George Bell, Walter Hussey and Christian support of refugee artists in England, 1943-58

This is a talk given at St John’s church by Waterloo station in central London, as part of a one-day conference, “A Jewish Jesus: Art and Faith in the Shadow of World War II” on Wednesday, 16th June 2021. The sound quality is not ideal, but usable.

Although the title refers both to George Bell, bishop of Chichester, and Walter Hussey, it is primarily about Bell. It is a much-truncated version of an broader article on Christian support of refugee artists, which I hope to submit for publication before too long.

As I say at the very beginning, it is not a contribution to the critical art history of the several paintings I discuss. It is, instead, the history of patronage, and of Christian artistic patronage in particular. Bell acted out several related impulses: a basic Christian hospitality to those in need; a longstanding special concern both with Germany and with Jewish refugees; and a wider theological understanding of Christianity, art and European culture. I show that he was successful due to a combination of practical support, artistic and spiritual counsel, and simple friendship.

The conference was held in association with Art and Christianity, the leading UK organisation exploring visual art and religion, and Insiders/Outsiders, a continuing celebration of the contribution of refugee artists from Nazi Germany to British culture. It was part of international Refugee Week 2021 and the 11th annual Waterloo Festival.

The playlist of the whole event is here.

Archiving the “Jewish internet”: some opening questions

[Some words addressed to the fourth world Judaica Curators Conference, held on 4th May 2021 under the aegis of the National Library of Israel. My thanks are due to Raquel Ukeles, head of collections at the NLI, for the invitation.]

I’m not sure how generally familiar you are with Web archiving, but this year marks 25 years since the generally accepted beginning of systematic archiving of the Web on a large scale. And so, there is now a substantial literature on the subject, from the practicalities of the process to the growing and remarkably diverse uses to which archived Web materials are now being put by researchers. Some suggested ways into this reading are on the slide. [Links are given at the end of this post.]
Some selected reading on the subject under discussion, also listed at the end of the post.
What I can most usefully do to set up our discussion today is to raise some initial broad questions as to what a collaborative archiving project for the “Jewish internet” might look like: to, if you like, set up the sheets on the flipchart into which this group may start to add some thoughts.

There are here a set of four basic questions, which are interdependent in several ways. In one sense, the easiest of these is the question of how. Web archiving is a process which tends to cross the departmental divisions in most libraries and archives: it requires curatorial expertise in the selection of material; technical expertise (and also curatorial skills of a particular kind) in managing the harvesting of the materials and maintaining quality; further (and different) technical skills are needed in managing storage, preservation and access; and different skills again in orientating and engaging end users. But within the small but worldwide (and well-integrated) community of people in this space, this set of skills and technologies are well understood and documented. So, though I’ve listed this question first, it is (I suggest) the one that needs answering last.

The question also arises of which institutions should be involved, and how any collaborative project should be configured. Several models are possible:
(i) first of these might be a situation where several institutions agree to parcel out sections of the Jewish internet, and each works largely independently to archive that material in line with their existing collection remits and resources;
(ii) second might be a rather tighter model, in which institutions collaborate directly in the selection of material to archive, but delegating the harvesting, description, preservation and access to a single institution. And that institution might be one of the curating institutions, or (alternatively) an outsourcing partner.

To give some examples, in the UK, the responsibility for web archiving under non-print legal deposit is shared between six institutions, one of which (the British Library) deals with much of the process. Also in the UK Web Archive is the Quaker collection, the content of which was selected by a specialist library but collected again by the British Library. Globally, several libraries have collaborated (through the International Internet Preservation Consortium) on collections on the Olympics Games and most recently Covid-19, delivered via the Internet Archive’s Archive-It service. Within either of these models, there is arguably much to be gained from direct engagement with faith communities themselves, both to build consent to archiving, to guide selection, and to bring forward users and advocates for the final archive.

The third basic question relates to the law, particularly surrounding copyright (but not only that). Some nations have legal deposit frameworks in place for non-print materials, including the UK, France and Denmark, although only a small minority of countries have such a thing, and these dispensations are usually accompanied by very significant restrictions on access. Nations vary in how they construe the notion of fair use in such things, and it is within the relatively liberal regime in the US that the Internet Archive is able to work. Various ways of working are available. Firstly, there is the direct approach to site owners for explicit permission to archive, a slow, resource-intensive and only intermittently successful endeavour. Other institutions have operated on a notice-and-takedown basis, where the owner is contacted and the lack of any expressed objection is taken as sufficient basis to continue; others again archive widely and take material down on request.

The right option for any project has to be determined by a weighing of available resources against the general attitude of each institution to risk. And that risk very much depends on what it is that is to be archived, as different kinds of materials have very different risks associated with them. This is why, I suggest, the first question with which this whole discussion needs to begin is the last on my slide: what *exactly* is to be included and excluded; in other words, what exactly *is* the “Jewish internet”?

A schema for understanding religions online, taken from the chapter 'Religion in Web history', published in The SAGE Handbook of Web History. A link to the full text of this paper is given at the end of the post.

I’m not about to begin giving specific answers to this question to an expert audience such as this. But I offer this organising schema written as from the perspective of an historian of modern Christianity, with now several years experience both on the archiving side and as a research user of the archived Web. What I set out in this particular article was quite tightly restricted to specifically religious texts, activities and organisations. But right away, further questions arise.

First is the question of how far the “Jewish internet” encompasses the Israeli web, given the (I think) unique relationship between state, ethnicity and religion that the state of Israel represents. What does that particular Venn diagram look like? Secondly, there is the broader question of culture, and the issue of language. The Danish legal deposit framework allows for archiving of content in the Danish language, regardless of subject and of where it was published. This kind of framework clearly makes little sense in a British, Spanish or French context, where the language has long since ceased to be the possession of the country in which it originated; what about material in Hebrew published outside Israel?

Consider, too, how far the net should be spread into areas such as the arts. Would an archive of the “Jewish internet” include material relating to the artist Marc Chagall? If so, should it include only his religious works, or the portraits and street scenes too? Just the works created to public commissions, or also the private works? Just those in Israel, or in other countries too, not least the window in Chichester cathedral on the south coast of England? In the case of Leonard Bernstein, should West Side Story – a fairly “secular” work – be set aside, but the ‘Kaddish’ Symphony included? What about Chichester Psalms, settings of the Hebrew scriptures commmissioned for an Anglican cathedral in England? I don’t have ready answers for these questions, but I hope to have helped to set them up as a useful place to start your deliberations.

Further reading

The SAGE Handbook of Web History (2018, ed. Brügger and Milligan)

The Past Web: Exploring Web Archives (Springer, 2021, eds. Gomes/Demidova/Winters/Risse)

Webster, ‘Users, technologies, organisations: towards a cultural history of world Web archiving’, in Brügger (ed.), Web 25 (Peter Lang, 2017). Download the PDF.

Webster, ‘Religion in Web history’ in The SAGE Handbook of Web History. Download the PDF.

 

Walter Hussey, Graham Sutherland and ‘Noli me tangere’ (1961)

[It is now sixty years since the unveiling of Noli me tangere, a painting by Graham Sutherland for Chichester cathedral, in April 1961. In this adapted extract from my book on Walter Hussey, the dean of Chichester who commissioned the work, I examine the commissioning of the work, and its reception.]

Walter Hussey’s understanding of architectural space is key to understanding the project to refurbish the Mary Magdalene chapel in the cathedral’s south-east corner. Although a small space, and enclosed on three sides, the chapel is however visible the whole length of the south aisle of the cathedral from the baptistry in the west: a view the architect Basil Spence thought one of the most beautiful in Europe. The chapel had in it a Victorian reredos, and paintings to the left and right, one of which was in a poor condition. The architect Robert Potter, asked in 1957 to advise Hussey, thought the best option to clear the whole space and begin again with a single coherent scheme, given its visual prominence. The reredos was not worthy of the redecoration it would need; one of the paintings was beyond repair, the other could be moved; neither were of any artistic merit, Potter thought. More fundamentally, there was an opportunity to be bold, rather than use the derivative work of the firms that made church furnishings. £500 was already pledged by the Friends of the cathedral.

The Mary Magdalene chapel in Chichester cathedral.

Of all those artists and composers Hussey had commissioned at St Matthew’s Northampton, before coming to Chichester, the two with whom he maintained the closest friendships were Benjamin Britten and Graham Sutherland. The ongoing closeness between Hussey and both Sutherland and his wife Kathleen made Sutherland an obvious choice for Hussey’s first commission for Chichester: the Noli me tangere that resides in the Mary Magdalene Chapel.

Sutherland and Hussey had been in regular contact by letter in the years immediately following his 1947 Crucifixion for Northampton, exchanging cuttings from newspapers and magazines and arranging photographs for the same. It was also at this time that Hussey began acquiring work from Sutherland directly for his own collection. The version of the Crucifixion placed in St Matthew’s was not the only version: Sutherland had made another, of which Hussey took possession at some point in 1947. This remains part of the Hussey collection at Pallant House in Chichester, as does Thorn Head, evidently acquired by Hussey around the same time. The Sutherlands visited Northampton in 1952 during which Hussey evidently had two further works on view at the vicarage, with a view to buying either or both of them. Also in the Pallant House collection is a study made in preparation for the portrait of Winston Churchill commissioned by parliamentarians in 1954; Hussey got his picture, of Churchill’s hand, at some point in early 1955.

The relationship was not purely that of artist and private patron, however. Hussey seems to have taken his holidays with the Sutherlands in France, Italy and Austria on a number of occasions during the 1950s, and the friendship seems to have been one of the closest that Hussey had. The mutual trust was evidently such that Hussey felt able to discuss his own homosexuality, still a matter for the criminal law. In September 1957, Kathleen Sutherland wrote that they had been discussing a recent report which she would not name; this was most likely a reference to the Wolfenden Report, published that month. This trust was important to the progress of what was to become the painting for Chichester.

Unfortunately, Hussey’s papers are uncommonly thin concerning the making of this particular work, probably because much of the detail was handled by Robert Potter, who coordinated the project between Sutherland and Geoffrey Clarke who designed new candlesticks and an altar rail, while himself designing the new altar. The theme – of the meeting between the risen Christ and Mary Magdalene as mentioned in John, chapter 20 – was already in Potter’s mind in June 1957, although there was an alternative. It was thought that the head of St Richard of Chichester had for a time rested beneath the floor of the chapel, and the cathedral was lacking any visual indication of the connection with its local saint. Might a refurbished chapel be devoted to Richard? Even though the idea was voiced among the clergy, neither Potter nor Hussey seem to have been enthused, and so Mary Magdalene it was.

At that point the intention was to provide carved figures, but by the following year Potter had decided instead on a painting, in order to provide sufficient colour. In his autobiographical Patron of Art, Hussey recorded that he had had Sutherland in mind from the beginning of his time in Chichester, having thought him very sympathetic at Northampton: it seems probable that holiday conversations in Venice or Menton (the Sutherland’s residence on the French Riviera) would have turned to such a prospect in general terms. Now Hussey saw the opportunity. He recalled mentioning the idea to Sutherland early in 1959, and Sutherland first mentioned it in correspondence in January of that year.

By August Potter had sent Sutherland revised plans for the chapel; Sutherland was still keen, but also occupied with work on his vast tapestry for Coventry cathedral, and an exhibition in the USA in November; the autumn was however in view as a time to start work. Sutherland visited Chichester with some early sketches, meeting the members of the Administrative Chapter in the Deanery; Hussey recalled that Sutherland won the group over by a combination of his personal modesty and the sincerity with which he approached the problem. Hussey was also reassured by the absence of opposition in the chapter, despite the many and varied opinions about art among its members.

By June 1960 Sutherland had two versions – different solutions to the compositional problem of the subject – of which he included hand-drawn sketches in a letter. Sutherland had to grapple with the problem of representing two figures as a group while one (Christ) is pulling himself away from the other: how should the two figures be positioned in relation to each other? What should their gestures be? Sutherland wanted more time to dwell on the two versions, and to select the most successful.

‘Noli me tangere’ by Graham Sutherland. Image: Chichester cathedral.

This, however, meant a delay, and St Richard’s Day 1960, the date that had evidently been fixed for the public unveiling, was only weeks away. Not for the first time (or the last) Hussey was required to change his plans for a public unveiling, and a less sympathetic patron might have been less accommodating. However, Hussey was able to persuade the Chapter that a delay was necessary, and so it was October when Sutherland brought not one but two finished paintings to Chichester, having completed both of his solutions that were part completed in June. After viewing both in situ in the chapel, one of the two, slightly larger, was selected. Hussey took possession of the second painting for his own collection, but it is not clear whether Hussey paid Sutherland for both. It may be that Sutherland made a gift of it, as he was already working for a greatly reduced fee of £550 at a time when Sutherland was asking his society portrait clients for £3,000.

Compared to the Northampton commissions of the 1940s, the public and critical reception of Noli me tangere was positive. The critic Eric Newton, already a Hussey ally, thought the picture proved that Sutherland was ‘almost the only living artist capable of expressing the full intensity of a Christian theme … To paint the Son of God momentarily mistaken for a gardener is surely more difficult than to visualise Christ crucified or Christ enthroned.’ The Atticus columnist in the Sunday Times dwelt on the straw hat which the Christ figure wears (borrowed from the vicar of Trottiscliffe in Kent where the Sutherlands lived.) Here Sutherland was placing the Biblical scene in his own environments of rural Kent and southern France in order to work out its implications: Kathleen had modelled for Mary, and their gardener for Christ. Hussey understood the metal stair which Christ ascends, as if towards heaven, to have been inspired by the terraced garden of La Villa Blanche at Menton. Sutherland’s garden is not an English one, gentle and lush, but Mediterranean: hotly coloured, and populated with sharp vegetation, reminiscent of Sutherland’s preoccupation with thorns in previous years.

There were some less positive reactions, both local and national, although they were short-lived. The Daily Mail thought the picture ‘bizarre’ and ‘sinister’, and the Chichester press received a small cluster of letters, mostly hostile. In 1963 the painting was defaced and punctured with a ballpoint pen. Speaking in court, the offender, one Mabel Winifred Norris of no fixed address, described her actions as a ‘religious scruple’; the cathedral ‘belongs to the people’. Sutherland’s biographer thought that the press reactions might be related to the fact that Mary’s features are strongly Jewish: historically accurate, but by no means the convention in western art. One of the Chichester letter writers was more disturbed by her fleshy, human figure, Sutherland’s echo of the medieval depiction of Mary as a repentant prostitute; he had always thought of her as chaste and pure. Cheslyn Jones, chancellor of the cathedral, suggested that Mary’s figure and pose was indeed sexualised: she might have been saying “come up and see me some time” (a phrase of Mae West). The suggestion irked Hussey, and the original context in which the remark was made (a sermon) is now obscure, but the point was more serious than Hussey grasped.

Why was there a more favourable reception than might have been expected? As Hussey observed, there was the simple matter of Sutherland’s reputation. The relatively unknown painter of the Northampton Crucifixion was now the painter of portraits of the political, business and artistic establishment: Churchill, Lord Beaverbrook, Somerset Maugham among them. He was also now a member of the Order of Merit, an appointment at the discretion of the Queen, and of which there could be only 24 members at any one time. In a deferential age, such credentials (announced, in Sutherland’s case, in April 1960 while the picture was in progress) would have done much to stifle criticism.

The Mary Magdalene chapel as seen from the west, along the south aisle. Image: Peter Webster

Hussey also thought that the lack of critical comment was due to the location. Potter’s marshalling of Sutherland, Clarke and his own work is both sympathetic to the chapel and perfectly coherent as an ensemble. Sutherland’s painting also fulfilled both the requirements of the viewer from two yards and of being what Hussey later called ‘a kind of heraldic jewel’ when viewed from the baptistry at the far end of the building. Nonetheless, the chapel is a side chapel, at which few services were held, and so no-one would be required to worship in plain view of it, should they object. This was not the case with John Piper’s controversial tapestry, placed a few years later behind the High Altar.

Finally, the reaction may also be explained by the theme. Although there are examples of paintings of the theme, by Rembrandt, Fra Angelico and Titian, they are relatively few in number, when compared by the myriad depictions of the Crucifixion. Kenneth Clark, writing without having seen the finished picture himself, thought that this presented additional challenges for Sutherland, and that viewers must therefore expect something ‘strange and personal’. Be that as it may, an alternative (and indeed mutually compatible) reading might be that Sutherland’s interpretation was always likely to be more acceptable to viewers precisely because it could not so easily be lined up alongside traditional portrayals and found wanting, as had been the case with Henry Moore’s Madonna and Child for Northampton. The man in the street knew what a Madonna should look like, and a mother, and a child; the same could less well be said for Mary Magdalene.

The commission was another example of Hussey’s best gifts as a patron. By this point Sutherland was no novice in working for the churches. As well as the Coventry tapestry and the Northampton Crucifixion, in 1959 he was already in discussion with the Roman Catholic church of St Aidan in East Acton, a suburb in west London, over another Crucifixion to hang behind the altar. (It was completed in 1963). Despite this, Sutherland still felt he came to such projects ‘like a fish out of water – since we, the artists of to-day are (alas!) not acclimatised at the start.’ In contrast, Sutherland was always intrigued by working for Hussey, ‘so strong is my feeling for your example’. Hussey was an ‘understanding & wise patron – bringing into the world again the old relationship of patron & painter’.

[Church and Patronage in 20th century Britain: Walter Hussey and the arts is available in paperback from all good bookshops, or direct from Palgrave Macmillan (from where there is also an ebook edition available), or Amazon, including a Kindle edition).]

The Lambeth Conference: theology, history, polity and purpose

[A review forthcoming in the International Journal for the Study of the Christian Church.]

Paul Avis and Benjamin M. Guyer (eds)
The Lambeth Conference. Theology, history, polity and purpose
London: Bloomsbury/ T & T Clark, 2017
978-0-5676-6231-6
xxi + 437

This year sees the latest instance of the Lambeth Conference, the decennial gathering of the bishops of the Anglican Communion. The singular designation is important, as the editors of this timely volume note: to speak of the Lambeth Conference as a continually existing thing, rather than a sequence of conferences, is to say something particular about its status as one of the four Instruments of Communion which hold the Communion together. First convened in 1867, the Conference has a status without any exact parallel in world Christianity. In common with the other three Instruments, it possesses none of the kind of coercive force that can be exercised from the Vatican; if push comes to shove, any of the provinces of the Anglican Communion may disregard resolutions of the Conference, and the consequences of doing so are not clearly defined. In this sense, each province retains a kind of sovereignty, and it remains an act of the will to continue to recognise the rest of the Communion and to subject one’s own decision-making to it. Yet the Conference, together with the three other Instruments, makes – or has had made on its behalf – more far-reaching ecclesiological claims that is common in relation to the Lutheran World Federation or the World Methodist Council. It is with the nature of these claims, and their gradual emergence since 1867 that many, if not all, of the essays presented here are concerned, to different degrees.

The volume is a timely one for a number of reasons. Published to mark 150 years since the first conference, it also appears four decades since the last substantial study of the Lambeth Conference, during which time scholarship has moved far. But the division within the Communion over matters of sexuality, and its impact on the tumultuous 2008 Conference in particular, has made plain the limitations of the Instruments as means of resolving conflict. As Gregory K. Cameron shows, the attempt to address this sense of ecclesial deficit by means of the Anglican Covenant ran into the sand, and few seem to be rushing to help haul it back onto the road. Yet several contributors argue, more or less strongly, that some more effective means of first brokering agreement and then ensuring that such agreement is acted upon – or that the refusal to do so is somehow consequential – will need to be found if the Anglican Communion is to hold together. This volume does not provide the answers, but its treatment of the nature of the questions that need to be asked will be essential reading for those charged with finding those answers.

As is to be expected with all volumes such as this, the contributors take a wide variety of approaches. Some range rather further than others from the Lambeth Conference in particular, and are more directed to the specific issues that are the source of the current division. There are valuable contributions from historians, notably Benjamin M. Guyer on the inaugural Conference of 1867, and Mark D. Chapman on William Reed Huntington. Jeremy Morris shows that the Conference emerged in the context of, and has continued to be shaped by, changing perceptions of the nature of the office of a bishop. Both Mary Tanner and Donald Bolen (Roman Catholic bishop and ecumenist) highlight the ecumenical significance of the Conference. Others concentrate on process: Charlotte Methuen examines the making of the 1920 ‘Appeal to All Christian People’; Andrew Goddard looks at successive Conference resolutions on issues of sex and marriage as a means by which to understand the patterns into which these deliberations have fallen; Alyson Barnett-Cowan explores in detail the contrasting approaches to structuring the work of the Conference in 1998 and in 2008. There is much more room left for detailed historical work on past conferences – their specific historical contexts, the means by which their agendas were set, and the conduct of business – as relatively few of the essays here penetrate very deeply into the archival record, focussing instead on the printed sources which represent the end of a process and which tend to hide the means of reaching it. The editors express an aspiration that the volume be a spur to further research, and so it may be, at least for historians.

Others address the constitutional, legal and ecclesiological issues more directly. Norman Doe and Richard Deadman examine the impact of Conference resolutions on the law of individual provinces: effects that bear familial resemblances when examined as a whole, but all of them ultimately on the basis of consent. Paul Avis traces the historic relationship between the Conference and the archbishop of Canterbury – the office of whom is recognised as another of the Instruments – as both the instigator of the first Conference, and the host and president of each meeting since. And it is the chapter from Stephen Pickard that addresses the specific issue of ecclesiology most directly. Is it possible to cultivate an attitude of ‘sympathetic imagination’ towards the Instruments, a shared commitment to them as gifts and as signs of grace? While based on an elevated understanding of the episcopate, such an understanding can, Pickard suggests, accommodate the contingent and thus mutable nature of the Instruments whilst still being able to avoid mere pragmatism and resist the manoeuvring of particular interests at a point in time. The question, then, is whether the Anglican Communion can find a set of Instruments in which all can invest and continue to steward as both it and they change. This valuable volume, well produced and reasonably priced, provides a starting point for that thinking.

Liddon Lecture 2020: ‘Theology, the theologian and the Church: Eric Mascall and the Sixties’

I was delighted to be invited by the Society of the Faith to give the Liddon Lecture for 2020. Like many other things in 2020, it was given online rather than in person in London, and the full lecture is now available on YouTube, along with the lively discussion that ensued.

The relationship between the Church as an institution and its theologians in their working contexts has shifted continually throughout the history of the churches, and it frames and conditions the development of the specific doctrines that have been so well studied. However, the relationship itself – the theology (or perhaps the ecclesiology) of theology, as it were – has seldom been examined directly, and hardly at all for the period since 1945. It is with this relationship, and with the thought and career of E. L. Mascall in particular, that my lecture deals.

After outlining Mascall’s career, and his dual role as scholar and priest, I turn to his critique of famous works such as Soundings (1962), Honest to God (1963) and The Myth of God Incarnate (1977). I deal with Mascall’s understanding of: the relationship of grace, nature and reason; the theologian and the body of Christ; the special responsibility of ‘popular’ theology and of the ordained theologian; the universities, the theological colleges and the Church.

The lecture itself is about 40 minutes long.