Sunday 29 May 2011
He is the son of Henry Robert Somers Fitzroy de Vere Somerset and Bettine Violet Malcolm and was educated at Eton College. He and his family are descendants in the male line from the House of Plantagenet.
The Duke of Beaufort
Born 23 February 1928(1928-02-23)
He was commissioned into the Coldstream Guards on 6 September 1946 as a Second Lieutenant. He was promoted to Lieutenant on 1 January 1949.
He held the office of Hereditary Keeper of Raglan Castle, was President of the British Horse Society between 1988 and 1990 and chairman of Marlborough Fine Art. He ranked 581st in the Sunday Times Rich List 2008, with an estimated wealth of £135m in land.
Monday, 1 May 1995
OBITUARY : Caroline Beaufort
The estate of Badminton after the Second World War was a world apart, where time and tradition had stood still for many years. It was best known to the outside world for the famous Horse Trials, attended each year by the monarch. Its owners, the old Duke and Duchess of Beaufort, were devoted to the chase and to the Royal Family. On hearing that their future heir was marrying, they did not ask: "Is she nice?" but "Does she hunt?"
David Somerset married Lady Caroline Thynne at St Peter's, Eaton Square, in July 1950, in the presence of King George VI, Queen Elizabeth and Princess Margaret. Queen Mary, the Duchess of Beaufort's aunt, who had spent the war years - memorably - at Badminton, attended the reception at "Chips" Channon's house in Belgrave Square. David Somerset's father, Robert, a first cousin once removed of the 10th Duke, was drowned in 1965. David Somerset, dapper, handsome and well-dressed, the chairman of Marlborough Fine Art, then became heir.
Caroline Thynne was the only daughter of the sixth Marquess of Bath, the owner of Longleat, in Wiltshire, and a pioneer of the stately home industry ("We Have Seen the Lions of Longleat"), and his wife Daphne, later known (as Daphne Fielding) for her many books, such as The Duchess of Jermyn Street. Caroline's early years were spent at Longleat, where she was somehow not overwhelmed by a host of elderly Thynne aunts. While many of the Thynnes were (and are) arguably eccentric, Lady Caroline was surprisingly normal, wholly straightforward, and retained a refreshing innocence throughout life.
As a young couple, the Somersets were taken under the wing of the childless Duke and Duchess of Beaufort, with whom they lived at Badminton. The Duke was known as "Master" - he was the Master of the Horse to the Queen as well as Master of the Beaufort Hunt. "Obviously," he once declared, "the hunting of the fox has been my chief concern."
There was no special reason to expect that this arrangement would work so well, for the Somersets had wider and more cultural interests than their elders, yet the four were united by a strong mutual respect, love of Badminton and of the countryside. As their young family grew, the Somersets moved to a house nearby, only returning to Badminton when "Master" died in 1984. The 11th Duke took his place as Master of the Beaufort, and there occurred one of the best runs in years, causing the new Duchess to exclaim: "Master has inhabited the fox!" The old Duke was laid to rest under a mighty edifice to protect his remains from ill-intentioned hunt saboteurs.
The new Duchess set about her role as mistress of the great house with enormous good- humour. Badminton was in terrible disrepair, with buckets to catch the incoming water. She presided over the house's restoration, created a beautiful garden, planted thousands of new trees in the park; each year they undertook at least one major repair. Where her mother-in-law, Mary Beaufort, who lived on in the house till 1987, had occasionally taken up a post in one of the state rooms to answer questions from the tourists, suitably cordoned behind ropes, Caroline Beaufort's approach was very different. There can have been few more generous guides to a stately home.
Welcoming parties of visitors (by appointment), the Duchess would announce: "Chairs. Chairs are for sitting on, so sit on all of them, and take as many photographs as you like." Visitors roamed freely upstairs, even visiting her bedroom (where Queen Mary had resided in the war), and behaved better than had they been detained behind the traditional ropes. The Duchess's good-humour and charm were infectious.
She was also intrepid. With her husband she would depart for two months at a time to China, the Himalayas, Zimbabwe or the Amazon. Her idea of travel was "a quick dip" in waters infested with piranha or camping near lions. Active with charities - she supported 76 charities on a regular basis - she once abseiled from the outside wall of the Gloucestershire Royal Hospital to raise money for National Meningitis Awareness Week. This spring she received an honorary LLD for her charitable work from Bristol University.
The Beauforts had three sons and a daughter, Lady Anne Somerset, biographer of Elizabeth I. When cancer of the liver was diagnosed last summer, the Duchess was as open as ever. In a newspaper interview she spoke of her fate, her remaining hopes and disappointments and declared the disease "a bloody bore". She continued: "If I thought it would do any good I would scream like a stuck pig, but instead I will have to carry on as normal."
Caroline Jane Thynne: born 28 August 1928; married 1950 David Somerset (succeeded 1984 as 11th Duke of Beaufort; three sons, one daughter); died Badminton 22 April 1995.
Brian Higham: Badminton's long-serving stud groom
It is the end of an era at the Duke of Beaufort’s Badminton Estate. For after half a century of work, the stable manager Brian Higham is hanging up his boots and retiring at the age of 77.
Yet although he landed up working in the stable yard of one of Britain’s most iconic estates and a place immortalised forever in the adrenalin-filled sport of Eventing he had to learn his trade the hard way.
For his family was not a wealthy one and although he grew up in the countryside around the beautiful Yorkshire village of Snainton a horse of his own was not possible. His father was talented sculptor and artist who spent time in the services and it was just through working on the farms Brian learnt his trade.
“As a boy I was always keen to get a ride, and when they were getting the sugar beet out of the fields I would ride a carthorse,” he says, “and I used to beg rides to go hunting.”
But working with horses is what he always wanted to do and Badminton was his first proper horse job. He arrived here in 1959 as second man or in modern terms deputy and remained as such until 1966 when he took over the reins as stud groom or yard manager as it is known today.
And during this time he as seen some changes. He spent 25 years working with the 10th Duke, “which I was very proud of,” he says, “as he was a very famous man,” and then 26 working for the present.
“Today would not compare with the grandeur of that era,” he says, “manners have changed worldwide, there is a casualness now. You could set your clock by the old Duke if he said he was going to ride at 10 he did not five past or ten to. He would apologise if he were early. Whereas a lot of people now do not care if they are late, they should care, but they don’t.”
It is a life that his brought him the experience of mixing with people from all walks of life. He lists the Eventing greats, such as Sheila Wilcox, Mary King and Richard Walker as personal friends and admits to receiving Christmas cards and conversing regularly with Prince Charles, who he says: “Likes my homemade sloe gin which I give him every Christmas.”
And it has taken him all around the country and the world too as he has become a well-respected judge, judging at all the top shows. On the day after I met him he was jetting over to America to do some judging there. Not bad for a man in his eighth decade.
But when I suggest that he perhaps should consider himself a southerner as he has lived in the Cotswolds for over 50 years he is emphatic in his response.
“No,” he says, “I am Yorkshire born and bred and very proud of that.”
But that said he does love the area saying: “I have lived like a millionaire here,” and when he does have a free evening there is nothing he likes more than a quiet meal at The George in Nailsworth with his wife, Sherry.
So does he have any regrets on the path he has taken?
“I don’t think you can have regrets, I mean I have a great life, so many don’t have that,” he says. “But I would have liked to have trained. I have had a bit of success with the ones I did and I think I would have been able to do that.”
For despite being heavily involved in the Eventing and showing world he remains a national hunt man and over the years owned several successful pointers.
But the last few years have not been easy. Two years ago he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and chemo and radiation followed. Thankfully he has now been given the all clear but this made him re-evaluate his life.
“It would have been easy just to carry on but the health thing made my mind up really,” he says, “If things can’t be done at the standards you would like then...”
Leaving the obvious unspoken. He is without doubt a perfectionist and one that likes to do a job properly.
So with retirement beckoning he can surely take things more easily - or maybe not as his plans reveal.
“Well I walk every morning and I like to ride and I will probably go to Yorkshire more. There will also be more time to travel. My wife is American and has a house in South Carolina so who knows I may go out there for a couple of weeks or a month or two.”
“I have also got a couple of pointers in training,” he adds and he does not rule out buying and selling the odd horse either.
And he will remain within sight of the stables at his estate cottage.
“The duke says I have a home for life here,” he says “and I will still be able to keep the odd horse or two on the yard.”
But the question then arises, ‘will he actually be able to retire when he will still maintain such close links to the place? Will he not be tempted to give his opinion if he feels they need it?’ After all it was his life for 50 years.
“I don’t think that would be fair on my successor, he says, “as she will want to do things her way, but my door will always be open if she needs advice.”
And there is no doubt it will not only be her seeking him out, for his door will surely remain a beacon for his numerous friends wanting to visit.
I was born in the Yorkshire village of Snainton in the Vale of Pickering. I came to Badminton in 1959 and was stud groom at Badminton Stables from 1966 to 2010. You can imagine that during that time, I saw many changes! Although I no longer hunt myself (I don’t want to fall off any more!), I hack regularly around the estate either with my wife Sherry or alone. I thoroughly enjoy it and it helps to keep me fit and healthy – as does my daily 2 mile walk!
I have been married to Sherry for over 15 years, after meeting by chance when she visited from America to buy a horse. The rest, as they say, is history! We both love the lifestyle we have – I feel we live like millionaires in this beautiful place! Our cottage is near the stable yard, and I have lived there since I first came to Badminton all those years ago.
One of the highlights of my year during my time at the yard, was Badminton Horse Trials at the beginning of May. The stables became a frenzy of activity as we undertook an enormous spring clean to prepare 80 to 100 stables for the world’s top event horses to come and stay.
During the summer, I do a lot of show judging (and have done for many years) and am one of Sport Horse Breeding of Great Britain’s longest serving judges. In the past, it was always a nice break from the hunting season at Badminton and I still look forward to it each year. As well as judging, people often come to me for my opinion on their horse’s health and fitness, or when buying and selling. I am not a vet but do have many years of experience and am happy to advise people, where I can. I also get asked for my opinion on the design of new yards, based on my experience at Badminton. I enjoy passing on my knowledge and I believe you never stop learning, even at my age!
I retired as Stud Groom to Badminton Stables in 2010 after 50 years of service!
How the hunt shot Labour's fox: Although hunting was banned three years ago the sport is MORE popular than ever
By Sue Reid
Cowering down a rabbit hole deep in the English countryside at 11 o'clock last Thursday morning, a year-old fox has a few seconds to live.
An inch in front of the fox's furry face, blocking all chance of escape, is Tozy the terrier with his razor-sharp teeth.
Three feet above, in the open air, two men from the local hunt are digging down towards him. Soon it will be over.
Worse off? Although Labour banned fox hunting in 2005 more foxes are being killed because hunters now have to shoot them
As the men's spades crash into the warren to reach the terrified creature, Tozy's owner takes a 3.2 Taurus pistol from his pocket and fires a shot into the the fox's forehead, killing it instantly.
After all, the terrier man, Richard, has a job to do.
For weeks, the young male fox has been causing mayhem at a farm four miles from Swindon, in Wiltshire. He has been doing what foxes like doing best: killing young pheasants, often just for fun.
'Before the ban on hunting in 2005, this fox would have stood a chance,' says Mark Hill, a 50-year-old land agent and Master of the flourishing Vale of the White Horse Hunt, which rides over a 20-mile area of the Cotswolds which includes the farm.
'If we had hunted him with hounds, he might well have got away. It was the old, the sick and the injured foxes that we used to catch then. Now that we have to shoot them, we think more foxes are being eliminated. The fox has fared the worst out of this ban.'
It is hard to disagree. For, astonishingly, today - three years after New Labour banned hunting to hounds - the hunts are flourishing. Last week, one of the country's most ardent fox hunters, former Daily Telegraph editor and Old Etonian Charles Moore, sang the praises of his favourite sport.
In the right-leaning Spectator magazine, he revealed that on a recent autumn day he and 65 other followers on horseback had ridden with his local hunt, and that hunting was now more popular than ever.
Last Boxing Day, a traditional high day in the hunting calendar, a record number of 300,000 people on horses, in cars and on foot turned out to watch 314 fox, deer and stag hunts in action in Britain. And, in another unexpected triumph for the huntsmen, there are now three more hunts operating than there were before the
ban was pushed through Parliament by Tony Blair.
Under present hunting laws, the hounds can only be used to follow a scent, but not to kill a fox. They pick up a trail laid across the land by hunt workers dragging a piece of cloth laced with fox's urine. If the hounds come across a real fox by chance, as they are apt to do, they must be called off the chase by the huntsmen.
Yet, despite this strange set of affairs, hunts are thriving. As Lord Mancroft, the Conservative peer and former Master of the Vale of the White Horse Hunt (VWH), said in a recent article in Hunting Magazine: 'We expected our world to be turned upside down - hunts to fail, hounds to be put down, and hunt staff to lose their jobs. In fact, the reverse is more accurate.
'Hunting is enjoying a renaissance, with many packs recruiting new followers in unprecedented numbers. Some hunts even have waiting lists as never before. Everybody knows the truth and few pretend otherwise. The hunting ban is a national farce, and a massive political failure.'
So what is the truth about the 300-year-old sport? We visited two of the 174 fox hunts in England and Wales - The Duke of Beaufort's Hunt, which covers an enormous 500-square-mile tract of the countryside from Bath in the south to Cirencester in the north, and the smaller VWH based on the border between Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.
We spoke to those who run the hunts, those who work for them, and the people who follow them - either on horses, on foot, or in cars.
Captain Ian Farquhar, 62, a farmer and landowner, has been Master of The Beaufort since 1985, as was his father before him. It is the hunt which Prince Charles and Princes Harry and William used to enjoy following before the ban.
Class war? Captain Ian Farquhar leads the Beaufort Hunt, he thinks the ban was a class war and says the sport is really egalitarian
Captain Farquhar has broken almost every bone in his body - bar his neck - out hunting. He says: 'The fight to get a hunting ban was a class war, and yet hunting is one of the few sports that is really egalitarian, involving people from every age group, every social background, and every income bracket.'
So what kind of people are behind this hunting renaissance? This week, out hunting I saw four state school children (their farm worker families had decided that following hounds astride ponies in the autumn sunshine was preferable to a day behind a desk at the local comprehensive).
There was also a farmer called Jo with his wife (who milked the cows before they set off at dawn), and a girl from a Cirencester supermarket who told her boss she had the sniffles.
Watching from the sidelines, as followers in cars, were two retired herdsmen and a family from Swindon who were on benefits. One, a teenage boy, had a hood over his head, but still called out 'Good morning' to Captain Farquhar as he passed by in the back of a shabby 4x4 that would have looked more at home on a council estate.
'Our oldest mounted follower is 87 and has a military background,' says Farquhar. 'We have a bricklayer, shopkeepers, a fencer and some housewives. During the week it is the locals who come - at the weekends it can be 200 from all over the country.
Recently, a lady of a great age who was still riding side-saddle was persuaded to give up hunting with us on the advice of her family and her doctors. She couldn't keep up very well towards the end, but no one minded.'
Meanwhile, over at the VFH, it is much the same story. John Manners-Bell, 39, runs a market research company in the village of Brinkworth, Wiltshire. His wife is a local vet and he has two children, aged six and two.
He moved to the village two years ago from Cambridgeshire, and began to learn how to ride. On Wednesday, he went hunting in the morning, and soon after noon he was back at his desk. He has two horses, Tabitha and Holly, which he keeps at a local stable.
'I love hunting,' he says. 'I ride out with the hounds at least once a week. I don't take much notice of what the hounds are doing up at the front. I can't tell you if they have ever started to chase a fox and then been stopped by the huntsmen.
'I spend all my time concentrating on staying on the back of my horse,' he adds with a grin.
But what of the foxes themselves? Every huntsman and farmer will tell you that they are wily characters. They are omnivores and opportunists. They will eat almost anything. They can carry away a baby lamb with ease. One fox might kill 70 pheasants in a night, just for the joy of it.
Once they get the bloodlust, there is no stopping them. A fox will massacre a pen of hens yet take just one to eat. A vixen will kill a lamb and carry only the liver and the heart back to her cubs. Wha's more, the fox has no predator, apart from man.
In the year before the ban, the Beaufort Hunt's hounds killed 140 foxes. Today no one knows how many are being shot, gassed, or even snared on the 1,500 farms and smallholdings which the hunt covers. 'We suspect it is far more than it ever was,' says Captain Farquhar, his face looking grim.
And worse for the fox, research from the pro-hunting lobby has shown that for each one killed by a shotgun or rifle, another one is left horribly injured. He faces a long and lingering death.
Foxes are nimble and tend to move just as a shot is taken. They are notoriously difficult to shoot cleanly, which is why some farmers and gamekeepers have turned to more efficient ways of killing - gassing or snaring.
The Countryside Alliance, the major lobby group which fought furiously against the introduction of the ban - says that hundreds of foxes are now being exterminated as vermin, rather like rats.
Spokesman Tim Bonner said this week: 'The fox is being eliminated. It is impossible to say how many have been killed since the ban, but we believe it is more than when the fox was professionally hunted. A third of hunts say they are counting fewer foxes than in 2004.'
And far more pregnant vixens are being killed, too. When a marksman takes aim or a snare is set, it is almost impossible to tell if the victim is an expectant female.
Yet, in one of nature's strange quirks, a vixen gives off no scent when she is pregnant. So, ironically, pregnant females were completely safe from the hunts as the hounds could not follow her trail.
But what of the law which brought in the ban? According to the Countryside Alliance, now campaigning for a repeal of the 2005 Hunting Act, it is an utterly confusing piece of legislation.
One such example is that it is perfectly legal to send a terrier underground to root out a fox - and then for a VWH hunt worker like Richard to shoot it, if the fox is killing a game bird, such as a pheasant or partridge.
However, if the fox has been slaughtering lambs or piglets - which it loves to do - then it is illegal to use the same methods.
In a further oddity, the huntsmen can go out with two dogs to 'flush out' a fox from a rabbit hole, and then kill it with a gun. However, if he has three dogs it is against the law. And, even more strangely, a pack of hounds can hunt a fox if a bird of prey, such as a Golden Eagle, is then used to kill it.
Unsurprisingly, a national survey undertaken by Opinion Research two years ago found that fewer than three in ten adults in this country believe that the Hunting Act is working.
The police say it is almost impossible to enforce anyway (they have other, more pressing priorities, and cannot watch every mile covered by every hunt), while even a crown court judge, overturning the first ever conviction of a huntsman, observed that the law was 'far from simple to interpret or apply'.
Tony Wright, a Devon huntsman, had originally been found guilty of chasing two foxes across Exmoor with two hounds. The case was brought by the League Against Cruel Sports, which argued that he had allowed 'a prolonged period' of pursuit - which is also illegal.
Mr Wright, 52, said he was using the 'two dog' exemption in the Hunting Act, and thought he was obeying the rules. The case is now going to appeal in the High Court, after thousands of hours of lawyers' time and huge costs on all sides.
If the Government's intention was to spare the fox an inhumane death, while simultaneously eroding support for what it saw as a pursuit reserved for the upper classes, then it has signally failed.
The attention the ban has brought to the sport seems to have kindled an interest in it from people who might otherwise have remained uninterested. As for the foxes, ask the pro-hunt lobby, how can gassing, snaring and wildly inaccurate shooting of ever-increasing numbers be deemed as humane?
So what of the future? A lot depends on the result of the next election. David Cameron, who has hunted to hounds, says he will allow a free vote on the issue in Parliament. 'If the vote went through, there would be a Government Bill to get rid of it. I mean, in my own view, the ban is not working. It's a farce really,' he pronounced recently.
No one believes that more than the 50 men, women and child riders galloping behind the Beaufort Hunt hounds on Thursday morning. As the pack, with their green-coated Master and huntsmen, followed the scent of a piece of urine-soaked rag across the beautiful countryside, I saw a fox watching them.
They didn't see him. But he seemed to have a cocky stance. And I fancy that I saw a grin on his face.
Badminton Horse Trials - The Facts & Figures
It was the 10th Duke of Beaufort - Master - whose idea it was to hold an event in his Gloucestershire park in order that British riders could train for future international events. The first event was held in 1949.
When Golden Willow won the first Badminton in 1949, there were 22 starters from two countries, Britain and Ireland. .
Since then Great Britain has won three team golds and two individual gold medals in the Olympics; four team golds and four individual gold medals in the World Championships, and no fewer than 20 team golds and 17 individual gold medals in the European Championships.
For the first 10 years, the dressage and show-jumping arenas were sited on the old cricket ground in front of Badminton House. Torrential rain in 1959 turned the park into a sea of mud and the arenas and tradestands were moved to the present site.
The very first European Championships were staged at Badminton in 1953. The winner was Major Laurence Rook on Starlight XV.
The Trials were first televised in 1956. in 2007 there were some 16 cameras covering the event for the Outside Broadcasts Unit of the BBC.
In 1955, the Trials were moved to Windsor for one year at the invitation of The Queen, to hold the 2nd European Championships.
In 1956, the Steeplechase course was moved from the Didmarton point-to-point course to the site at The Slaits, where it stayed until discontinued in 2006.
In 1959 it was decided to run the Trials in two sections - The Great and Little Badminton. This was due to the popularity of the sport and the number of entries. This was abandoned after the 1965 competition, since when there have always been two days of dressage.
In 1961, Messrs. Whitbread took over the sponsorship of the Badminton Horse Trials and this continued until 1991, one of the longest sponsorships for any sport.
Bad weather has forced the cancellation of the Trials on three occasions - in 1966, 1975 and 1987. The terrible weather of 1962/63 which continued into the spring, forced Badminton to down-grade to a one day event. Foot and Mouth disease caused the cancellation of the 2001 Event.
Publicada por Jeeves em 03:16
Thursday 26 May 2011
Paul Fussell was born in Pasadena, California. After service with the 103rd Infantry Division in France and Germany (Bronze Star, Purple Heart), Fussell attended Pomona College and Harvard University.
Fussell's career as a university teacher began in 1951 at Connecticut College. He has taught at Rutgers University where, from 1976-83 he was John DeWitt Professor of English Literature, and at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, where, from 1983-1993, he held the post of Donald T. Regan Professor of English Literature. At present, Paul Fussell is Donald T. Regan Professor Emeritus of English Literature, University of Pennsylvania.
It was Paul Fussell's passion for Eighteenth-Century literature that fired his early career. His first books are entitled: Theory of Prosody in Eighteenth-Century England, Poetic Meter and Form, The Rhetorical World of Augustan Humanism: Ethics and Imagery from Swift to Burke, and, Samuel Johnson and The Life of Writing.
The second half of Fussell's career has been devoted to Twentieth-Century social and cultural history. Describing the transition, Fussell says in a recent interview: "I learned [to turn experience toward intellect and away from emotion through] my long immersion in Eighteenth-Century literature, where the urge is constantly outward from oneself; that is, not trying to undertake deep voyages into the self, but rather, to escape the self, look out at society, see what's going on, and then comment on it. Irony is a great help there, to protect oneself from the self-regarding emotion, which has always been an enemy of mine from the start."
It was during those very productive years from the mid 1970s onward that Fussell wrote the books that made him famous. The Great War and Modern Memory (1976) was the first in an impressive list of publications dealing with war and Twentieth-Century culture (Thank God for the Atom Bomb, and Other Essays, Wartime: Understanding and Behavior in the Second World War, and Doing Battle: The Making of a Skeptic). The Great War and Modern Memory moreover, was awarded the National Book Award in Arts and Letters and the Ralph Waldo Emerson Award of Phi Beta Kappa. Other books by Paul Fussell include Abroad: British Literary Travelling Between the Wars, The Boy Scout Handbook and Other Observations, Class: A Guide through the American Status System, and Bad, or The Dumbing of America.
Since 1993, Fussell devotes his time to writing and to a busy lecturing career. In this country, Fussell has been featured recently on the CBC's "Writers and Company," "Ideas," as well as on the CBC's Harbourfront broadcasts. He and his wife, Harriette Behringer Fussell, live in Philadelphia.
In Class Paul Fussell explodes the sacred American myth of social equality with eagle-eyed irreverence and iconoclastic wit. This bestselling, superbly researched, exquisitely observed guide to the signs, symbols, and customs of the American class system is always outrageously on the mark as Fussell shows us how our status is revealed by everything we do, say, and own. He describes the houses, objects, artifacts, speech, clothing styles, and intellectual proclivities of American classes from the top to the bottom and everybody -- you’ll surely recognize yourself -- in between. Class is guaranteed to amuse and infuriate, whether your class is so high it’s out of sight (literally) or you are, alas, a sinking victim of prole drift.
Top Out of Sight - Billionaires and multi-millionaires. The people so wealthy they can afford exclusive levels of privacy. We never hear about them because they don't want us to.
Upper Class - Millionaires, inherited wealth. Those who don't have to work. They refer to tuxes as "dinner jackets."
Upper Middle - Wealthy surgeons and lawyers, etc. Professionals who couldn't be described as middle class. I suspect this is the class to which I, an engineer, am supposed to aspire.
Middle Class - The great American majority, sort of.
High Proletarian (or "prole") - Skilled workers but manual labor. Electricians, plumbers, etc. Probably not familiar with the term "proletarian."
Middle Prole - Unskilled manual labor. Waitresses, painters. (In other words, my mom and dad!)
Low Prole - Non-skilled of a lower level than mid prole. I suspect these people ask "Would you like fries with that, sir?" as a career.
Destitute - Working and non-working poor.
Bottom Out of Sight - Street people, the most destitute in society. "Out of sight" because they have no voice, influence or voter impact. (They don't vote.)
From Class: A Guide Through the American Status System by Paul Fussell.
A Touchy Subject
Although most Americans sense that they live within an extremely complicated system of social classes and suspect that much of what is thought and done here is prompted by considerations of status, the subject has remained murky. And always touchy. You can outrage people today simply by mentioning social class, very much the way, sipping tea among the aspidistras a century ago, you could silence a party by adverting too openly to sex. When, recently, asked what I am writing, I have answered, "A book about social class in America," people tend first to straighten their ties and sneak a glance at their cuffs to see how far fraying has advanced there. Then, a few minutes later, they silently get up and walk away. It is not just that I am feared as a class spy. It is as if I had said, "I am working on a book urging the beating to death of baby whales using the dead bodies of baby seals." Since I have been writing this book I have experienced many times the awful truth of R.H. Tawney's perception, in his book Equality (1931): "The word 'class' is fraught with unpleasing associations, so that to linger upon it is apt to be interpreted as the symptom of a perverted mind and a jaundiced spirit."
Especially in America, where the idea of class is notably embarrassing. In his book Inequality in an Age of Decline (1980), the sociologist Paul Blumberg goes so far as to call it "America's forbidden thought." Indeed, if people often blow their tops if the subject is even broached. One woman, asked by a couple of interviewers if she thought there were social classes in this country, answered: "It's the dirtiest thing I've ever head of!" And a man, asked the same question, got so angry that he blurted out, "Social class should be exterminated."
Actually, you reveal a great deal about your social class by the amount of annoyance or fury you feel when the subject is brought up. A tendency to get very anxious suggests that you are middle class and nervous about slipping down a rung or two. On the other hand, upper-class people love to topic to come up: the more attention paid to the matter the better off they seem to be. Proletarians generally don't mind discussions of the subject because they know that can do little to alter their class identity. Thus the whole class matter is likely to seem like a joke to them - the upper classes fatuous in their empty aristocratic pretentiousness, the middles loathsome in their anxious gentility. It is the middle class that is highly class-sensitive, and sometimes class-scared to death. A representative of that class left his mark on a library copy of Russell Lynes's The Tastemakers (1954). Next to a passage patronizing the insecure decorating taste of the middle class and satirically contrasting its artistic behavior to that of some more sophisticated classes, this offended reader scrawled, in large capitals, "BULL SHIT!" A hopelessly middle-class man (not a woman, surely?) if I ever saw one.
If you reveal your class by your outrage at the very topic, you reveal it also by the way that you define the thing that's outraging you. At the bottom, people tend to believe that class is defined by the amount of money you have. In the middle, people grant that money has something to do with it, but think education and the kind of work you do almost equally important. Nearer the top, people perceive that taste, values, ideas, style, and behavior are indispensable criteria of class, regardless of money or occupation or education. One woman interview by Studs Terkel for Division Street: America (1967) clearly revealed her class as middle both by her uneasiness about the subject's being introduced and by her instinctive recourse to occupation as the essential class criterion. "We have right on this street almost every class," she said. "But I shouldn't say class," she went on, "because we don't live in a nation of classes." Then, the occupational criterion: "But we have janitors living on the street, we have doctors, we have businessmen, CPAs."
Being told that there are no social classes in the place where the interviewee lives is an old experience for sociologists. " 'We don't have classes in our town' almost invariably is the first remark recorded by the investigator," reports Leonard Reissman, author of Class in American Life (1959). "Once that has been uttered and is out of the way, the class divisions in the town can be recorded with what seems to be an amazing degree of agreement among the good citizens of the community." The novelist John O'Hara made a whole career out of probing into this touchy subject, to which he was astonishingly sensitive. While still a boy, he was noticing that in the Pennsylvania town where he grew up, "older people do not treat others as equals."
Class distinctions in America are so complicated and subtle that foreign visitors often miss the nuances and sometimes even the existence of a class structure. So powerful is the "fable of equality," as Frances Trollope called it when she toured America in 1832, so embarrassed is the government to confront the subject - in the thousands of measurements pouring from its bureaus, social class is not officially recognized - that it's easy for visitors not to notice the way the class system works. A case in point is the experience of Walter Allen, the British novelist and literary critic. Before he came over here to teach at a college in the 1950's, he imagined that "class scarcely existed in America, except, perhaps, as divisions between ethnic groups or successive waves of immigrants." But living a while in Grand Rapids opened his eyes: there he learned of the snob power of New England and the pliability of the locals to the long-wielded moral and cultural authority of the old families.
Some Americans viewed with satisfaction the failure of the 1970's TV series Beacon Hill, a drama of high society modeled on the British Upstairs, Downstairs, comforting themselves with the belief that this venture came to grief because there is no class system here to sustain interest in it. But they were mistaken. Beacon Hill failed to engage American viewers because it focused on perhaps the least interesting place in the indigenous class structure, the quasi-aristocratic upper class. Such a dramatization might have done better if it had dealt with places where everyone recognizes interesting class collisions occur - the place where the upper-middle class meets the middle and resists its attempted incursions upward, or where the middle class does the same to the classes just below it.
If foreigners often fall for the official propaganda of social equality, the locals tend to know what's what, even if they feel some uneasiness talking about it. When the acute black from the South asserts of an ambitious friend that "Joe can't class with the big folks," we feel in the presence of someone who's attended to actuality. Like the carpenter who says: "I hate to say there are classes, but it's just that people are more comfortable with people of like backgrounds." His grouping of people by "like backgrounds," scientifically uncertain as it may be, is nearly as good a way as any to specify what it is that distinguishes one class from another. If you feel no need to explicate your allusions or in any way explain what you mean, you are probably talking with someone in your class. And that's true whether you're discussing the Rams and the Forty-Niners, RV's, the House (i.e. Christ Church, Oxford), Mama Leone's, the Big Board, "the Vineyard," "Baja," or the Porcellian.
In Class: A Guide Through the American Status System I deal with some of the visible and audible signs of social class, but I stick largely with those that reflect choice. That means that I do not consider matters of race, or, except now and then, religion or politics. Race is visible, but it is not chosen. Religion and politics, while usually chosen, don't show, except for the occasional front-yard shrine or car bumper sticker. When you look at a person you don't see "Roman Catholic" or "liberal": you see hand-printed necktie or "crappy polyester shirt"; you hear parameters or in regards to. In attempting to make sense of indicators like these, I have been guided by perception and feel rather than by any method that could be deemed "scientific," believing with Arthur Marwick, author of Class: Image and Reality (1980), that "class... is too serious a subject to leave to the social scientists."
It should be a serious subject in America especially, because here we lack a convenient system of inherited titles, ranks, and honors, and each generation has to define the hierarchies all over again. The society changes faster than any other on earth, and the American, almost uniquely, can be puzzled about where, in the society, he stands. The things that conferred class in the 1930's - white linen, golf knickers, chrome cocktail shakers, vests with white piping - are, to put it mildly, unlikely to do so today. Belonging to a rapidly changing rather than a traditional society, Americans find Knowing Where You Stand harder than do most Europeans. And a yet more pressing matter, Making It, assumes crucial importance here. "How'm I doin?" Mayor Koch of New York used to bellow, and most of his audience sensed that he was, appropriately, asking the representative American question.
It seems no accident that, as the British philosopher Anthony Quinton says, "The book of etiquette in its modern form... is largely an American product, the great names being Emily Post... and Amy Vanderbilt." The reason is that the United States is preeminently the venue of newcomers, with a special need to place themselves advantageously and to get on briskly. "Some newcomers," says Quinton, "are geographical, that is, immigrants; others are economic, the newly rich; others again chronological, the young." All are faced with the problem inseparable from the operations of a mass society, earning respect. The comic Rodney Dangerfield, complaining that he don't get none, belongs to the same national species as that studied by John Adams, who says, as early as 1805: "The rewards... in this life are esteem and admiration of others - the punishments are neglect and contempt... The desire of the esteem of others is as real a want of nature as hunger - and the neglect and contempt of the world as severe a pain as the gout or stone..." About the same time the Irish poet Thomas Moore, sensing the special predicament Americans were inviting with the egalitarian Constitution, described the citizens of Washington, D.C., as creatures "born to be slaves, and struggling to be lords." Thirty years later, in Democracy in America, Alexis de Tocqueville put his finger precisely on the special problem of class aspiration here. "Nowhere," he wrote, "do citizens appear so insignificant as in a democratic nation." Nowhere, consequently, is there more strenuous effort to achieve - earn would probably not be the right word - significance. And still later in the nineteenth century, Walt Whitman, in Democratic Vistas (1871), perceived that in the United States, where the form of government promotes a condition (or at least an illusion) of uniformity among the citizens, one of the unique anxieties is going to be the constant struggle for individual self-respect based upon social approval. That is, where everybody is somebody, nobody is anybody. In a recent Louis Harris poll, "respect from others" is what 76 percent of respondents said they wanted most. Addressing prospective purchasers of a coffee table, an ad writer recently spread before them this most enticing American vision: "Create a rich, warm, sensual allusion to your own good taste that will demand respect and consideration in every setting you care to imagine."
The special hazards attending the class situation in America, where movement appears so fluid and where the prizes seem available to anyone who's lucky, are disappointment, and, following close on that, envy. Because the myth conveys the impression that you can readily earn your way upward, disillusion and bitterness are particularly strong when you find yourself trapped in a class system you've been half persuaded isn't important. When in early middle life some people discover that certain limits have been placed on their capacity to ascend socially by such apparent irrelevancies as heredity, early environment, and the social class of their immediate forebears, they go into something like despair, which, if generally secret, is no less destructive.
De Tocqueville perceived the psychic dangers. "In democratic times," he granted, "enjoyments are more intense than in the ages of aristocracy, and the numbers of those who partake in them is vastly larger." But, he added, in egalitarian atmospheres "man's hopes and desires are oftener blasted, the soul is more stricken and perturbed, and care itself more keen."
And after blasted hopes, envy. The force of sheer class envy behind vile and even criminal behavior in this country, the result in part of disillusion over the official myth of classlessness, should never be underestimated. The person who, parking his attractive car in a large city, has returned to find his windows smashed and his radio aerial snapped off will understand what I mean. Speaking in West Virginia in 1950, Senator Joseph R. McCarthy used language that leaves little doubt about what he was really getting at - not so much "Communism" as the envied upper-middle and upper classes. "It has not been the less fortunate or members of minority groups who have been selling this nation out," he said, "but rather those who have had all the benefits, the finest homes, the finest college education... ." Pushed far enough, class envy issues in revenge egalitarianism, which the humorist Roger Price, in The Great Roob Revolution (1970), distinguishes from "democracy" thus: "Democracy demands that all of its citizens begin the race even. Egalitarianism insists that they all finish even." Then we get the situation satirized in L.P. Hartley's novel Facial Justice (1960), about "the prejudice against good lucks" in a future society somewhat like ours. There, inequalities of appearance are redressed by government plastic surgeons, but the scalpel isn't used to make everyone beautiful - it's used to make everyone plain.
Despite our public embrace of political and judicial equality, in individual perception and understanding - much of which we refrain from publicizing - we arrange things vertically and insist on crucial differences in value. Regardless of what we say about equality, I think everyone at some point comes to feel like the Oscar Wilde who said, "The brotherhood of man is not a mere poet's dream: it is a most depressing and humiliating reality." It's as if in our hear of hearts we don't want agglomerations but distinctions. Analysis and separation we find interesting, synthesis boring.
Although it is disinclined to designate a hierarchy of social classes, the federal government seems to admit that if in law we are all equal, in virtually all other ways we are not. Thus the eighteen grades into which it divides its civil-servant employees, from grade 1 at the bottom (messenger, etc.) up through 2 (mail clerk), 5 (secretary), 9 (chemist), to 14 (legal administrator), and finally 16, 17, and 18 (high level administrators). In the construction business there's a social hierarchy of jobs, with "dirt work," or mere excavation, at the bottom; the making of sewers, roads, and tunnels in the middle; and work on buildings (the taller, the higher) at the top. Those who sell "executive desks" and related office furniture know that they and their clients agree on a rigid "class" hierarchy. Desks made of oak are at the bottom, and those of walnut are next. Then, moving up, mahogany is, if you like, "upper middle class," until we arrive, finally, at the apex: teak. In the army, at ladies' social functions, pouring the coffee is the prerogative of the senior officer's wife because, as the ladies all know, coffee outranks tea.
There seems no place where hierarchical status-orderings aren't discoverable. Take musical instruments. In a symphony orchestra the customary ranking of sections recognizes the difficulty and degree of subtlety of various kinds of instruments: strings are on top, woodwinds just below, then brass, and, at the bottom, percussion. On the difficulty scale, the accordion is near the bottom, violin near the top. Another way of assigning something like "social class" to instruments is to consider the prestige of the group in which the instrument is customarily played. As the composer Edward T. Cone says, "If you play a violin, you can play in a string quartet or symphony orchestra, but not in a jazz band and certainly not in a marching band. Among woodwinds, therefore, flute, and oboe, which are primarily symphonic instruments, are 'better' than the clarinet, which can be symphonic, jazz, or band. Among brasses, the French horn ranks highest because it hasn't customarily been used in jazz. Among percussionists, tympani is high for the same reason." And (except for the bassoon) the lower the notes an instrument is designed to produce, in general the lower its class, bass instruments being generally easier to play. Thus a sousaphone is lower than a trumpet, a bass viol lower than a viola, etc. If you hear "My boy's taking lessons on the trombone," your smile will be a little harder to control than if you hear "My boy's taking lessons on the flute." On the other hand, to hear "My boy's taking lessons on the viola da gamba" is to receive a powerful signal of class, the kind attaching to antiquarianism and museum, gallery, or "educational" work. Guitars (except when played in "classical" - that is, archaic - style) are low by nature, and that is why they were so often employed as tools of intentional class degradation by young people in the 1960s and '70s. The guitar was the perfect instrument for the purpose of signaling these young people's flight from the upper-middle and middle classes, associated as it is with Gypsies, cowhands, and other personnel without inherited or often even earned money and without fixed residence.
The former Socialist and editor of the Partisan Review William Barrett, looking back thirty years, concludes that "the Classless Society looks more and more like a Utopian illusion. The socialist countries develop a class structure of then own," although there, he points out, the classes are very largely based on bureaucratic toadying. "Since we are bound... to have classes in any case, why not have them in the more organic, heterogeneous and variegated fashion" indigenous to the West? And since we have them, why not know as much as we can about them? The subject may be touchy, but it need not be murky forever.
A new status anxiety is infecting affluent hipdom
By Sandra Tsing Loh
Some 25 years have passed since the publication of Paul Fussell’s naughty treat Class: A Guide Through the American Status System, and I think this quarter-century mark merits the raising of either a yachting pennant, an American flag, or a wind sock with the Budweiser logo (corresponding to Fussell’s demarcations of Upper Class, Middle Class, and Prole). For readers who somehow missed this snide, martini-dry American classic, do have your assistant Tessa run out and get it immediately (Upper), or at least be sure to worriedly skim this magazine summary over a low-fat bagel (Middle), because Fussell’s bibelot-rich tropes still resonate.
Back in 1983, Fussell—author of the renowned book The Great War and Modern Memory—argued that although Americans loathe discussing social class, this relatively new, rugged country of ours did indeed have a British-style class system, if less defined by money than by that elusive quality called taste. To be sure, Fussell’s universe is somewhat passé, in that its population is almost exclusively white (with the Mafia thrown in for color), and the three “classes” in his opening primer conform to clichés we might think of as Old-Money Wasp, Midwestern Insurance Salesman, and Southern Trailer Trash. The top classes, according to Fussell (with a hint of Nancy Mitford), drink Scotch on the rocks in a tumbler decorated with sailboats and say “Grandfather died”; Middles say “Martooni” and “Grandma passed away”; Proles drink domestic beer in a can and say “Uncle was taken to Jesus.”
The still-fresh guilty pleasure of the reading, however, comes from the insistent unspooling, with an almost Ptolemaic complexity, of Fussell’s cocktail-party-ready argument. (I picture him in rumpled tie elbowing his laughing-head-into-her-hands hostess while he gestures breezily with a glass of chardonnay—white wine itself being much classier in 1983 than now.) By chapter two, Fussell is revealing that he believes there are actually nine classes (Top Out-of-Sight, Upper, Upper Middle, Middle, High Proletarian, Mid-Proletarian, Low Proletarian, Destitute, Bottom Out-of-Sight). His Heart of Darkness journey wends boldly past unicorns (High Prole), ladies’ thimble collections (Middle), men’s hobbies (“One must learn that fishing in fresh water is classier than in salt, and that if salmon and trout are the things to catch, a catfish is something by all means to avoid catching”), the Sunbrella hat (for which he reserves a timeless—and I think appropriate—ire), “parody” hats favored by the upper-middle class such as Pat Moynihan’s tweedy bog cap, and the perils of the dark-blue visored “Greek fisherman’s cap” as advertised in The New Yorker (New Yorker ads themselves being, Fussell explains, crucibles of middle-class high anxiety). God forbid you get that cap in black leather (“Only six things can be made of black leather without causing class damage to the owner: belts, shoes, handbags, gloves, camera cases, and dog leashes”). He even threads through the subtle lexicon of tie patterns—from “amoeba-like foulard blobs” (Upper), signal flags (Upper Middle), musical notes (sliding downward), to Oh Hell, It’s Monday (quite low), with special horror reserved for the southwestern bola (“Says the bola, ‘The person wearing me is a child of nature, even though actually eighty years old’”). Literally no stone—or soapstone—goes unturned.
The high-prole bathroom reveals two contradictory impulses at war: one is the desire to exhibit a “hospital” standard of cleanliness, which means splashing a lot of Lysol or Pine Oil around; the other is to display as much fanciness and luxury as possible, which means a lurch in the opposite direction, toward fur toilet seat covers and towels which don’t work not merely because they are made largely of Dacron but also because a third of the remaining threads are “gold.”
The experience of reading (and re-reading) Class is akin to wiping goggles one didn’t know were fogged. Fussell’s methodology settles into the brain like a virus; one soon cannot stop nanocategorizing one’s world. A quarter century later, most of Fussell’s categories live on—if with some fiscal damage. Fussell’s topmost denizens were “out of sight” in hilltop manses at the end of long, curving driveways. The billionaires in Michael Tolkin’s hilariously mordant The Return of the Player are even farther out, prow-jousting at sea in their satellite-technology-equipped yachts. Indeed, this novel is such a teeth-gnashingly precise class almanac, that Tolkin should surely replace Tom Wolfe as our modern-day high-society-anxiety chronicler (at least of the West Coast variety). Tolkin is particularly hard on his people, wealthy Los Angeles Jews, a variation on the American upper class with their conspicuously consuming Hebraism. At a bar mitzvah at a Reform synagogue that shares a driveway with Milken High (named deftly not for Michael but for the brother):
Torahs dressed in embroidered covers and silver breastplates stood on the branches of a sculpted tree behind a sheer curtain, like expensive boots in a winter window display.
In attendance is a “fiesta” of rich Jews:
the trim skeptical men and their two categories of wives, all of them brilliantly educated, some of them successful professionals themselves, others still drifting on the messy alibi supplied by their genuinely screwed-up relationship with their genuinely screwed-up mothers, but all of them, pediatric endocrinologists, failed Tibetan wool importers, soccer moms and private school committee volunteers, recognizing each other’s clan by a signal from within an unfakable right for their chaotic anxieties and complaints to take up space around them.
This isn’t to say that Hollywood Jews’ counterparts, Upper-Class Gentiles, are dead. Their ethos (or at least the ethos of those who aspire to Upper-Class Gentilehood) is lovingly enshrined, for instance, in Vanity Fair, with its wide-eyed revelations from the dusty alcoves of Kennedy history and obsessive detailing of the summerings, winterings, and fallings of obscure Eurotrash. (Though how I devour like stale-but-still-tasty Mon Cheri candies Dominick Dunne’s dispatches about, oh, “Arch Viscount Fernando of Capri’s 80th birthday party—he’s a Scorpio!” featuring murky snaps out from which inevitably loom, like death and taxes, Barry Diller and the shiny gorgon head of Diane von Furstenberg.) Meanwhile, tacking starboard then port around Graydon Carter’s fresh, startled horror over the latest outrages of the Bush administration (and I will miss those) are soft-focus ads pimping what appear to be blond, pink-argyle-sweater-clad, Ralph Lauren–fraternity Hitler Youth who look 30 seconds away from clubbing me (a light-mocha-hued person) over the head with an oar, or perhaps with a Nautica-logo polo mallet, sunglasses by Fendi.
Magazine reading for Middles, though (moving the goalposts in from both coasts), is best defined by the literary output of staid airlines such as Southwest, Delta, and Continental (as opposed to the more edgily cosmopolitan JetBlue and Virgin). Luxuriously Middle are those sumptuous photo ads for restaurants like Ruth’s Chris Steak House (Why two names?) featuring mute, glistening hillocks of beef. (What is it about a close-up of a filet’s dewy, reddened inside that so tempts the in-flight reader?) And how exquisitely State Farm Middle Manager are the matchmaking ads of Selective Search and It’s Just Lunch!, with their come-hither phalanxes of kitten-nosed executive female “lunch directors”? Their unquestioned queen, I’ve ferreted out, is President Barbie Adler, with her strangely hypnotic execu-speak about eliminating “the pain points” in the dating process, as though the solution to contemporary romance is a Tucson-based chiropractic laser procedure performed on tibiae thrown out in racquetball.
Fussell believed in an escape pod from this tyranny of classhood: residence in a special American psycho-emotional space called “category X.” (Fussell borrowed his notion from Matthew Arnold’s analysis of the three British classes—even a century earlier, Arnold was describing this fourth set of “aliens.”) Fussell’s Xs were essentially bohemians, the young people who flocked to cities in search of “art,” “writing,” and “creative work,” ideally without a supervisor. Xs disregarded authority; they dressed down on every occasion; they drank no-name liquor (“Beefeater Gin and Cutty Sark Scotch betray the credulous victim of advertising, and hence the middle class”); they wore moccasins and down vests (in 1983, Fussell considered L.L.Bean and Lands’ End natural X clothiers); they carelessly threw out, unread, their college alumni magazines.
Roger that. Even today, I think one’s relation to one’s alma mater is fraught with haute-bourgeois peril. In descending order of coolness are:
1. Dropped out of prestigious college;
2. Graduated from prestigious school, never bring it up unless asked—then as joke;
3. Graduated from prestigious school with honors, bring up quickly, no irony;
4. Graduated, have become garish, cheerful head of alumni booster committee.
I say “coolness” instead of “class” because that’s how desperately I cling to my tattered X membership card, even as I creep toward 50 (What? Haven’t you heard? Fifty is the new 36! Clock? What’s a clock? I obey no clock!). Fussell argued that Xs wear T-shirts without lettering or only with “interesting” lettering, and it’s true that, even today, I treasure my—yes, cliché—Ramones T-shirt. But wait! This is not the brand-new Ramones T-shirt sported so conspicuously by needy soul-patched 50-ish alternadads at the Silver Lake dog park. If you actually bought the black Ramones tee the year it came out, the lettering will be so faded (as mine is), you literally cannot read it. It looks like a linty rag. So there. Granted, this sense of X superiority is an absurd stance for a fanny-pack-wearing mother in Desitin-smeared drawstring Target pants who never particularly liked the Ramones and who, like any obedient dog, now dutifully listens to public radio while driving her kids about town in a McDonald’s-bag-strewn Toyota minivan. However, I believe it is the very je-ne-sais-quoi boldness with which I saucily steer my bird-shit-bedecked “ride” into scattering flocks of L.A. valet parkers that marks the true rebel. As Fussell puts it:
When an X person, male or female, meets a member of an identifiable class, the costume, no matter what it is, conveys the message “I am freer and less terrified than you are.”
I believe the true X philosophy is to try to destroy “hipness” wherever one sees it. (Some 40-something mom friends and I thought the way to drain the pagan power from Burning Man would be to set up our own Jenny Craig camp there. And, if we get child care, we will!)
Sadly, though, rebellion is not the outlier stance it once was. Xs are no longer America’s free. By 2009, Xs are neither what Fussell called the “classless class” nor an “unmonied aristocracy” with the freedom of the Out-of-Sights, if without the bucks. (Note: tickets to Burning Man start at more than $200.) Today’s Xs do not “occupy the one social place in the U.S.A. where the ethic of buying and selling is not all-powerful.” Thanks to the economic rise, over the past three decades, of what Richard Florida (betraying a wee bit too much admiration) calls “the creative class,” Xs now rule the world. Or, as David Brooks wrote in Bobos in Paradise (Bobos is short for “bourgeois bohemians”): “Dumb good-looking people with great parents have been displaced by smart, ambitious, educated, and antiestablishment people with scuffed shoes.” Today’s Xs define themselves largely by what they consume. This is particularly well articulated, I think, in an L.A. Times home-section piece I clipped in 2005 about Brian and Gigi Levangie Grazer—think film mogul and writer/trophy wife making do in a modest 11,000-plus-square-foot home complete with little pads and pencils for brainstorming poised, as I pictured it, on every renewable-bamboo table. (Children: Asia and Lennon? Upper-class pediatric frailties: sugar issues, lactose intolerance, wheat allergies, Asperger’s, difficulty with gestalt thinking?—as opposed to the Old World ruling-class pediatric scourge of hemophilia.)
Charity itself is complicated when one hates to admit that one rules. Although old-school WASPs might tinkle their G-and-Ts while hosting an annual spring benefit for The Poor, the creative class will throw a star-studded fete to combat a politically fashionable disease, with celebs relaying anecdotes about personal frailty (as detailed in their candid new addiction memoirs). They can be rich and feel vaguely anti-establishment at the same time. The New World is all Richard Branson interviewed by Charlie Rose onstage at the Clinton Conference on Global … Whatever—with a faint chunky mix-in of Third World Poverty. (The creative class usually prefers faraway poor people to the local variety, and always prefers the “ethnic” poor to the white kind.)
At network-TV meetings, millionaire 20-something comedy writers see how low they can go with torn jeans, T-shirts, and grimy Red Sox caps, while the only guys in coat and tie on the lot are the Honduran valet parkers. That grimy baseball cap signifies Harvard Lampoon alum, which opens the door to Hollywood comedy riches, in a process that can seem, to the uninitiated, truly bewildering and mysterious. X people offer jobs to those they recognize, by certain nuanced clues, as members of their creative tribe, which makes people fear that they might mistransmit a code—bringing us back to Fussell’s rubric of class being announced in clothing, lifestyle, and speech. What will best fire the small talk, and the resulting intimate connection, that invigorates the start of a pitch meeting? Mets cap? Cubs cap? Yankees cap? What if you went to UC Davis instead of Harvard—are you not as funny? What is the right note of irony to apply to your hip-hop speech, given that you are, in actuality, suburban, 33, and white? Oh, yes, the newfangled Xs now have not only the money, but also the anxiety. It’s easy to be banished from the land of affluent hipdom—especially now that the scratch that pays for all that hipness has been depleted. When I see those TV commercials of silverback Baby Boomers sprinting with vintage surfboards toward ever-higher-yielding money-market funds, I feel both Boomer derision and a gnawing dread that my own funds are not similarly accruing (and in fact they are not—but maybe, to offset the losses, Brian Grazer will option my book?). Although in Fussell’s day, the denizens of the middle class were the more piquant sufferers of “status panic,” today the most metaphysically fearful group is, in fact, the Xs.
It’s not just that Romantic Selfhood—Walter Pater’s notion of burning with a “hard, gemlike flame,” which is the true emotional underpinning of bohemia—has become commodified. Fairly harmless is the $4 venti soy latte purchased amid Starbucks’s track lighting, Nina Simone crooning, and a story about Costa Rican beans that have sailed around the world just to see YOU! It’s that Selfhood has its own berth now in the psychiatrist Abraham Maslow’s “hierarchy of needs,” a generational shift presaged by American sociologists who, as early as the 1970s, posited that, while hungry people are concerned about survival, those who grow up in abundance will hunger for self-expression. In the relatively affluent post–Cold War era, the search for self-expression has evolved into a desire to not have that self-expression challenged, which in turn necessitates living among people who think and feel just as you do. It’s why so many bohemians flee gritty Los Angeles for verdant Portland, where left-leaning citizens pride themselves on their uniform, monotonously progressive culture—the Zipcars, the organic gardens, the funky graphic-novel stores, and the thriving alternative-music scene. (In the meantime, I’ve also noticed that Portland is much whiter than Los Angeles, disconcertingly white.)
Further, as Bill Bishop argues in his disturbing, illuminating The Big Sort: Why the Clustering of Like-Minded America Is Tearing Us Apart, the creative class’s quest for lifestyle self-determination has had a giant and, in some ways, deleterious national effect. In the past, U.S. migration patterns were based on economics and available jobs. By contrast, writes Bishop, over the past 30 years, “there was a surge of people who wanted to live in cities for what could only be social—or even aesthetic—reasons.” In Austin alone, the percentage of people with a college education went from 17 percent in 1970 to 45 percent in 2004. In 60 years, the total population of San Francisco stayed roughly the same, but the average house price rose ninefold, from $60,162 to nearly $550,000 (compared with Cincinnati, where the average house price increased from $65,000 to $145,000). New “superstar cities” (a term coined by the economist Joseph Gyourko) were
metro areas where residence had become, in essence, a luxury good. People paid for the privilege of being in cities such as San Francisco, Seattle, San Jose, Portland, Los Angeles, New York, Austin, and Raleigh-Durham because they wanted to live there, not because they expected an economic return.
The function of cities had changed. Their reason for being—and their residents’ reason for living within them—was no longer to produce salable goods and services. The city’s new product was lifestyle.
These locales became “‘consumer cities’—metro areas that catered to the well-paid, well-educated people who moved there.”
Counterintuitively, an over-clustering of educated people in one region is not always a social boon. Citing the research of the political scientist Diana Mutz, Bishop shows that, startlingly,
education is presumed to nurture an appreciation of diversity: the more schooling, the greater the respect for works of literature and art, different cultures, and various types of music. Certainly, well-educated Americans see themselves as worldly, nuanced, and comfortable with difference. Education also should make us curious about—even eager to hear—different political points of view. But it doesn’t. The more educated Americans become—and the richer—the less likely they are to discuss politics with those who have different points of view.
In 2000, the research of Robert Putnam, author of Bowling Alone, showed that the correlation between the health of civic culture and the affluence of the local economy was actually negative; the highest-tech cities tended to have the lowest rate of civic connections. I think of the Silicon Valley runner guy we met in San Francisco who, when we showed him a set of lost car keys we’d found on the path in Golden Gate Park, said: “I wouldn’t trust the police with those. Post a notice on Craigslist!” For all of Richard Florida’s celebration of San Francisco, the city has been hemorrhaging families with children at an alarming rate, because of the creative class’s flight from public schools there. (Florida proposes some remedies for these problems in “How the Crash Will Reshape America,” page 44.)
It will be interesting to see, now that the apocalypse has arrived, how various modes of American status-striving will be rejiggered, particularly those predicated on amassing large amounts of debt.
Never mind Fussell’s outdated notion that sartorial fearlessness belongs to the sloppy-T-shirt X class; the insouciant fun will probably now belong to the few defiant outlying WASPs still quaffing Bloodys before noon and tumbling off the dock in lime-green-and-blue whale pants. Or to those highest of High Proles called pimps. (For extraordinary archiving of such, see the classic HBO documentary Pimps Up, Ho’s Down, featuring an annual pimp awards ball with gents in elaborately tailored suits, watch fobs, and bowlers, in “fuck you” colors of hot purple and tangelo, who explode out of ornate Freddie Munster Model T cars.)
As for the Upper Middles and their betters, what about Tolkin’s formulation of “an unfakable right for their chaotic anxieties and complaints to take up space around them”? That really is financially viable only for the real upper class (to wit, not the millionaire but the ten-millionaire or more). The first tower to fall, for middle-class families, will be that fiduciary meritocratic yoke, the expensive education. Increasingly, college tuitions are outstripping the middle class’s ability to pay them. Although 20-somethings going for “hard” educations in things like medicine (aka “the Koreans,” quipped a professor friend) may still see a return, the high-water days of the $50,000-a-year liberal-arts education are drawing to a close. (I think of the Boomer parents of the Wellesley student recently trolling all of us—their professional associates—for an “exciting summer job” for their daughter. All I had to offer was babysitting. Inquired the Wellesley girl: “Can you send me a job description?” I wrote back: “BABYSITTING! $12 an hour!” She took it.) By contrast, the life of the High Prole may start to look reliable, and good—have you seen what plumbers make? Can your Ivy League–trained nephew do that?
But perhaps these times of hardship will see a return of the true bohemian, as in the days when the Left Bank was actually squalid. Stylistically, some artistic people are returning to thrift chic (either Goodwill retro wear, or something akin to the party a girlfriend threw recently called “Bitch Swap,” where you trade around the rags you’re tired of). Surely now the honestly eco-conscious will lead a bold return to—gasp!—tap water. (Because what’s worse for the environment than drinking water … out of plastic bottles … flown in from Fiji?) As Starbucks stores close around us, what’s more nostalgically amusing than Folgers Crystals? To save gas money, I’d forecast a mass movement from cars to cruiser bikes, but for that you must live in a groovy, bike-friendly (expensive!) city. However, listen for poignant, witty Frank O’Hara stories about transformative experiences that occur on public transportation (in the rain), on This American Life. As Borders stores shutter, perhaps we’ll see a reflowering of public libraries. In any case, unable to secure those astronomical loans, more Xers will have to start rubbing shoulders with The Other, living in truly mixed neighborhoods, next door to such noncreative types as Kohl’s-shopping back-office workers and actual not-yet-ready-for-their-close-up-in-Yoga- Journal immigrants. More members of a once-creative class may now have to live like immigrants, if not 12 to a single-family home, at least with roommates, or other family members—and not necessarily one’s favorites. Speaking of which, even the self-actualized may not be able to afford the heady liberation of divorce. Get the Rick Warren tapes out! Enlightened women may have to stay not just married but in for the night—what with restaurants being so unaffordable, home life will be all about the hearth, the candlelight, the guitar (and not a vintage Les Paul).
This economic catastrophe is teaching the Xers that their prized self-expression and their embrace of personal choice leads to … the collapse of capitalism. Time to inculcate not those self-satisfyingly hip and rebellious values—innovation! self-fulfillment!—cherished by the creative class (a class, after all, that includes in its ranks those buccaneering entrepreneurs who’ve led us down the primrose path), but those staid and stolid values of the bourgeoisie: industry, sobriety, moderation, self-discipline, and avoidance of debt. Out with the grungy baseball cap (cheap on its own, but not so thrifty when accompanied by those other accoutrements of formerly affluent hipdom—the iPhone, the rain-forest-safari vacation, the richly appointed LEED-certified house) and in with the dowdy JCPenney suit. The age of narcissistic creative-class strivers has brought this country cool new neighborhoods and an infinitely better selection of coffees and greens, but it has also brought shameful social stratification and a consumer binge that our children’s children may well be paying off. The Xer is dead. Long live the burgher!
Publicada por Jeeves em 23:05
Tuesday 24 May 2011
Suddenly,last saturday, I was invited to a "Black Tie" dinner at a Country House, but I didn't had a proper "smoking" ...After some hesitations ... a quick strategical visit to some "Vintage" shops delivered me a "bespoke" german dinner jacket ( for 25 euros) and independent fitting trousers, british shirt, etc., etc.,
My wife got a little hat, and there we went by bycicle and train ... an evening to remember ...
My wife got a little hat, and there we went by bycicle and train ... an evening to remember ...
Publicada por Jeeves em 03:13
Saturday 21 May 2011
Being myself an architectural historian, it is time to present you, one of the greatest ... Mark Girouard with his important and inspiring work, has played a very important role during my student years and in the most pleasant aspect of my personal initiation ... His very stimulating unique approach, always mixing Social and Architectural History makes his series of books "Life in", indispensable ...
His "Return to Camelot- Chivalry and the English Gentleman", is the best thing ever written concerning The Gothic Revival and the ideals and appeals connected with it ...
Discover and enjoy ...Yours Jeeves ...
His "Return to Camelot- Chivalry and the English Gentleman", is the best thing ever written concerning The Gothic Revival and the ideals and appeals connected with it ...
Discover and enjoy ...Yours Jeeves ...
Publicada por Jeeves em 02:07
Friday 20 May 2011
Thursday 19 May 2011
Hon. Desmond Guinness (born 8 September 1931) is an Irish author on Georgian art and architecture and a conservationist.
He was the second son of the author and brewer Bryan Guinness, 2nd Baron Moyne and Diana Mitford. He was educated at Eton, Gordonstoun and Christ Church, Oxford.
In 1958 he bought Leixlip Castle, Leixlip, County Kildare, Ireland, where he continues to live with his second wife, the former Penelope Cuthbertson, whom he married in 1984. As a member of the extended Guinness family he has a number of well-known relatives, such as Garech Browne. He has been Master of the North Kildare Harriers.
He and his first wife, Mariga (the former Princess Marie Gabrielle of Urach), founded the Irish Georgian Society in April 1958 to help to preserve Irish architecture of all periods. This was timely as the Irish planning laws were enacted only from 1963.
The IGS became involved in numerous projects and started publishing quarterly bulletins. Some early preservations or campaigns were at: Damer House (Tipperary), The Conolly Folly (Kildare), Mountjoy Square, Tailors' Hall and Hume Street (Dublin) and the Dromana Gateway (Waterford).
The IGS also held Georgian cricket matches played to the rules of 1744.
In 1967-79 the Guinnesses bought and started to preserve Castletown House, in Celbridge, Kildare, said to be the finest Palladian house in Ireland.
In more recent years he has founded a scholarship for students of architecture.
His conservation work has been recognised by many American and English cultural groups, and Europa Nostra. In 1980 he was made an honorary Doctor of Laws at Trinity College Dublin. In 2006 he was presented with a Europa Nostra award by the Queen of Spain. In 2010 he headed the Saint Patrick's Day parade in Seattle.
Married at Oxford in 1954 to Princess Henriette Marie-Gabrielle ("Mariga") von Urach, daughter of Prince Albrecht von Urach and a granddaughter of King Mindaugas II of Lithuania, by whom he had a son, Patrick Desmond Carl-Alexander, and a daughter, Marina: Through Patrick he is a grandfather of the fashion model Jasmine Guinness.
In 1984 he married Penelope Cuthbertson, a granddaughter of the artist Nico Wilhelm Jungmann
He is the older half-brother (on his mother's side) of Max Mosley, former President of the FIA.
Le Style, C'set La Femme Meme
May 9, 1998
By Girouard, Mark
In the 1960s Mariga Guinness made Leixlip Castle an unforgettable place: a solid, four-towered mediaeval castle converted in the early 18th century with huge, thick-barred windows and spacious, simple rooms looking down to the Liffey; a massive front door that was never locked; and inside an inspired assembly of mainly Irish 18th-century furniture and pictures, put together and set off with a sense of color and occasion, a mixture of informality and showmanship, to make a setting in which it seemed that anything could happen and anyone might turn up.
One would turn up oneself, pull open the front door and wander into empty rooms with log fires smoldering, until people would, perhaps, begin to appear: millionaires, Irish professors, Anglo-Irish lordlings, pop stars, German princes, architects, priests, art historians, students, all revolving around Mariga, with her drawling voice and mischievous smile, and Desmond, with his charm and blazing blue eyes.
A party might develop or a picnic, or both or neither; intrigues and dramas would get under way, champagne might or might not flow, and the whole charade was given point by the crusade for Irish Georgian architecture, to save or rediscover which forays would be made from the castle all over Ireland. Here too anything might happen; mad owners would let off guns from cracked top-floor windows, a rumored masterpiece would turn out to be a hole in the ground, a detour up an unexpected avenue would lead to interiors rich with rococo plasterwork, a folly or a mausoleum would be disinterred from the ivy which smothered it in the middle of a wood.
One must be grateful to Carola Peck for patiently collecting memories of Mariga and assembling them as the basis of this book. It could have done with tougher editing - one gets too much of some voices and others are mysteriously absent, the illustrations are intriguing but grey, the achievements of the Irish Georgian Society are perhaps exaggerated and there is a rather too breathless atmosphere of `how wonderful it all was'; but it is, after all, a tribute, not a full-scale biography, and any flaws are offset by the vividness with which it succeeds in evoking Mariga: her voice, her mannerisms, her beauty, her dedication, her genius in mixing things and people, and the ultimate sadness of her life.
She was not given to personal memories or confidences. In a sympathetic introduction her son Patrick makes clear why, and explains much about her that was a revelation to me and, I suspect, to others who knew her. She was the daughter of an amiably bohemian German princeling, who was brought up with no money but a belief that he would inherit the principality of Monaco. Her grandfather was briefly King of Lithuania, the Empress Elisabeth of Austria was her great-aunt, her aunt was Queen of Belgium and her mother was half Scottish, half Norwegian, Girton-educated, from a solid, unaristocratic background.
Her father became a member of the Nazi party, even if a not especially committed one, and went out to Japan shortly before the war as a German government photographer. His wife decided that the Emperor was being misled into aggression by his generals, and stormed unannounced into the imperial palace to tell him so.
She was arrested and sedated by the security guards, removed with her screaming daughter, and returned in disgrace to England, where she had a breakdown followed by a disastrous lobotomy. She lived on until 1975 in an asylum. Mariga's father was in Germany during the war and she was brought up in Surrey, a lonely little girl and virtually an orphan, by a 70-yearold unmarried friend of her grandmother's. She had not realized how sick her mother was, and had dreams of a proper family life with both parents after the war. She went to see her mother, and told her she was her daughter; her mother said, `Impossible, my daughter is four years old.' She discovered indirectly that her father had remarried and had a second family; he had not told her so himself.
It was this girl, beautiful, gifted, affectionate, wounded, with grand connections but effectively no family, no home and almost no money, who appeared in Oxford in the 1950s and met and married Desmond Guinness. Her background and the stresses which it must have created explain much about her: her protective screen of affectation and vagueness, which could be part of her charm and could be exceedingly irritating; her basic stoicism; her drunkenness, which got worse, and could make her a great bore, which she certainly was not at other times; her kindness to old and lonely people; her mixture of Wittelsbach eccentricity and Scottish good sense; the frantic pace at which she lived. Leixlip and the Irish Georgian Society, which she and Desmond founded together, gave her a home, a purpose and an outlet for her creative genius. When her marriage broke up and she lost Leixlip and her connection with the Irish Georgians, her life lost its point and never successfully acquired a new one. The last 15 years, up to her death in 1989, were a sad story of gradual decline and increasing loneliness.
Seeing her on her occasional appearances in London in these last years could be a depressing experience. I prefer to think of her in one of the last times of her glory, not long after she first left Leixlip. Her friend Hugh O'Neill ran into a wild boar driving at night in a Belgian forest, and broke, as it seemed, every bone in his body.
Mariga went over to Belgium, flew him to London and installed him in a room full of delicacies and champagne, a telephone for business deals and a constant stream of friends. It was fun to visit him, and fun for him to be visited. Only Mariga could have transformed the depressions of hospital life and a long convalescence into a celebration and a carnival in such a stylish and practical way.
Desmond and Leixlip Castle
A 50-Year Battle to Save Old Ireland
Derek Speirs for The New York Times
WHEN Desmond and Mariga Guinness first lived here in the 1950s, they were unlikely champions of Irish architecture. Mrs. Guinness, the daughter of a German prince, had grown up in Europe and Japan, with no real link to Ireland. And although Mr. Guinness had Irish roots going back more than two centuries, he had been raised and educated in England (Oxford, class of ‘54).
But he was a Guinness, descended from the 18th-century brewer who put the family name on the lips of stout drinkers the world over. His father, Bryan Guinness, Lord Moyne, kept a home in Ireland, and by the mid-’50s his mother, Diana, one of the famous Mitford sisters, was living in County Cork with her second husband. And Ireland’s long economic decline had made property far more affordable than in England, making it an attractive alternative for the young couple, who moved across the Irish Sea in 1956.
In the two years they spent searching for a home, driving through the countryside and making regular forays into Dublin from a house they rented in County Kildare, the Guinnesses became familiar with the country’s architecture — particularly its 18th-century buildings, from grand country homes to town houses filled with working-class flats — and found themselves increasingly bothered by its state of decay. And given that they did not have to work for a living (Mr. Guinness lived off family money), they were in a rare position, they realized, to do something about it.
In February 1958 they announced plans to re-establish the Irish Georgian Society, a group that had created a photographic record of Dublin’s best Georgian buildings earlier in the century; this new version, Mr. Guinness wrote in The Irish Times, would “fight for the protection of what is left of Georgian architecture in Ireland.” The following month they began restoring a building of their own, Leixlip Castle, a dilapidated 12th-century fortress on 182 acres west of Dublin, which would be their home and the group’s headquarters.
Now observing its 50th year with a series of celebrations and a lavishly illustrated book, the revived Irish Georgian Society has been credited with restoring dozens of architectural gems across Ireland, from a former union hall for Dublin tailors to the country’s oldest Palladian house. (The society’s early preservation efforts focused on Georgian Dublin, but in later years it expanded its mission to cover noteworthy buildings from any period.) Perhaps more impressively, the group has helped bring about a national change of heart regarding Irish architecture.
“We weren’t the only people concerned, but we had the time and the youth — 50 years ago — and not much to do,” said Mr. Guinness, now 77, as he reclined in the circular sitting room at Leixlip, beside one of the castle’s 20 fireplaces. He still lives here, now with his second wife, Penelope, whom he married three years after his divorce from Mariga in 1981. “You know,” he continued, “we were free. We didn’t have to go to the office every morning.”
Free or not, Mr. Guinness and his followers faced a tall order. Saving old buildings was hardly a priority in Ireland in 1958. The year before, more than 50,000 Irish citizens emigrated and 78,000 were unemployed. There were few, amid the grinding poverty, able to maintain a 200-year-old mansion. Many Irish people also reviled the lavish Georgian buildings for their association with the British occupation. “May the crows roost in its rafters,” one farmer is said to have remarked about the large house on his family’s land.
Meanwhile, the Irish government had neither the money nor much inclination to support preservation. Some officials openly assailed the Irish Georgian Society as elitist, a charge that endures to a lesser degree today. In 1966 the Lord Mayor of Dublin dismissed the society’s efforts, saying ordinary citizens had “little sympathy with the sentimental nonsense of persons who had never experienced bad housing conditions.”
Mr. Guinness was equally dismissive in return. “We were confronting a philistine state,” he said, a point that was driven home to him one day in 1957 when he saw workers systematically dismantling a pair of 18th-century houses on Kildare Place in Dublin. The city, which owned the houses, planned to demolish them in favor of new construction.
“People on the roof slinging slates down from perfectly good, beautiful buildings, with red-brick facades and good interiors,” recalled Mr. Guinness, indignation still evident in his voice. “And now they’d be worth millions.”
Mr. and Mrs. Guinness envisioned their group as a guardian of the nation’s architectural heritage, never mind that neither had formal training in architecture, Irish or otherwise. With 16 volunteers — Trinity College professors and students, friends who owned country houses and some whom Mr. Guinness called “ordinary civilized people” — they set out to spread their preservation ethos.
“They did start a quest, a sort of mission, when Irish 18th-century buildings were completely unfashionable,” said Desmond FitzGerald, the Knight of Glin, an early convert to the Guinness cause and, since 1991, president of the Irish Georgian Society.
The Guinnesses led members of the society on regular scouting missions to view buildings at risk. They lobbied local and national authorities, reminding policy makers that Irish craftsmen had constructed these buildings. They held cricket matches and galas and lectures to raise money, and Mr. Guinness, and later Mr. FitzGerald, began traveling to the United States to lecture on Irish architecture and design.
Two projects in particular helped galvanize public support for the society’s work. The first was Mountjoy Square, a cluster of town houses in north-central Dublin that dated to 1791. By the early 1960s, many of them had been abandoned, and a developer was buying them up with plans to replace them with a large office development. In 1964, the Guinnesses intervened, buying a single decrepit property, 50 Mountjoy Square, that stood in the middle of the proposed construction. The standoff got plenty of attention in the Irish press, and two years later a court hearing resulted in the developer’s backing out of the project.
The following year Mr. Guinness wielded his checkbook again, buying what many considered the most important house in Ireland for $259,000. The house, Castletown, in County Kildare, was the country’s largest Palladian house and the only one designed by the Italian architect Alessandro Galilei. It was built starting in the 1720s for William Conolly, the speaker of the Irish House of Commons, and had been in the Conolly family for nearly 250 years.
But by 1967 Castletown had been abandoned for two years. A housing development had recently sprouted next door, and an auction of its possessions, accumulated over two centuries, had left it virtually empty. Preservationists worried that it could succumb to the whims of a short-sighted developer. To buy it, Mr. Guinness borrowed against a trust he would come into in a few years.
Led by the Guinnesses — who, for aristocrats, were unabashedly bohemian and did not shy from taking a paintbrush in hand or climbing a ladder to remove moldy wallpaper — an army of volunteers descended on Castletown. Donors supplied period furnishings to fill its vast rooms, and that summer, Castletown opened its doors for visitors. Jacqueline Kennedy made a surprise visit and was given a well-publicized tour. Today, Castletown is owned by the Irish government and remains open to the public.
“When you think that that house was nearly lost to dereliction,” Mr. FitzGerald said.
Mr. FitzGerald, now 71, studied art history at Harvard and has written about Irish art, furniture and architecture. He also knows a few things about restoring old houses. Glin Castle, his home in County Limerick, has been in his family for 700 years. He inherited it when he was just 12, after the death of his father in 1949. At that point, according to Mr. FitzGerald, the family had no money and the house was in disrepair. His stepfather, a Canadian businessman, saved it, he said.
Today Mr. FitzGerald and his wife, Olda, live in a wing of Glin Castle, which they operate as a 15-room hotel. (They have a second home in Dublin.) His own experience, he believes, underscores the importance of preservation to Ireland. “I think we need the historic houses if we’re going to set ourselves up in the grand shop of tourism that the rest of Europe takes part in,” he said.
Under his leadership, the Irish Georgian Society operates on an annual budget of less than $1 million, raised from private donors. Based in Dublin, it keeps an office on Manhattan’s Upper East Side; 600 of its roughly 3,000 members live in the United States and provide two-thirds of its funding.
The group now publishes an annual scholarly journal, gives scholarships to Irish students of architecture and preservation, conducts trips abroad to historic sites and funds grants for restoration projects, like the recent repair of a conical roof at the 15th-century Barmeath Castle in County Louth.
This year the society organized a series of fund-raising events for its golden anniversary, to pay for restoring the “eating parlor” at Headfort, an 18th-century estate in County Meath, in its original colors — what Mr. FitzGerald called “a very intricate and complicated paint job.” The parlor, a high-ceilinged room with ornate plasterwork, is part of a suite of six rooms designed in the neoclassical style by the renowned Scottish architect Robert Adam. They are the only rooms he designed in Ireland that are known to exist.
LEIXLIP CASTLE has its own place in Irish Georgian Society lore. For many years it served as the organization’s de facto clubhouse, the scene of picnics and parties and a magnet for glitterati. (Mr. Guinness remembers Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithfull visiting in the 1960s and walking off into the grass just as lunch was being served. “I suppose they got bored with our conversation,” he said.)
Over the years, the Guinnesses have outfitted their home with objects largely reaped from native soil. The library’s gilt mirror, which Mr. Guinness bought at the Castletown auction in 1966, was made by John and Francis Booker, premiere mirror makers of mid-18th century Dublin. Mr. Guinness bought the dining room sideboard at a 1973 auction at nearby Malahide Castle. The 1740s Kilkenny marble chimneypiece in the front hall came from Ardgillan Castle in County Dublin. Mr. Guinness acquired it around 1960 by swapping the Victorian fireplace that had been in the front hall.
“I try to collect Irish furniture and pictures,” Mr. Guinness said. “And you used to be able to buy it very cheaply. Now people have discovered it.”
He has only himself to blame. Mr. Guinness, who has written extensively about Irish architecture and design, received an award in 2006 from Queen Sofia of Spain on behalf of Europa Nostra, a pan-European cultural heritage group, which cited his “fifty years of unrelenting voluntary efforts” on behalf of Ireland’s architectural heritage. The following month the Irish government provided about $645,000 in start-up funds for the Irish Heritage Trust, an independent charity designed to take ownership of historic properties.
Kevin Baird, the executive director, said the trust is just the sort of government-sanctioned body for which the Irish Georgian Society had long lobbied. “The Georgians deserve huge praise,” Mr. Baird said. “They were swimming against the tide for so long, and they were instrumental in turning that tide.”
That the tide had truly turned became evident last month, when the society published a book by Robert O’Byrne, an Irish journalist, documenting its history. The foreword, which described the society as “a fine example of the extraordinary lasting effect that a small but committed organisation can have,” was written by Mary McAleese, the president of Ireland.
Publicada por Jeeves em 00:39