Remembering Virginia Woolf on her birthday

A slightly belated homage to Virginia Woolf on the anniversary of her birth, 25 January 1882: one of my early woodcuts, dated 1992, now hanging in our upstairs library. Scroll down for a closer view.

The work hangs below a woodcut portrait of Dorothy Parker (1991), another literary hero. Other works, left, from top, include a small, very early linocut, dated 1986, a homage to another favourite author, Jean Rhys, whose novel Wide Sargasso Sea I was reading at the time. The painting directly below it is by Shane Jones, followed by a drawing by Paul Compton. On the top right hand side is a tapestry by Joy Smith. 

On my UK trip in September/October 2023, I didn’t make it to Monk’s House, the former home of Virginia and Leonard Woolf, although I have been there on previous occasions. I did, however, manage a day trip to Charleston, formerly the home of Virginia Woolf’s sister, Vanessa Bell, and her partner, Duncan Grant. The plaster bust of Virginia Woolf (1931) by British sculptor Stephen Tomlin displayed in their studio (pictured below) was snapped during my visit.

What is the meaning of life? That was all - a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one.

― Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse, 1927

Happy Birthday, Dorothy Parker

 

A slightly belated Happy Birthday to the late short-story writer, poet, screenwriter and critic, Dorothy Parker, who was born on 22 August 1893.

Currently I’m undertaking the mammoth task of cleaning out my plan cabinets and have just come across some dog-eared copies of this book plate, a linocut made as a birthday gift for a friend way back in 1987.

It incorporates Dorothy Parker’s poem, INVENTORY:

“Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye”.

Looking again at the image after many years, I’ve just realised the clock, vase, cocktail shaker and one of the two cocktail glasses are still in my possession. 

POSTSCRIPT:
Coincidences certainly abound today. I’d just finished posting the above on my social media pages when Shane brought in the mail. My London-based friends, Bev and Roger Murray, have sent me the attached article, clipped from the 9 July edition of The Times. 

Click on images for a clearer view.

I Wished on the Moon

Deborah Klein, I Wished on the Moon, 2022, hand-coloured linocut, 34.5 x 26.8 cm, ed. 20

Printed by Simon White at the Australian Print Workshop, Melbourne 

Photo credit: Tim Gresham 

After nigh on three-and-a half-decades as a practicing artist, the time is ripe to revisit and re-evaluate the past in order to clear a pathway for the creation of new narratives. 

Accordingly, my current works gather together and re-contextualise the myriad of accumulated influences, motifs, themes and personal iconography that have directed it thus far. Among these are insects, particularly moths, and the meticulously braided hairstyles of my anonymous protagonists, the Rückenfiguren, or figures seen from behind. 

From the outset, music has been a key influence. In this instance, the work begins and ends with the song from which it takes its title and much of its narrative content. 

I first heard I Wished on the Moon several years ago on a reissue of Mel Tormé’s classic recording, Swinging on The Moon,  a compilation of moon-themed jazz standards originally released in 1960.

It was one of the few songs on the CD I was unfamiliar with. Moved by the plaintive melody and bittersweet lyric, I was compelled to look into its authorship and history. The music was written in 1935 by Ralph Rainger, a prolific composer whose work I’ve long admired. But the real surprise was the identity of the lyricist. Dorothy Parker is best known as a writer of prose and poetry and is one of my favourite authors. Her writings have had a profound impact on many of my works. I was aware she was one of several people who contributed lyrics to the original production of Leonard Bernstein’s scathingly brilliant operetta, Candide (1956), but she is not generally known as a lyricist. I can find only one other lyric penned by her, and it’s also a standard. (1)  I wish she had written more, and wonder why she didn’t. 

I Wished on the Moon (detail)

The exquisite longing expressed in Dorothy Parker’s lyric set the stage for my work. The linocut doesn’t specifically seek to illustrate the song, but does take a number of cues from it. These lines prompted the inclusion of the evening star as part of my own narrative:

‘’I begged of a star

To throw me a beam or two;

Wished on a star

And asked for a dream or two…”

And its chorus encapsulates the entire work:

“I wished on the moon

For something I never knew;

Wished on the moon

For more than I ever knew;

A sweeter rose, a softer sky, an April day

That would not dance away.”

I Wished on the Moon has its own Wikipedia Page, which lists some notable recordings. These are my own favourites: Ruth Etting (1935) Billie Holiday (1951) and Mel Tormé (1960). Notably, all three artists have chosen to retain its verse. By comparison, Bing Crosby, who introduced the song in the film, The Big Broadcast of 1936, where he performed it in its entirety, omitted the verse and sang only one chorus in his 78 rpm soundtrack recording. 

Luna moth (Photo credit: Emmett Tullos, Jackson AL, US) (2)

Fittingly, the great winged insect that literally has my protagonist’s back is a Luna moth. 

The founder of modern taxonomy, Swedish zoologist, physician and botanist, Carl Linnaeus (1707 - 1778), included the species in the tenth edition of his Systema Naturae, (1758). He named it Phalaena luna, later Actias luna, with luna derived from Luna, the Roman moon goddess. Subsequently, its common name became "Luna moth". 

In mythology, the Luna moth is chiefly associated with rebirth, transformation, transience, resilience and new beginnings.

Dorothy Parker (Photographer unknown)

Ralph Rainger’s haunting melody, so perfectly matched by Dorothy Parker’s heart-rending lyric, played in my head throughout the creation of this work. Because of the song’s apparently idiosyncratic nature, however, I was initially reluctant to attach its title to my own work. In fact,  Dorothy Parker’s lyric for I wished on the Moon transcends the personal. After all, who among us hasn’t wished on the moon, or even longed to go there?

My linocut I Wished on the Moon is part of the 2020-2022 APW George Collie Memorial Exhibition at the Australian Print Workshop, opening today, Saturday, 6 August. 

The exhibition is current to Saturday, October 1. 

(1) How Am I to Know? (1929). Music by Jack King, lyrics by Dorothy Parker. You can hear Billie Holiday sing it HERE.

(2) This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license. The image was originally posted to Flickr by ravensong75 at https://flickr.com/photos/12938199@N00/2494163376 (archive). It was reviewed on 18 November 2017 by FlickreviewR 2 and was confirmed to be licensed under the terms of the cc-by-2.0

Travelling Light

Pictured above: my survival strategy for these troubled times: Travelling Light (1996, linocut, 30 x 30 cm. Collections: Australian Print Workshop, Melbourne, Vic., National Gallery of Australia, ACT., Art Gallery of Ballarat, Vic and others).

It's been many years since I've set eyes on this print. Recently I came upon it whilst going through the archive of my work at the Australian Print Workshop. On the far left are Dorothy Parker and Diva, our two much loved cats at the time this work was made.

Stay safe, everyone.

Dorothy Parker, Part 2

This second of a two-part post focusing on Dorothy Parker's writings that have directly and indirectly inspired my own work features three more of her verses and the opening paragraphs of the story Sentiment. Unfortunately, it’s too long to reproduce entirely (including its bittersweet ending). I hope that those not familiar with the tale will be encouraged to seek it out in book form. For me, Parker’s short stories are her finest literary achievements. Several of the most memorable, including Sentiment, are interior monologues.

To sample another of her stories that take this form - and for a complete contrast in mood - revisit Dorothy Parker’s  The Waltz, Blog Post Sunday March 8, 2009, by clicking HERE.

A word to those wanting to make a closer acquaintance with the work, with the intention of forming a more lasting relationship: ultimately,  her words are best experienced by way of the privacy and intimacy of the printed page, not on a computer screen.

 Sentiment (excerpt)

Oh, anywhere, driver, anywhere – it doesn’t matter. Just keep driving.

It’s better here in this taxi than it was walking. It’s no good my trying to walk. There is always a glimpse through the crowd of someone who looks like him – someone with his swing of the shoulders, his slant of the hat. And I think it’s he, I think he’s come back. And my heart goes to scalding water, and the buildings sway and bend above me. No, it’s better to be here. But I wish the driver would go fast, so fast that that people walking by would be a long gray blur, and I could see no swinging shoulder, no slanted hat. It’s bad stopping still in the traffic like this. People pass too slowly, too clearly, and always the next one might be  - No, of course it couldn’t be. I know that. Of  course I know it. But it might be, it might.

And people can look in and see me, here. They can see if I cry. Oh, let them – it doesn’t matter. Let them look and be damned to them.

Yes, you look at me. Look and look and look, you poor, queer tired woman. It’s a pretty hat, isn’t it? It’s meant to be looked at. That’s why it’s so big and red and new, that’s why it has these great soft poppies on it. Your poor hat is all weary and done with. It looks like a dead cat, a cat that was run over and pushed out of the way against the curbstone. Don’t you wish you were I and could have a new hat whenever you pleased? You could walk fast, couldn’t you, and hold your head high and raise your feet from the pavement if you were on your way to a new hat, a beautiful hat, a hat that cost more than ever you had? Only I hope you wouldn’t choose one like mine. For red is mourning, you know. Scarlet red for a love that’s dead. Didn’t you know that?……

Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom

Daily dawns another day;


I must up, to make my way.


Though I dress and drink and eat,


Move my fingers and my feet,


Learn a little, here and there,


Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,


Hear a song, or watch a stage,


Leave some words upon a page,


Claim a foe, or hail a friend-


Bed awaits me at the end.





Though I go in pride and strength,


I'll come back to bed at length.


Though I walk in blinded woe,


Back to bed I'm bound to go.


High my heart, or bowed my head,


All my days but lead to bed.


Up, and out, and on; and then


Ever back to bed again,


Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall -

I'm a fool to rise at all!

Interior

Her mind lives in a quiet room,

A narrow room, and tall,

With pretty lamps to quench the gloom

And mottoes on the wall.

There all the things are waxen neat,

And set in decorous lines,

And there are posies, round and sweet,

And little, straightened vines.

Her mind lives tidily, apart

From cold and noise and pain,

And bolts the door against her heart,

Out wailing in the rain.

Resume

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp;

Guns aren't lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

The fragment from Sentiment and the poems reproduced above originally appeared together in The Portable Dorothy Parker, as arranged by Mrs. Parker in 1944. An expanded version is in print as a Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition (paperback) first published in 2006. It’s a handsome volume, although to put it mildly, I’m not an admirer of the cover illustrations, particularly those on the inside back cover.

There are numerous online links to Dorothy Parker’s printed works. One of them is HERE. Along with Oscar Wilde, Dorothy Parker is arguably one of the most quoted authors of all time. To discover her point of view, see Oscar Wilde according to Dorothy Parker on Moth Woman Press HERE.

Images from top:

Dorothy Parker (photograph by Associate Press, 1941)

Reflections, 1996, linocut, chine colle. Collection: Silk Cut Foundation

Her Mind Lives in a Quiet Room, 1994, woodcut

The Little Hours, 1994, woodcut (detail)

Dorothy Parker, 1994, woodcut, chine colle

Dorothy Parker, Part 1

As some visitors to this blog may be aware, I’m a longtime admirer of the poetry and prose of Dorothy Parker, which for me - and a great many others, I’m sure - gain in resonance with every passing year. Alternatively comedic and tragic, cruel and kind, cynical and sentimental, bitter and sweet, despairing and hopeful, they are filled with contradictions – but almost invariably razor-sharp. In one form or another, her verse and short stories have infiltrated my own work many times, both directly and indirectly. Here are some examples:

One Perfect Rose

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.

All tenderly his messenger he chose;

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet --

One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret:

`My fragile leaves,' it said, `his heart enclose'.

Love long has taken for his amulet

One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet

One perfect limousine, do you suppose?

Ah no, it's always just my luck to get

One perfect rose.

Sanctuary

My land is bare of chattering folk;


The clouds are low along the ridges,


And sweet's the air with curly smoke


From all my burning bridges.

Words of Comfort to be Scratched on a Mirror

Helen of Troy had a wandering glance;

Sappho's restriction was only the sky;

Ninon was ever the chatter of France;

But oh, what a good girl am I!

Bric-a-Brac

Little things that no one needs―

Little things to joke about―

Little landscapes, done in beads.

Little morals, woven out,

Little wreaths of gilded grass,

Little brigs of whittled oak

Bottled painfully in glass;

These are made by lonely folk.

Lonely folk have lines of days

Long and faltering and thin;

Therefore—little wax bouquets,

Prayers cut upon a pin,

Little maps of pinkish lands,

Little charts of curly seas,

Little plats of linen strands,

Little verses, such as these.

Images from top:

Dorothy Parker, 1939 (Culver Pictures)

Woman on a Bridge, 1996, linocut, hand coloured, 46 x 30 cm

All My Burning Bridges, 1996, linocut, 46 x 31 xm

Powder Room, 1996, colour linocut, 61 x 46 cm

Untitled, 1995, woodcut with chine colle, 61 x 46 cm

Dorothy Parker's The Waltz

Why, thank you so much. I'd adore to.

I don't want to dance with him. I don't want to dance with anybody. And even if I did, it wouldn't be him. He'd be well down among the last ten. I've seen the way he dances; it looks like something you do on Saint Walpurgis Night. Just think, not a quarter of an hour ago, here I was sitting, feeling so sorry for the poor girl he was dancing with. And now I'm going to be the poor girl. Well, well. Isn't it a small world?

....... What can you say, when a man asks you to dance with him? I most certainly will not dance with you. I'll see you in hell first. Why thank you. I'd like to awfully, but I'm having labour pains. Oh, yes, do let's dance together - it's so nice to meet a man who isn't a scaredy-cat about catching my beri-beri. No. There was nothing for me to do, but say I'd adore to. Well, we might as well get it over with. All right, Cannonball, let's run out on the field. You won the toss; you can lead.

Why, I think it's more of a waltz, really. Isn't it? We might just listen to the music a second. Shall we? Oh, yes, it's a waltz. Mind? Why, I'm simply thrilled. I'd love to waltz with you.

I'd love to waltz with you. I'd love to waltz with you. I'd love to have my tonsils out. I'd love to be in a midnight fire at sea. Well, it's too late now. We're getting under way. Oh. Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear, dear. Oh, this is even worse than I thought it would be. I suppose that's the one dependable law of life - everything is always worse than you thought it was going to be. Oh, if I had any real grasp of what this dance would be like, I'd have held out for sitting it out. Well, it will probably amount to the same thing in the end. We'll be sitting it out on the floor in a minute, if he keeps this up.

I'm so glad I brought it to his attention that this is a waltz they're playing. Heaven knows what might have happened, if he'd thought it was something fast; we'd have blown the sides right out of the building. Why does he always want to be somewhere that he isn't? Why can't we stay in one place just long enough to get acclimated? It's this constant rush, rush, rush, that's the curse of American life. That's the reason that we're all of us so - Ow! For God's sake, don't kick, you idiot; this is only second down. Oh, my shin. My poor, poor, shin, that I've had since I was a little girl!

Oh, no, no, no. Goodness no. It didn't hurt the least little bit. And anyway, it was all my fault. Really it was. Truly. Well, you're just being sweet to say that. It really was all my fault.

.......I'm past all feeling now. The only way I can tell when he steps on me is that I can hear the splintering of bones. And all the events of my life are passing before my eyes. There was the time I was in a hurricane in the West Indies, there was the day I got my head cut open in the taxi smash, there was the night the drunken lady threw a bronze ash-tray at her own true love and got me instead, there was that summer what the sailboat kept capsizing. Ah, what an easy, peaceful time was mine, until I fell in with Swifty here. I didn't know what trouble was, before I got drawn into this danse macabre. I think my mind is beginning to wander. It almost seems to me as if the orchestra were stopping. It couldn't be, of course; it could never be. And yet in my ears there is a silence like the sound of angel voices....

Oh, they've stopped, the mean things. They're not going to play any more. Oh, darn. Oh, do you think they would? Do you really think so, if you pay them twenty dollars? Oh, that would be lovely. And look, do tell them to play this same thing. I'd simply adore to go on dancing.

Excerpts from The Waltz by Dorothy Parker. From The Original Portable as Arranged by Dorothy Parker in 1944.

Pictured above: The Dance, 1997, linocut, chine colle 37 x 37 cm