t be wrong. I asked because I was curious, not because I wanted to change the subject. The fact that the Monarchy works and would take effort to change seems sufficient to convince you that it is right, But somebodyhas to think about the truth. If I am right, that it injures the moral health of the nation, and isn’t compatible with democracy – and I believe that I am right – then it will have to go in the end. However, in the mean time I shan’t go around in a dark cloak potting High Treason in dark corners.I shall just sit down peacefully and wait for the next bad king. He’ll do my work for me very effectively. I wonder how Prince Charles will turn out?

B. Yes, I wonder how Prince Charles will turn out too. And here , it seems to me, we might as well close the discussion, because we’re back where we started – the truth about Prince Charles is bound to be revealed to regular readers of the Grune Blatt.

The Wisdom Tree oil on canvas 49 x 40 cm

Raincloud on Claypit Hill . oil on Canvas 60 x 100
Green-Field Sky-Lines . oil on canvas . 91 x 91

Rose-Plants on Dicky Hill, Winter

We went to the Cut on Saturday to pick up our paintings, bemoaning the fact that we had not managed to see the exhibition – but lo and behold, it had been prolonged for another week, so still time for anyone to go before it finally comes down. It’s as good a mixed exhibition as I’ve seen, and beautifully hung. It’s such a fine group of spaces, an enormous asset to the region: drinks and cake also available, and no fuss.

The ethos of this show, which has normally recurred each year, is admirable. Up to three submissions, and a guarantee that at least one work will be shown (though I believe that, most times, everything  submitted has been shown), so no room for discriminatory distortion.

Go see, if you can get there!

Such a great space!

 

6 am in the kitchen, swatting flies 

yes, I proclaim the sanctity of life, 

expect, though, to be swatted in my turn, 

or faded out –

not a reward for my hypocrisy 

just how things come about

I miss your voice: “Hi Dad,” upon the phone.

I horsed you on my shoulders in the heat,

and when my hair had gone, 

enjoyed your diatribes – contested some

absorbed your sound.

The morning light   

Slices the hill in two, illuminates

these tall umbellifers against the dark,

beyond words beautiful, as it will always do,

not needing anyone to share the view.

Nicholas/Nikos Plato Page, ‘Count Dubulah’

 b. 4 Nov 1960, d. 11 May 2021

His mother Billi  was beating some eggs when she had to be rushed off, prematurely, to the Frauenklinik. In those days you weren’t allowed in. I walked up and down the streets of Marburg for a few hours. Then I met Nick for the first time. He was mainly purple and yellow.

Playing for Pinkie

He was christened Nikos/Nicholas because the name works in most European languages, and Plato after his English great-uncle, who fought in WW1 and served in WW2. He was international from birth, with a German birth certificate, and one from the British Consul, with a British father and a Swedish/Greek mother. 

Nick, and then also Boo, had wonderful childhood months in their great-grandmother’s dappled citrus orchard in Galatas. From Yiayia Eleni’s house, the well and cistern with the banana tree over them, Harikleia’s few flowers, down through orange, lemon, and grapefruit trees, through the pomegranates and figs to the open garden, and the eucalyptus trees crisp underfoot at the water’s edge. Blue sky, the blue sea-channel, and then the white piled-up houses of Poros opposite.  It was like the Garden of Eden.

 But the first winter we spent there was too damp for Nick, who got pneumonia. So we packed everything, and went back to Britain. We stayed (rather too long) with my parents. Two friends came back to Southend and said “Come and join us in St Ives”. I discussed this with my old mentor, Tony Oldfield, and he said “Take risks when you’re young. You won’t when you’re old.” So we moved to St Ives with Nick, and it was as beautiful as Poros. His sister, Boo was born in Redruth. But there had to be a move back to earning a living – to London. Tony as mentor again: he said “ There’s this new thing in the Art Schools called ‘Complementory Studies’. You could do that.” So I applied to Hornsey, got a job, and settled  to creating the new subject with colleagues. We stayed for a while with the Darracotts, (I knew Joe from Oxford), and then bought a run-down terraced house at 14 Hanley Road N4.

Marital life did not go so well once I was away working  for much of the time, weekdays. Eventually Billi moved away with the kids. I missed them, but thought (wrongly) that I should keep out of the way for a while. The Hornsey sit-in happened, (May/June 1968) and the kids were looked after by the Hanley Road Commune when they came. Week-end visits were eventually regular, when they were in this country – they were abroad a lot. Boo asked me for a story. I asked what was to be in the story? She said “A Giant, a Witch, and a Dragon” So I wrote “Ferocious the Puppydragon” for her. Richard Mabey introduced me to Kaye Webb and my little paste-up became a Puffin book. Its provisional title was “Boo’s Book.”

Nick lived in what I thought of as posh London, which didn’t stop him from being beaten-up at a bus stop. I was once rung up one day by the Police t to say he had been arrested. Apparently some friends of his had nicked drink for a party while he was in bed asleep. A friendly solicitor got him released, but not before he had been interrogated and leaned on heavily to ‘confess’. He had a very fierce sense of justice.

At age 14 he was not getting on well with his step-father and so it was agreed (at the last minute, as usual) that he should came to live with me. I had a few days to get him into Woodberry Down School. I had to buy him a uniform, Within a week or two the tie was in tatters. Nick did not believe in uniforms. I went to a school ‘Parents Day’. Michael Marland, the Head, said “Typically badly dressed, Nicholas,” and Nick replied, as to an equal, something like “ Getting along fine, thank you.”  Much later on in the school I said to him, forcibly, “I have to make you get five ‘O’ levels to survive out there.” He said “If I get them, will you promise not to make me do ‘A’ levels?” I said “Yes.” He said “OK, I’ll get them,” and he did. I don’t think anyone ever asked him for his ‘O’s. That was the last time I ever bossed him about.

By this time there was a lot of music going on in the attic of 14 Hanley Road N4. Performers and aides I remember were Boleslaw Uzarjevski, Rick O’Toole, Dan Flowers, Douggie Trendle, and various embryo bands. Weekdays I was away teaching. Some of the neighbours talked of a petition against the noise – I heard about that afterwards. Nick was perpetually hungry. I used regularly to walk down to Sainsbury’s in the Holloway Road and fill up a big ruck-sac with provisions. I said “There was a large loaf in the kitchen when I left this morning!” Nick said “I was hungry.”

He went off to music college, accepted on the basis that he had perfect pitch. But he left before the end of the course, and pretty soon entered a skin-of the-teeth life of squats, staying alive, and music. Records and albums somehow came out. He did some singing in those days. One reviewer said “ Sounds like Captain Beefheart, and sings like a demented bullfrog.”  My old friend Phil and I went to hear him perform in Norwich with a band called Slab, whose main intention was to give your ears a nervous breakdown. We fled after three numbers, but so did young people. In the pub, over the road, Phil said “ I think I could have enjoyed that, if I’d had a couple of spliffs beforehand.” Later groups were less about the volume, more about the music.

Nick was always scrabbling about, desperately trying to make the next happen. He didn’t think of security. I said to him “You can’t be an impressario and a composer/performer at the same time.” and he said “I know,” but went on all the same. There was a kind of stability in movement, the music took him all round Europe, to Mexico, Africa, India, Australia and New Zealand. Like Bartok he always looked for the connections, the way the music could go where the current took it, and come back refreshed.

Then he met Cristina, sold up in England, and moved to Spain. I said “Why Spain?” He said “ The tomatoes are better.” Basically he said that all he needed was to be near a major airport – work and fellow musicians were all over Europe, and the world. Spain was a cheaper place to live for someone who lived on the margins. “I can live on lentils”, he said. And then there was Cristina, and sunshine.

Brexit demoted him from a European citizen living at home, to a foreigner in Spain. Everything suddenly became complicated and difficult. Brexit was a catastrophe for him, and for British Music, and for World Music, that magnanimous concept. Insanity, we both thought. Suddenly there was no freedom to move, imposts on every movement, taxes on the movements of instruments…. The effect on him was not theoretical: it was immediate and crippling. Åfter my sister’s death from cancer in 2016 (like me, he took turns to stay to help look after her in her last months),  he also developed cancer (of the aesophagus); and had a major operation in Spain, with follow up treatment at University College Hospital, London, meanwhile applying for permanent residence in Spain. He wanted to apply for Greek citizenship, which would have brought him a dual nationality, back as an EC citizen. But sadly the documentation of his mother’s birth was missing – a long-term consequence of the Nazi occupation of Greece. He was incapacitated by illness for some of the time, but Covid finally made a working life not just extremely difficult but actually impossible. Here in England, where his business was based, and where he had always paid taxes and National Insurance, he applied for the Government subsistence money for creatives, but was turned down on the grounds that he wasn’t earning enough money to need it.  (No, dear reader, I can’t understand either). 

He was good at creative anger, in the Gulley Jimson way: he and I together cursed the most incompetent government of my lifetime, the idiots who had voted for Brexit thinking that this would lead to more freedom rather than very much less.. and many more stupidities.  But he was basically a warm, friendly optimist, generous with his time to friend or acquantances, using whatever means were available to him to go on creating.  He was determined to beat  his cancer, but went on anyway, relentlessly making music. Towards the end of February he sent me, as a birthday card, a version of Dylan’s “ I Shall Be Free”  which he sang, accompanied, and mixed. For some years we had had long phone-calls or FaceTimes at least once a week. We shared our views of the world. He had become an old friend.

With all the rest of the family, I shall miss him dearly. But the music, which was his life, will go on playing,

May Frost. oil on canvas. 40 x 60 cm