City of Sin

While passing some time in the National Archives (in a break between staring at a computer screen and staring at awful courtroom handwriting), I happened upon Catharine Arnold’s City of Sin: London and Its Vices (2010). Since the second chapter of my dissertation is on sexual violence, I thought Arnold’s book would come in handy, providing me with a general outline of London’s sex scene, and I was right.

City of Sin starts with the Roman invasion and works its way through cybersex of the twenty-first century. Arnold includes many intriguing anecdotes that are worthy of further study. Particularly interesting to me were her discussions of Marlowe’s poetry, the history of individual prostitutes and bawds, why lesbians were not persecuted in Victorian England, and references to the English Collective of Prostitutes (still active in London). I also appreciated how she tracked “deviant” sexuality across the geography of London, showing how the hot-spots moved throughout history.

My main complaint was that certain areas lacked the thick description necessary to prove her points. Obviously, the later chapters have more information (likely due to better record-keeping and access to records). Chapter Two, for example, focuses on the Catholic Church’s link to prostitution during the middle ages. I found this illuminating and would have liked more discussion on this point. At times, her readings of literary texts also lack substance (this is probably my own hobby-horse as an English major, though). Her pairing of Cleland’s Fanny Hill and Hogarth’s The Harlot’s Progress—and the subsequent conclusions she comes to—needs more development, including discussion of purpose and genre. But, then again, this is a popular history overview, and not an “academic” article.

The only seriously troubling part of the text comes in her final chapter, where Arnold makes some sweeping generalizations about prostitution and women’s rights. She seems to claim that since prostitution has always existed, it should be legalized (or, at the least, not prosecuted) because it’s a business that provides a livelihood for many women who can’t make as much money elsewhere (here she cites modern examples, such as PhD students who strip to pay for grad school). She also shows how attempts to abolish prostitution only hurt prostitutes, as they are driven further and further underground into settings where they can be harmed (she also discusses this in her section on Jack the Ripper, where she argues that his attacks were predicated on the fact that Victorian culture pushed prostitutes out of the view of the public, away from help and surveillance of police).

Obviously, I take issue with this. While I agree that prostitution is a means of survival for many women, we have to question our cultural structure and ask why women can’t survive by other means. Of course, there’s no easy answer to this. But accepting prostitution seems to be a subversive way of empowering women within a flawed system, rather than a progressive shift in the system itself. Or maybe that’s just my radical feminism coming out.

Despite my qualms with its conclusions, City of Sin was an interesting, easy read that provided a great overview of sexuality in London. I learned a lot from Arnold and intend to read her other two studies on London, Necropolis and Bedlam, as soon as I can.

Wherein Samantha Learns about Artists other than Hogarth

I’ve never really understood art. I can look at a picture or sculpture or painting and tell you whether or not I like it, but I’m pretty ignorant when it comes to genres and movements. When you’re in London, though, you learn to sink or swim pretty quickly in the art world. Thanks to Kellye (my art guru), I’ve learned a great deal more and can hopefully apply it to my classes in the future.

It’s really amazing how visual art is in constant conversation with the literary movements that coincide with it. Somehow, I knew that this was true, but never valued exactly how it worked. I’m still a work in progress, but my trip forced me to look at art from a different perspective, and I feel better for it.

Here are some of my favs (some of them I took myself, and others I ganked from the internet, as we weren’t allowed to bring cameras):

This is an “exquisite corpse,” a surrealist game where a paper is folded into thirds. Each person draws on a third, not knowing what the person before him has drawn, other than the edge lines. This one, featuring a creepy Alice was my favorite at the Tate Modern.

Dalou’s Peasant Woman Nursing a Baby (1873) caught my attention straight away. I was confused when I saw it in two different locations in the Victoria and Albert Museum. After reading the plaque (a good idea), I learned that there were actually two of them (and not that they were moving it around…). Dalou constructed the mold and then made different renditions in various mediums: this one is terra cotta, but there are also bronze and plaster ones throughout the world.









When we went into the Impressionism room at the National Gallery, I was confused. I couldn’t figure out what that painting of ugly sunflowers caused such a ruckus. I walked quickly around the room to avoid the throng. Then I turned around. From the other side of the room, the Van Gogh’s illuminated off the wall and seemed almost three dimensional. It looked like the were producing light. I was in awe. I’m glad I had the experience, as the paintings don’t translate into reproductions well. (Here’s A Wheatfield, with Cypresses anyway, my favorite.)

For obvious reasons, the following are some of the 1660-1900 paintings that caught my eye:

Canaletto’s London: Interior of the Rotunda at Ranelagh (1754). The build-up on this one is exquisite and it almost looks three dimensional.

Reynold’s Lady Cockburn and her Three Eldest Sons (1773).

Ingres’s Madame Moitessier (1856). You can’t see a single brush stroke on it. This is, quite possibly, the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.

Egg’s Past and Present (1858), a triptych.

What I did on my London vacation...

I took a class on Shakespeare's History plays as an undergrad. On the first day of class, Dr. Willis made us place one hand on our Bevington and raise the other, repeating, “I will not learn history from Shakespeare.” The same can be said about Stephen Clarke’s 1000 Years of Annoying the French. Yet, like Shakespeare’s history plays, Clarke’s book should definitely be read nonetheless.

I struggle at times to explain Franco-English relations to my students, often referring to them as the “Tom and Jerry of Europe.” (And I find this reference becoming more and more out of date with each new semester.) Clarke’s book illuminates some particulars that will prove helpful in my future endeavors to explain the relationship.

The title says it all: 1000 Years of Annoying the French starts with William the Conqueror (a French-hating Norman, according to Clarke) and runs up to the War in Iraq, focusing on how the British aggravate the French and vice versa. The book is certainly one sided, which readers are made aware of from page one, so citing it as a serious reference wouldn’t fly. But it makes reading “history” entertaining (I read all 645 pages in my “off time” in a week).

Clarke’s attention to detail and biting commentary made me laugh out loud (on the tube, at times, as I hid the cover as not to annoy any Frenchmen myself). While I know the facts are being presented through a Union Jack-colored lens, I find myself wanting to learn more about the events in the book.

Some of the notable points he brings up that I didn’t know about, and that I can share with my classes when teaching Brit Lit include, subversive messages stitched into the Bayuex Tapestry, Mary Queen of Scots’ heart-wrenching biography, exactly who was (or wasn’t) liberated on Bastille Day, the French taxis of Marne’s involvement in World War I, why French wine owes its existence to American wine (this one’s a bit of a stretch, but funny nonetheless), and more about Charles de Gaulle than I ever wanted to. (Actually, I didn’t know who de Gaulle was, but Clarke tells me why, as an American, I wouldn’t know.)

Of course, I reveled in the facts that I probably won’t share with my students: the fight over Napoleon’s penis, Edward VII’s fellatio chair, Charles VI’s glass delusion (countered by George III’s discourse with trees), and, my personal favorite chapter, “Charles II: The Man Who Taught Everyone to Distrust French Motives for Doing Absolutely Anything; The English fop who sought political asylum in Paris, betrayed his own country and then accidentally tricked the French into betraying themselves.” Or, maybe when I have tenure, I will share them…

The details make the book an easy read, and the overall purpose of illuminating a problematic relationship built on a thousand years of distrust is certainly beneficial for anyone wanting to know more about (or just brush up on) English and French history in general.