#backcloths

[ofbakerst]

David Stuart Davies:

Again, attempting to be true to Conan Doyle, he wanted to include the whole of the deduction Holmes makes at the start of the story regarding Watson's decision not to invest in South African securities:

I managed to do the whole of it. It was the first two pages of the story and I said, "I think I can do it straight from the book"... I didn't have lunch that day. I went to the backcloth and walked up and down, learning it. John Bruce, the director, said, "Jeremy wants another go." And I did it. It was very nerve-wracking, very fast...

His lithe appearance suggests that Brett rarely went to lunch in those days...

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

Gift

Written for @hinnymicrofic December 2023 - Prompt 22

Ginny’s eyes were wide as saucers as the Potter family took their seats. “This is amazing!”

Harry didn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “We saw the hall when we came to look around, Gin.”

“I know. But look at what they’ve done with it! It’s like Christmas exploded in here!”

Even accounting for Ginny’s obsession with Christmas decorations, Harry had to admit she had a point. The teachers at St Grogery’s in Little Whinging hadn’t put in half as much effort when it came to decorating the school for the festive season. The tree in the back corner stretched almost to the ceiling, and was covered with decorations made by the children. The ceiling was swagged with criss-crossing paper chains that Harry was sure his wife would fully appreciate, and the walls were covered with bright pictures showing Christmas traditions from around the world, created by each class. Harry made a mental note to hunt down and admire James’s picture amongst the reception class creations before he left.

Ginny, however, was staring at the front of the hall. “How have they made the stars appear on that curtain? Without magic, I mean,” she asked.

Harry let his gaze fall on the temporary stage constructed in front of them. It was edged around the front with black velvet, and there was a matching backcloth hanging from the wall behind, punctuated with little pinpricks of light to look like a starry night sky.

“Electricity, Gin. It’s just lots of tiny little lightbulbs, poking through the fabric,” he explained.

“Really? Take a picture! Dad will love it!”

Harry rolled his eyes, but did as she asked, raising the camera to take a picture of the empty stage, taking care not to disturb his infant daughter, asleep in the baby carrier strapped to his chest.

Albus, seated on Ginny’s lap, seemed just as taken with the school hall as Ginny, wriggling around and pointing as different things caught his eye. Then, the reception class filed onto the stage, and he was mesmerised. Harry searched the line of small children for his elder son, pointing him out to Albus and Ginny as soon as he spotted him.

James stood to the side of the stage, wearing his Wise Man costume (expertly constructed by Nanna Molly), cardboard crown sitting crooked on his wild hair, dark eyes wide and searching the crowd. As soon as he saw his parents and brother, his face split into a huge grin. 

The nativity was predictably adorable - though with twenty-seven four and five year olds in homemade costumes, none of them standing in the right place, half of them forgetting their lines, and most of them stopping to wave at their parents, how could it be anything else?

James aced his line, shouting it at full volume (“I BRING THE GIFT OF GOLD TO HONOUR THE NEWBORN KING!”), Ginny cried, Harry took about a billion photos, Albus demanded snacks roughly every thirty seconds, and Lily slept through the whole thing.

That evening, when the kids were finally all in bed asleep, Ginny handed Harry a glass of red wine and flopped down on the sofa beside him. She was uncharacteristically quiet. With the experience of several years of marriage, Harry waited silently for her to marshall her thoughts.

“I’ve been worrying about putting James into Muggle school for months, you know,” she said eventually. “Questioning whether it really was the right thing to do.” 

Harry’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I didn’t realise. You should have said something.” 

“No,” she sighed. “There wasn’t any point. Realistically, we didn’t have much choice, given neither of us wanted to stop working. I just… didn’t have any frame of reference for what it would be like. I don’t know anyone else who’s done it. Mum was so shocked, Bill and Percy’s kids are learning at home. I just felt so guilty.” She took a sip of wine, then turned to look at him, brown eyes dancing with flames reflected from the fireplace. “But after today, I don’t. Not any more. It was so wonderful. I… I wish I’d had the chance to do that.” 

“The play?” he asked.

“Yes - but all the rest of it too. Being with the other kids. Learning together. Playing with their friends. They just all looked so happy.”

“I dunno, Gin. I’ve always thought your childhood sounded pretty perfect.”

“In a lot of ways, it probably was. We didn’t have a lot, but I know how lucky we were. It’s just that it… it could be lonely. Me, Ron and the twins were this little unit, but I was the youngest and the only girl, and I got left out a lot. Then, when the boys got older and started leaving for Hogwarts, it was just me and Mum.” 

Harry took a sip of his wine. “I would have loved having what you had.”

Ginny turned to face him, looking earnest. “That had nothing to do with how you were educated though, it was because your Aunt and Uncle are evil child abusers! It’s going to be so different for our kids, to what either of us had.” She turned to face him, and something about her expression reminded him of a fierce mama bear protecting her cubs. “They’re going to get the best of both worlds. Love and magic at home. Play and friends and learning at school. And the fact that we get to choose this for them makes everything we went through for this to be our future seem more worth it than ever.” 

Harry nodded. “Sounds pretty idyllic, now you come to mention it.”

“Yeah, it really does, doesn’t it?” She snuggled back against him, cradling her wine glass, as he put his arm around her. “I’m sorry it took me a while to realise it.”

He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. “They’re lucky kids.”

They were quiet for a moment, until Ginny looked at him with a grin. “I think so. But tell that to James next time he’s complaining about the school dinners!”

[richardxoliverxmayhew]

II Drabble for @vxctorx

Boyish, blue orbs waltzed a delicate balance of hasty yet purposeful glances upon the roughened facade of his sketchpad's parchment, now etched with meticulously drawn ribbons and curves of ebony and ashen shades, and the golden image of his love's reclined figure. The honeyed tones of tender sunbeams and the sea's untamed locks rapping upon the distant shore perfectly accompanied such a waltz. "Just continue lyin' just like tha'... Aye, tha's righ'. Just keep tha' hand of yer's framed close to yer' face. I promise I'm almost done, just a few more touches, is all." Oh, how Vic was born to be an artist's muse (not that Richard counted himself as much of the former). The auric bends of his muscles, tied together with his princely crown of tawny curls that Richard had raked with wandering fingers a hundred times over; and not to mention the captivating splash of teal concealed in such a handsome gaze. The sort of gaze that Richard would recognize out of a crowd of thousands. The sort of gaze he would recognize in the depths of darkness. Such godly traits would be enough to make Apollo blush. "Have I e'er told ye' tha' I always wanted to go to art school. Ended up becomin' a fanciful dream, I suppose," he tut, as poised fingers weaved the sketcher's charcoal upon the final flourishes.

He could feel the round of his heart cuff against the walls of his chest. A misplaced pulse trapped against his throat now, which he silently tried to swallow back. "Y'know, I realized I've collected way too many fanciful dreams, and endorsed certain realities mainly 'cause I was expected to do so or... maybe even 'cause I was too much of a coward to figh' for wha' migh' actually make me happy." He paused. ".... It's time to put an end to tha'...." Since the weeks leading up to their seaside holiday, Richard had been wrestling with this notion, which eventually bloomed into something of a confession in his busied mind. One ripe enough that the plump of its cheek would break off from its stem on its own accord and tumble against entwined roots. Richard lowered the barrier of his sketching pad, his blue eyes-- now brimming with the excitement of hope, the fear of refusal, and, mostly, the amount of overpowering love and affection he held for this man before him. His love. His future. His everything. Placing his materials down, he drew forward before taking a seat beside his beloved; his warm hand, now lightly freckled with echoes of their previous, sunsoaked days, clasping Vic's. "Before I say wha' I've been wantin' to ask ye', I need to tell ye' tha' I got a job in London... Or, at least I applied for one, but rumour is tha' the position's as good as mine. Aye, it's not anythin' fancy like bein' a lawyer or bein' a gen'leman but it's a start; and, more importantly, it's certainly enough to buy a wee flat, and food, and clothes, and a new life. Our new life!" Our new life. Ours. Oh, how that word tasted all the more sweet now that he was saying it aloud.

His eyes crinkled into a fervid smile, as his adoring gaze remained transfixed in earnest upon Vic, as if he were the North Star amidst a night as black as tar. "Come away with me, Vic. Aye, I know, it's sudden and I don't have a ring I can offer ye' righ' now, but I'll work hard. Hell, I'll even put in two shifts. Three, if it means makin' sure ye' ne'er want for more." Fingers folded a little tighter round Vic's hand now. Youthful optimism radiated with every word the Scotsman spoke, placing what sliver of doubt he once held upon the backcloth of his mind's eye. "Just imagine, a new life away from Sco'land. A life in London! Ye' can be whoever ye' want to be and work in wha'ever job makes ye' happy, and, in time, we may just have enough to purchase Our own plot of wood. For our cottage," he cooed, Their evergreen dream never having strayed away from such ingenue beliefs. "Look, ye' don't have to answer me righ' away if ye' donnae' want to. I know wha' I'm askin' is no small feat. I just-... No ma'er how many times I played it out in my mind my life in London, my happiness, wouldn't be complete without ye'.-- To put it bluntly, I'm ready to finally be brave if ye' are too." Gentle lips kissed the gilded hills of the gentleman's knuckles. "Come with me..." Richard whispered against the other's skin, the taste of sun and brine still stained upon His skin. ".... Come with me...."

[bones-ivy-breath]

Words look back at me from some dark backcloth, and yet they’re clear, clearer than any pain. I don’t seek them out. I’m not there behind them perfecting the lure.

Fever 7-12 by Osvaldo Bossi (tr. Jon Herring)

[roaratorio]

El Lissitzky & Kazimir Malevich,  Study for Backcloth for Vitebsk Committee for the Struggle against Unemployment, 1919

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy

Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker

Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.

The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.

They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.

Nor do they send up fires where they fall

Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.

They are eaten immediately by the pines.

Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars

Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.

And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.

The smaller and more timid never arrive at all

But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.

They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.

But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,

They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

The Big Dipper is my only familiar.

I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are

Hanging shyly under the studded horizon

Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.

Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.

Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright

I am overlooking them by looking too hard.

Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

And what if the sky here is no different,

And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?

Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.

The few I am used to are plain and durable;

I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth

Or much company, or the mildness of the south.

They are too puritan and solitary for that—

When one of them falls it leaves a space,

A sense of absence in its old shining place.

And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,

I see those constellations in my head,

Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.

There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.

On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell

Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes

And drink the small night chill like news of home.

Sylvia Plath - Stars over the Dordogne

[roses--and--rue]

“An element of self-mockery should always be woven into our attitude toward and our description of our past behavior but should never prevent us from flinging ourselves with total commitment into the present and making it a backcloth of our most extravagant gesture.” ~ Quentin Crisp

[anti-rop]

Since Amazon keeps forgetting the context of the quote they like to use about Tolkien leaving room for other minds and hands I present a paragraph from his Letter to Milton Waldman, c. 1951, and the final sentence which Amazon seems to always forget.

Do not laugh! But once upon a time (my crest has long since fallen) I had a mind to make a body of more or less connected legend, ranging from the large and cosmogonic, to the level of romantic fairy-story – the larger founded on the lesser in contact with the earth, the lesser drawing splendour from the vast backcloths – which I could dedicate simply to: to England; to my country. It should possess the tone and quality that I desired, somewhat cool and clear, be redolent of our ‘air’ (the clime and soil of the North West, meaning Britain and the hither parts of Europe: not Italy or the Aegean, still less the East), and, while possessing (if I could achieve it) the fair elusive beauty that some call Celtic (though it is rarely found in genuine ancient Celtic things), it should be ‘high’, purged of the gross, and fit for the more adult mind of a land long now steeped in poetry. I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama. Absurd

[opera-ghosts]

OTD in Music History: French composer-pianist Claude Debussy (1862 - 1918) travels to Belgium in 1893. While there, he will play excerpts from a new masterpiece that he has just began working on -- his epochal opera "Pelleas et Melisande" (1902) -- for the famous violinist-composer Eugene Ysaye (1858 - 1931) in Brussels, before traveling on to Ghent to visit with famed poet and playwright Maurice Maeterlinck (1862 - 1949). Why had Debussy come all that way to see Maeterlinck? Maeterlinck's plays were tremendously popular in avant-garde Parisian circles of the 1890's -- they were anti-naturalistic in both their content and style, forsaking external drama for a focus on symbolic expression and internal struggle -- and, perhaps not surprisingly, it was in Maeterlinck's "Pelleas et Melisande" (1892) that Debussy finally found the ideal opera libretto for which he had been searching since the mid-1880's. In an 1902 article entitled, "Why I Wrote ‘Pelleas,’" Debussy explained the appeal of this work: "The drama of 'Pelleas' -- which, despite its dream-like atmosphere, contains far more humanity than those so-called ‘real-life documents’ -- seemed to suit my intentions admirably. In it, there is an evocative language whose sensitivity could readily be extended into music and into the orchestral backcloth..." Debussy approached Maeterlinck in August 1893 about setting "Pelleas" to music. By the time Maeterlinck granted his permission a month later, however, Debussy had already begun work -- and so he quickly made plans to go see Maeterlinck in person to thank him. Debussy described Maeterlinck at that initial meeting as like a "shy girl meeting an eligible young man," but the two quickly warmed up to each other. Unfortunately, their budding friendship would not last forever, however... PICTURED: A printed copy of the 2nd Edition (1907) piano-vocal score of Debussy's "Pelleas" (1907), which he has signed and inscribed to an admirer in 1909.

The affair ended when “Le Figaro” newspaper published a letter from Maeterlinck two weeks before the April 1902 world premiere of the opera, in which he completely disavowed it as "a work that is strange and hostile to me” and averred that he could “only wish for its immediate and decided failure upon the stage.” (It wasn’t a failure, but it wasn’t an immediate and resounding success, either.) Maeterlinck didn’t see the work until 1920, two years after Debussy's death. He was blown away, and later confessed that "in this affair I was entirely wrong and Debussy was a thousand times right." Today, “Pelleas” is widely hailed as a landmark in the history of 20th Century “classical” music and is regarded one of the greatest and most unique operas ever composed.

POSTSCRIPT: The trouble between Maeterlinck and Debussy arose just as rehearsals for the world premiere of Debussy’s operatic adaptation were getting underway, nearly a decade after the men first met in Ghent. Maeterlinck wanted the title role of Melisande to go to his longtime lover, who later claimed that Debussy had staged several rehearsals with her and was "thrilled with my interpretation.” Privately, however, Debussy apparently confided in a friend that "not only does she sing out of tune, she somehow actually *speaks* out of tune.” The role instead went to a noted Scottish soprano named Mary Garden (1874 - 1967).

Maeterlinck only learned of Garden's casting when it was announced in the press; he was furious, and immediately took legal action to prevent the opera from going ahead. When this effort failed—which was inevitable, since Maeterlinck had given Debussy his written authorization to stage the opera in any way that Debussy saw fit—Maeterlinck promptly made a trip to Debussy’s Parisian flat for the stated purpose of giving Debussy "a few good whacks to teach him some manners." When Maeterlinck broke in and threatened Debussy with his walking stick, Debussy sank prostrate into an armchair as his wife screamed and rushed over to revive him with smelling salts. Maeterlinck was so disgusted by this “unmanly” reaction that he abandoned his plans to thrash Debussy and left of his own accord, allegedly muttering: “All crazy, all sick, these musicians!”

[razziecat]

For those who are interested, there is what JRR Tolkien himself said about his mythology and how he envisioned it might be expanded by other people. I bolded the last part here. (I was mistaken about where it was written - not in a biography, but in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien): “I had a mind to make a body of more or less connected legend, ranging from the large and cosmogonic, to the level of romantic fairy-story - the larger founded on the lesser in contact with the earth, the lesser drawing splendour from the vast backcloths - which I could dedicate simply to: to England; to my country. ... I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama.”

[davidlavieri]

Traffic holding its breath, Sky a tense diaphragm: Duck hung like a backcloth That shook where a swan swam, Tremulous as a hawk Hanging deadly, calm.

Seamus Heaney, “Twice Shy”

[gramilano]

Ups and downs ‘celebrating’ Nureyev – Osipova, Clarke, Simkin, Melnik and…

It would be hard to imagine a more disparate evening of dance than the Nureyev gala at Milan’s Teatro Arcimboldi, with Osipova, Clarke and Simkin saving the day.

Daniil Simkin in Les Bourgeois – photo Giovanni Daniotti It would be hard to imagine a more disparate evening of dance than the Rudolf Nureyev gala at Milan’s Teatro Arcimboldi. Organised by Luigi Pignotti – Nureyev’s former masseur, then manager – it went from sublime to embarrassingly amateurish performances with dreadful lighting and a solid black backcloth throughout which did the men in…

[rad-review-of-gigs]

Police Dog Hogan, Bush Hall, London 26/04/24

Chandeliers dimmed for a Hogan hoedown

London’s Police Dog Hogan could be any regular band playing at the back of a bar in the southern states of America. Visually they’re seven snake oil peddlers of the Wild West. The trilbys, waistcoats, western shirts, banjo, fiddle are all in place. The stage’s crimson, vaudeville backcloth only binds the illusion. There is the air of a good time wedding band about them. But what does distinguish the group is a skill for inveigling scenes of workaday British life into country, bluegrass and Irish folk imitations. To borrow from Amy Winehouse, they’re a ‘safe bet’ and five albums in, trail a loyal, middle aged fan base filling Bush Hall’s grand, yet intimate, Edwardian interior.

They begin with Dylanesque stomps, one of which has more than a passing nod to Blood On The Track’s Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts. Then there’s a change in tone with the melodic, melancholic, Beatles-like ditty, Funfair On Shepherds Bush Green, which prompts the night’s first witticism from vocalist, James Studholme; as he pokes fun at the VIPs listening behind ‘soundproof glass’.

He’s on a roll now aiming an affectionate dig at sidekick Tim Dowling limbering up. What he really missed during Covid wasn’t the ‘sound of a motorway or the sight of vapour trails, but banjo tuning’. Dowling, The Guardian columnist-cum-banjo player asked AI to create the first new joke for the instrument in eighty years and served us the result. Spoiler alert, it takes four banjo players to change a light bulb.There isn’t even any logic on display from the chatbot with that one. The band are currently penning a song every three weeks and the new material is strong.

The latter part of the set moves away from standard folk and bluegrass to incorporate East European folk tradition in the rollicking Old Mary, and some burlesque and standard rock. It’s refreshed by the addition of a jaunty brass section. Raising the roof are staple crowd pleasers Shitty White Wine, short haul canticle, Barcelona, and the Cornwall surfing special, Crackington. Unremarkable they may be, but PDH are decent craic, to be sure.

Full photo gallery here.

Words: Adrian Cross; Photos: Richard Gray

[pughbyers46]

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[weinerklitgaard33]

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[shepardfinnegan70]

Check to reach completely the correct adjustments in your picture taking. Whether you are pursuing a calling in picture taking or you simply bask the pleasure of winning a bang-up home photo, the strategies contained in this article lavatory study your pictures to the following flush. Excellency is fair around the corner.

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