Author: Lydia Firth

By Lydia Firth

Having recently moved to Sussex, I was excited by the prospect of rolling hills, proximity to London, and new cultural hotspots. Charleston House quickly made my list of places to visit. Charleston was the home and studio of the painters Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant, and it became a meeting point for the Bloomsbury Set: a group of artists, intellectuals, writers, and philosophers in early 20th century England. Frequent visitors to the house included Virginia Woolf and her husband Leonard, alongside the great E.M. Forster. The house itself is positioned among a truly novelistic English garden full of dahlias and drooping trees in the orbit of a pond laden with lily pads. Perhaps it was just the haziness of the hot September day on which I visited, but it felt quite genuinely magical.

For magpie-minded individuals like me, the house is an absolute treasure trove of stunning interiors and objects. Each room is so delightfully curated and reflects the Bloomsbury group’s originality and collaboration. No surface is left untouched, and each object is handcrafted. The side of the bath is adorned with a painting of a reclining nude; fired in the house’s own kiln, the kitchen sink tiles are painted with pink silky fish; a lampshade made from a painted colander pleasantly throws out gentle stripes of light; rugs lay supine and hand-tied in a myriad of colours. A bust of Virginia Woolf casually placed in a bedroom window reminds me of the time she spent here. 

Above and below the window of Bell’s old bedroom, Grant elegantly depicted both a cockerel and the family’s lurcher to wake her in the morning and guard her by night. This epitomises the consideration put into the design of their home – it exists as a little in-joke between the couple, as well as being ornamental.

There is precision in the artistic curation from room to room: the colour palette melds the house together in one harmonious aesthetic, punctuated by the consistent display of Bell and Grant’s paintings throughout. As well as seeming calculated, the design retains its spontaneity in both the freehand murals which cover doors, chairs, bedheads, and the thin washes of warm-toned paints which coat walls, brushstrokes peeking through. It could be described as ‘interior design nonchalance’: colours, shapes, and patterns obviously came very naturally to the residents. There is a surprising sense of the contemporary, and the textiles, colour palette and adorned furniture remind me of the likes of Oliver Bonas and Anthropologie. Writer and curator Charlier Porter points out the irony “that Charleston inspires stuff that gets mass-produced, because what the house asks you to do, always, is to think for yourself.” 

Whilst the house is preserved exactly as it was, the space remains dynamic. An unpainted pelmet may appear tomorrow with a little floral flourish, for example. The lack of stagnation speaks to their authenticity and reflects their ideology. Grant himself was originally drawn thereto because the agricultural work that the house implied his part in made him exempt from conscription from WWI – perhaps a literal lifeline for the conscientious objector. Furthermore, it meant that the visitors of Charleston’s unconventional and often intertwining romantic lives were able to play out in what was a counter-cultural refuge from London life. Dorothy Parker quipped that the Bloomsbury Group “lived in squares, painted in circles, and loved in triangles”. The house could almost be seen as one of the members of the group: it feels like both a companion and a living representation of their dislike for convention. Indeed, the level of detail employed on every surface and in every corner cements it as an externalisation of their ethos.

I urge you to visit and enjoy this submersion into 20^th century artistic living.

By Lydia Firth.

I grew up with my Dad being an ultimate hardcore Bob Dylan fan, to the extent that he claimed he no longer needed to listen to his music as he knew every song and every line (absurd behaviour). I dismissed Dylan’s music as a shambolic attack on the ears made for balding English teachers to harp on about. Cut to several years ago, my two elder brothers joined the Dylan fanbase and proceeded to have long conversations with him about his extensive back catalogue and to wash up after dinner to the dulcet tones of a man with a voice like a revving motorbike. They were completely captivated by him, and I simply did not get it. 

Around that time, I was beginning to find my way into the world of 60s and 70s music and I stumbled upon Joni Mitchell. I was immediately mesmerised by her and her music. I spent a year listening almost exclusively to Joni, immersing myself in her rich world. To my family’s delight, I no longer resisted the pull of folk music, but I gave in to its seduction. She became my Bob Dylan.

Joni’s equally colossal discography demonstrates her incredibly versatile talent, starting with her 1968 debut album ‘Song to a Seagull’ which reflects her wistful and elaborate storytelling abilities, contrasting with her later more mature and worldly jazz albums. In 1971, she released ‘Blue’ which has to be the ultimate no-skip album – every song is absolutely sublime. To no surprise, it is regarded by music critics as one of the greatest albums of all time. It is intensely personal (‘Little Green’ talks of Joni’s daughter, whom she gave up for adoption in 1965) and yet feels like both an ode to the female experience and a perfectly precise and tragic “break-up album”. The last track on the album, ‘The Last Time I Saw Richard’, opens with this verse:

‘The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in ’68

And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday

Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe

You laugh, he said you think you’re immune, go look at your eyes

They’re full of moon

You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you

All those pretty lies, pretty lies

When you gonna realize they’re only pretty lies

Only pretty lies, just pretty lies’.

This embodies her hopeful yet embittered personality that we can track throughout her music, a fusion of romanticism and pessimism that I both adore and identify with. In ‘Woman of Heart and Mind’ from the underrated 1972 album ‘For the Roses’, she untangles romance and disappointment:

‘Drive your bargains

Push your papers

Win your medals

Fuck your strangers

Don’t it leave you on the empty side’.

This cutting summary of her ex-lover’s downfalls feels particularly loaded when combined with an f-bomb and sung by a woman who also sings of eyes ‘full of moon’. She really is a woman who can do it all.

Not only does she sing of love and loss, but her lyrics are also steeped with political sentiment. The well-known ‘Big Yellow Taxi’ (1970), despite sounding upbeat, addresses worryingly current environmental concerns, and ‘Sex Kills’ (1994) talks of ‘little kids packin’ guns to school’. It is undeniable that Joni is politically and emotionally perceptive and perpetually current.

So, my Joni obsession began. I became far less resistant to the harmonica-infused tones of Bob Dylan and I was now able to join in with my family’s folk-based conversations and bond with my Dad, who was, and still is, impressed by the Google Home’s ability to play any song you ask for. 
Ironically, Joni absolutely detested any comparisons to Dylan, as she was often (sexistly) paralleled as the female equivalent to him. But, for me, she was that female equivalent. I was drawn in by her musical, emotional, and poetic brilliance. She stated ‘We are like night and day, [Dylan] and I… Bob is not authentic at all.’. Whether or not to agree with this contentious statement aside; they are night and day, with Mitchell providing a perfect, and equally strong, antidote to the domination of Dylan in both my household, and the music world.