Cambridge Notebook #3
Gwen Raverat's 1955 river painting, winter floods of 2024 and keeping afloat
I’m delighted to report that, two months since its launch, this Substack newsletter now has 500+ subscribers. Thank you all so much, it is great to have you on board and I’m looking forward to exploring lots more stories in 2024.
My most popular posts over the past eight weeks include the newlywed Sylvia Plath ‘at home’ in 1956 in Cambridge, and her dwindling joy of cooking; my pick of superb recent travel memoirs by women writers, exploring their past as much as far-flung destinations; and the water-reflecting presence of Gwen Raverat’s house by the river at the beginning and end of her life. My ‘circular’ post about Raverat last month was in part inspired by thinking about her 1955 ‘Cambridge Upper River’ painting above, as featured on Victoria K. Walker’s ‘Notes’ section of Beyond Bloomsbury, her extensive and throughly researched collection of historical artist and writer biographies. Recently one of my own readers asked some perceptive questions about Gwen Raverat’s 1955 ‘Cambridge Upper River’ painting. I include a selection here:
‘Is the time of year spring or autumn? What do those hints of dark red on the branches of the tree suggest? If Gwen was painting what she saw in 1955, why (alas!) has she not painted the punt more accurately? I have a feeling that the punt and punter at least were added from memory to give height, depth and scale to the picture.’
I am thrilled to have this level of engagement, and would love to hear others’ thoughts. Meanwhile, below are my own brief impressions.
Raverat’s river painting
Based on my reading of Spalding’s seminal biography Gwen Raverat: Friends, Family and Affections (Penguin paperback, 2021), it seems that 70-year-old Raverat had already suffered the second of two debilitating strokes in 1955 when she painted this lovely (spring-like, I think) image of the river overlooked by two gigantic mills. The image can be viewed with her other work from this period on Art UK’s website.
After she finished writing her memoir Period Piece (1952) Raverat suffered a stroke that left her paralysed on one side. She could no longer practice her woodcuts but continued to paint from her riverside balcony, or from her wheelchair on the meadows near her home. But after a second stroke, her daily practice of painting became increasingly difficult, until - thanks to a new drug recommended by the neuroscientist Horace Barlow (the youngest son of her first cousin and lifelong friend, Nora Barlow) - Gwen’s painful spasms were reduced, and she was able ‘to resume life as before and continued painting out of doors whenever weather permitted,’ writes Spalding. Seeing this photograph of Raverat below, in her shapeless black ‘curate’s hat’, peacefully painting on the meadows near her riverside home seems in keeping with her ‘impassioned belief in life, existence and the beauty of the world.’ What a gift it was that the deep affection of her family and friends - along with progressive medicine - gave her during this last part of her life. As Frances Spalding writes so beautifully, ‘Gwen had discovered by coming home, returning to the past and carrying it into the present, she had brought her life full circle’.
The Cam in winter
Below is my photograph of the River Cam (from a different vantage point) taken in mid-January 2024: The sign ‘LEARN TO ROW’ on a college boathouse near my home seemed particularly apt last week, as the swollen river lapped ever closer to the boathouses’ steps.
What better time might there be to have a boat, I thought to myself. Irony upon irony: due to the high level of the river, no rowing (or indeed punting) was possible until the floods subsided and boats and landing stages were accessible once again. I’m pleased to report that the water level has receded this week, and it was very nice to see rowers back in force in Cambridge on this cold and sunny Saturday morning.
This week’s reading suggestions:
These illuminating insights by Sarah Harkness into the married life of Emily, Lady Tennyson: ‘There weren’t many great opportunities for women in Victorian England, and I choose to assume that at the age of thirty-seven, Emily Sellwood was quite capable of choosing the best and most interesting life she could.’
A thought-provoking joint post ‘How to live with three languages daily’ by Elin Petronella and Remy Bazerque: ‘To manage your own multi-lingual reality is one thing. To do so while parenting is yet another mind-blowing reality.’ This struck a chord with me, thinking about my own father Joe’s enduring love of the Irish language, particularly the poetry he learned by heart as a schoolboy.
Mary Roblyn’s amicable question, Who are the people in my neighbourhood? inspired by gatherings outdoors during the Covid pandemic: ‘People showed up. They continue to show up. They bring friends, family members, pets, house guests, and visiting scholars. Actually, we’re all visiting scholars. We read a lot of books.’ I am very glad that Mary and I are part of one another’s virtual neighbourhood on Substack.
Paid subscribers really do help me to keep this newsletter afloat (no pun intended) so if you value this space and can afford to do so, I encourage you to upgrade.
Thanks so much for reading and sharing, and as ever, I would love to hear your comments and thoughts.
I loved this glimpse of Raverat in her creative and determined old age. As a childhood reader of Lucy Boston, I look forward to rekindling memories here.
What a delightful essay. The photo of Gwen painting be the river in her ‘curate’s cap’ with the curious cow in the foreground, makes me dizzy with joy. Thank you for bringing us the lovely details of her life.
Thank you for the callout, and congratulations on 500 subscribers!