Roget's Thesaurus

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About a month ago my mum found a battered Roget’s Thesaurus in a charity shop. Or rather, instead of finding, she perhaps unearthed, happened upon, came across or brought to light this great big tome of a book with thick pages and a mint jacket.  There are plenty of phrases that could convey her sniffing out of interesting bargains, several more appropriate than others. All can be found under category 487: 'Discovery', and running through the nouns, verbs, colloquialisms and shades of meaning held within this one grouping confirms how invaluable a book it is.

My mum bought it, remembering an identical copy from her seventies' childhood. One of the few items transported from house to house as she moved, Roget became a dependable addition to each new setting. Her late mother (my dimly remembered grandmother) would, I'm told, sit, read and revel. New words were hooked and held up like flickering, silver-scaled fish. It was a text to consult whenever the right word was needed, or a new one pursued to colour and enhance vocabulary. That same cover still proudly proclaims in oxblood-hue lettering: “expand, enrich and invigorate your speech and writing with this comprehensive treasury of almost 250,000 words and phrases, grouped by ideas.”

There's something deeply nourishing in flicking through this thesaurus that treats words with such respect. The accumulation of words and phrases is both practical and delectable.  In among the synonyms and antonyms there are quotes ranging from Shakespeare to The Bible to Tennyson. Looking up something such as ‘Fashion’ brings the reader to an almost poem-like list: “spruceness, nattiness, neatness, trimness, sleekness, dapperness, jauntiness, sharpness, spiffiness, classiness, niftiness [all slang].” Every possible meaning is laid out; numbered neatly. Ten minutes of idle exploration is enough to kindle the imagination for days.

In the introduction to my edition, Ivor Brown discusses the frustration triggered by the “lack of the best word and sometimes even of a barely sufficient one.” Sometimes I find myself returning to the same phrases again and again, hemmed in by the confines of the familiar. Having a thesaurus allows one to step over this limitation and push out at the boundaries of language. It is a tool; picked up and used to shape a sentence or to clarify a theme.

Brown’s introduction reminds me of one of William Hazlitt’s most remarkable essays. In ‘On Familiar Style’ he writes that one should not use “the first word that offers, but the best in common use”; going on later to observe that, “It is not pomp or pretension, but the adaptation of expression to the idea, that clenches a writer’s meaning: - as it is not the size or glossiness of the materials, but their being fitted each to their place, that gives strength to the arch.” Although it may be said that luxuriating in words for words’ sake would have displeased Hazlitt (he dismissed “florid style” as a “spangled veil to conceal the want” of real ideas), I can identify with that need to find exactly the right one. It's like whittling a shape until it slots into the space that's waiting for it. No other will do. It could perhaps be jammed in, but then it would stick out awkwardly rather than being seamless.

When typing on my laptop, the thesaurus window is always open. I use it to look up alternatives or locate words that I can’t quite bring to mind. But this only goes so far. The results can feel restricted, as though more lies beyond. Meanings are broken down into short, useful lists. The less obvious possibilities will not be found onscreen, but here, in my huge block of a book with a sellotaped jacket. It smells of wooden floorboards, antique shops, sun-bleached fabric and warm forgetting. But reading it offers the opposite: remembering words, expanding their meanings. It's a book of knowledge and nuance. Long may its pages continue to elevate and inspire.  

Talking of writing and words, I have had several exciting things happening recently. This included an article of mine being published on the Guardian Comment is Free, discussing the factory collapse in Bangladesh & the ethics of fashion. It can be seen here. I was also delighted to find out that I had won the 2013 Hippocrates Prize for Young Poets. More on that soon...

To accessorize Roget I wore a mint green vintage 60s minidress bought from Beyond Retro when I was 13. It was one of the first items I featured on my blog, and thus (to me) exemplifies clothing longevity. I also have on a black vintage St Michael velvet blazer, satin heels from a charity shop and a bag made locally from recycled materials. 
Thought that a Gif was needed to capture the full effect of me being precarious in very high heels. 

Revisiting

Revisiting a place, tracing its echoes, proves fruitful material for novelists. Brideshead Revisited opens with Charles unwittingly sent back to the stately home whose inhabitants provided wine, strawberries and complicated relationships.  To the Lighthouse is a novel broken in half by WWI and Mrs Ramsay’s death, a changed cast of characters returning to the island home after the interlude. In Great Expectations the marshes become the weight that Pip wants to ignore as he flees from his upbringing. Miss Havisham’s house, however, never changes, remaining fixed and stagnant from visit to visit. All demonstrate the importance of place. Settings wrap around characters, extending only as far as the eye of the author.

There are locations formed in the imagination of the writer, and then those that have been condensed from experience. The two often overlap. Laurie Lee, in his utterly extraordinary essay ‘Writing Autobiography’ talks of the process of “compression”, with years of living squeezed down into pages and paragraphs. Writing about memories is a means of revisiting and re-examining the past. Lee says:  “A day unremembered is like a soul unborn, worse than if it had never been. What indeed was that summer if not recalled? That journey? That act of love? To whom did it happen if it has left you with nothing? Certainly not to you. So any bits of warm life preserved by the pen are trophies snatched from the dark, are branches of leaves fished out from the flood, are tiny arrests of mortality.”

Revisiting can also be physical. A pilgrimage to a previously known place is a way of getting nearer to the past. My mum sometimes mentions wanting to take my brother and me to see one of her childhood homes, while I nurture a vague longing to go and stand on the street of the hospital where my surgery took place. It’s a very natural desire. We feel that these places hold a resonance waiting to be accessed.

Resonance is a word that crops up a lot when I’m writing. I’m not sure whether it’s the sound, with round vowels and sharp s’s, or the multifunctional use. It suggests meaning, quality, importance, echoes. But perhaps it’s easy to get caught in talk of echoes; the thrall of words enveloping thought. Easy to yoke the tenses together, cleverly forging a relationship between past and present when typing. But then our lives are composed of what we have experienced so far.  

Revisiting doesn’t have to be profound either. It might simply be habit: holidaying in the same place, or even just finding and then regularly going back to a favourite spot. This wood is one that my family visit each year. There is a brief seasonal window when it’s accessible. Our first excursion usually coincides with bluebell season, but this year’s staggered winter means that they are yet to flower. There is a comfort in its familiarity. The wood’s continuity seems to work as an anchor. Plants may be newly grown but that view is both reliable and recognizable. It is at its best when the sunlight slants through trees only just in leaf, leaving shadows like ink across shoots that crackle underfoot. It is even better with a sweep of blue topping the green. But I still have that to look forward to. 

We revisit clothes too. Some, like this charity shop bought skirt, are pulled out of the wardrobe over and over again. It has been worn with jumpers, pink shirts, shawls, loafers, heels, hats, crop-tops, gloves, pearls. Longevity can often mean versatility. But no matter how it is styled, it retains the absolute joy of airy fabric swishing against my legs - whether they are clad in thick tights during winter or left bare in summer. It's an item I've worn in all weathers and it has appeared on this blog several times in the last couple of years. Here it is accompanied by a Ben Sherman second hand shirt, £2 striped heels from a charity shop, vintage jewellery and a length of fabric that I hacked off the bottom of a skirt when it was being shortened - worn as a head scarf. The usual 'non-edited' images approach has been lifted temporarily, as my dad is currently enjoying the wonders of photoshop. 

Cracks

The Watcher and the Watched

Wearing a vintage Chanel dress given to me by my fairy-godmother, with a vintage cape bought for £15 over the top. The boots were from eBay. Photo by Dvora for Vogue.co.uk 

 By Vanessa Jackman 

Spotted in the May issue of British Vogue

The following piece was first written for Lionheart magazine just after London Fashion Week. It always feels important to explore and unpick the whole experience, rather than just report on the shows. Some of the aspects mentioned here have already appeared in other guises in previous posts. Thank you to the talented photographers whose photos appear here. Their skill is appreciated, as always. 

London Fashion Week is a bubble of watching and being watched. We watch the shows and presentations; observe the bright tangle of people outside Somerset House; perhaps spend some time staring at whoever is gracing the front row. That celebrity or editor who occupies the foremost bench inhabits both sides of the mirror – observing the models who stride past, and being observed by others in the showspace. They are both the watchers and the watched.

Perhaps unsurprising. Fashion is primarily a visual industry – with success, at its most basic level, dictated by how good something looks (or is perceived to be). That doesn’t necessitate that designs must be beautiful or pretty, but that whatever shape the garment takes, it works if it pleases, inspires or provokes the watcher.

Seeing is the most important of the five senses at London Fashion Week. Of course the beat of music and river-current-hum of conversation have their place, as does the hard flutter of the camera shutter. But the main medium here is fabric – the cut, the shape, the pattern, the texture, the colour. These elements come together to create a cohesive whole.

The concept of that cohesion, along with watching and being watched was firmly underlined at Corrie Nielsen’s show entitled ‘Enigme Absolue’ which took place in a gallery near Covent Garden. With large glass windows on both sides of the square room, there was a sense of being enclosed and cut off mixed with seeing life surging beyond the walls. Passersby peered through the glass, curious on catching sight of the flagged flooring, the violinist and cellist in black, the headless mannequins on display, the glorious clothes on the models. The show was a deliciously dark spectacle to those of us watching from the inside, and quite a different sort to those outside. We as the watchers were part of the mise-en-scene to those looking in.

But our eyes were firmly fixed on the clothes – a selection of designs in black, navy and plum. There were recognizable design patterns in the drapery, the oversized shoulders, the large fabric ‘knots’. But this season’s offering from Corrie Nielsen was the antithesis of her previous collection. The early dawn of Florilegium had been replaced with a gradation of shades from blue twilight leading through to black midnight. It was the equivalent of a pared back Gothic novella – short, well structured, full of resonance and beauty, ending with a truly glittering twist. Tailored jackets, stiff, ornate coats and skirts shaped like black seedpods gave way to a model clad in a fluid creation of silver sequins and duchesse satin. The fabric of the headdress fell to the small of the back, and then out into a train that slid behind the woman as she walked toward the cameras. The Lady of the Lake had been cast onto the tiles of this London-bound gallery and I watched, enthralled.

I relish those designers who value not only the narratives driving their design process, but the aesthetic impact of the finished products. Orla Kiely was similarly memorable in her presentation – a retro typing pool complete with typewriters, desk lamps, filing cabinets and models with beehives, all clad in a desirable range of fifties and sixties influenced clothes. The atmosphere may have been at the other end of the spectrum to Nielsen’s, but both produced visual feasts.

Outside the presentations and shows, watching and being watched are activities that find their home on cobbles and pavements. Street style photography is partly the art of watching; subjects becoming the watched as they are noticed, approached and focused on through the frame of a lens. The most talented street style photographers tend to be those who are observant – not only to what those around them are wearing, but to the way the light is falling, to nearby locations, to the potential composition of shots. Therein lies the skill. Some set up photos carefully away from the crowd, others capture what goes past in a rattle of clicks.

Their particular glimpse or perspective is shared with others. For there is an additional layer – the internet. Being at LFW enables watching of both people and shows, but both the catwalk designs and the street style shots are then showcased on a profusion of websites around the world. Clothes are subsequently viewed through screens and it is impossible to count how many individuals have seen them. The observation continues. 

Out of Reach

When talking about weekly routines, we usually concentrate on tangible actions; beginning, perhaps, with the unwilling swinging of cold legs out of bed or (if there's time) springing from under the covers to make coffee. Then there might be travelling, working, reading, resting, making, watching, talking, eating, sleeping. These verbs are the markers that define each day. But threaded through the warp and weft of our habits there are screens. You’re reading these musings on one, either compressed on a Smartphone or stretched across a tablet, laptop or computer. The internet is the chain stitch that not only hems our lives, but increasingly loops itself right through them.

Sewing is a curiously apt analogy, whether we compare the hours spent online to pockets of time existing in a strange halfway state between being present and being somewhere else, or whether we acknowledge twitter, facebook, blogs, tumblr, pinterest, instagram and other sites as fibres now tightly wound into each day. What I find intriguing is the way in which we slide so easily between two worlds or modes of being. I still make a differentiation between online and ‘real life’, as do most people. And yet it’s hard to know where exactly that boundary lies.

The internet is a tool for entertainment, discovery, learning, work, creativity and the forging of connections, but sometimes I resent how much it seeps into and consumes time that could be spent doing other things. What have I gained from continual trawling from site to site, or from the desire for an update of any kind - leaving me feeling slightly hollow? The contradiction between being grateful for the opportunities that the internet continues to provide, and the limitations it instates can be tricky to unravel. It was only after I had an enforced and unplanned separation from the internet on my phone and laptop this week that I realized how rarely I spend an evening without my face being lit by the glow of a screen. Unsurprising, considering the hub of multiple possibilities always on offer. If I want to write something, look through or edit photos, listen to music, do research, talk to friends, respond to emails then the laptop is my means.

Technology condenses things down. I’m not complaining. The map function on my phone is a brilliant tool for navigating around unknown parts of London. Having emails readily accessible means that I can use spare moments to respond and catch up. However, the proximity of one thing to another can lead to blurring. It now takes a certain amount of exertion to focus entirely on the document that's in front of me; easy to take flight to the safe refuge of twitter if I hit a tangle in my text that requires some hard work. The intensity of being so immersed in the act of creating that nothing else is relevant is a rare feeling. Even as I type, my finger itches to scroll away and onto facebook. There's no rational reason to do so. I’m not expecting any messages; have no need to contact anyone. It’s merely the vaguely compulsive prospect of there being a little red icon. And if there’s nothing there, easy to just check another site or two. Part of this is neurological. Apparently receiving an update releases a shot of dopamine into the brain; specifically to the ‘pleasure centre’ area, thus creating a pattern of gratification leading to further cravings. The same process happens with addictive substances such as nicotine. A habit is created and subsequently needs to be sated regularly.

Interestingly, the relationship between dopamine and sugar has also been much-documented. Ever had that moment after a single square of chocolate where the rest of the bar suddenly looks intensely desirable? To me, certain aspects of the internet occasionally feel slightly like a selection of sugary snacks. Easily consumed. One click is rarely enough. Instead there are little bite-sized chunks to hop between, each satisfying some internal craving for a moment or two, a hunger for the new notification or the affirmation that you, yes you, exist and someone has proved it by commenting on your status.

Nonetheless, there are so many extraordinary and astonishing aspects to the age in which we live that I'm unbelievably grateful for the opportunities I've been able to seek while sitting at my desk. How else would I have met or communicated with so many wonderful people of varying ages, locations and professions? What other mediums or other times could have afforded any seventeen year old the possibility of constructing a platform with a global reach? The tapping of keys has (if you’ll forgive the image) unlocked plenty of potential, with much more ahead to explore.

The conclusion should be, perhaps, one of balance and moderation (though more easily observed than enacted). Surprising how I consider it an act of willpower now to have written this from start to end with only a single pause to look up and clarify a reference point. But in the last few days Spring has unfurled. I've started reading Crime & Punishment, sketched several portraits, gone for an exhilarating walk in the warm breeze of twilight, had intense face to face conversations over wine with friends, begun the process of revision by way of intricate, inky spider diagrams, visited bookshops and enjoyed the Saturday morning pleasure of coffee and newspapers. There have been a few social media interludes between. Most have been thoroughly enjoyable. But if I can keep them in the shadows of free time rather than the main focus, adding to my days rather than framing them, then that will be pretty wonderful progress.

I thought the location in the photos - a set of crumbling houses tucked away in the Welsh hills - illustrates how quickly things have changed in the last century. The isolation of such a place contrasts with the continual inter-connectedness of modern living. To wander among the stones and trees I wore a vintage velvet Principles dress over a vintage Jaeger wool jumper, with men's leather loafers and second hand accessories. Every item I'm wearing (apart from the tights) was bought from a charity shop. 

Ida Kar

All photos by (and copyright of) Rosalind Jana

The piece below is one that I originally wrote for Kay Montano's blog here - where she has a fascinating platform that is used to explore and unpack ideas about beauty, appearance and culture. Kay Montano has been working as a make-up artist since she was sixteen, and has collaborated with photographers including Bruce Weber, Patrick Demarchelier and and Steven Meisel. So it is somewhat fitting that the article I contributed was on the little-known 20th Century photographer Ida Kar. 
The photos above are my own small homage to Kar's work, all taken by me over the last year or so. (You can see some of Kar's photos if you click through to my original post on Kay's blog). 

What constitutes an inspiring woman? It’s perhaps an unhelpfully broad question. Inspiration is in the eye (or mind, or heart or responses) of the individual. There is no defined scale or quality, no absolute measure to rank one above another. That’s what makes finding someone inspiring for a very specific set of reasons so special.

For me, the draw to and appreciation of photographer Ida Kar (1908-1974) stems from the great capacity she had to frame characters, fix them in a shot, provide a quick glimpse into someone else’s life or vocation. Born in Russia to Armenian parents, with time spent in Cairo and Paris before she moved to London aged 37 in 1945, her early work focused on surrealism and experimentation. She forged connections in the arts world in the late 40s and many of her most accomplished photographs were taken during the 50s and 60s. From Bertrand Russell to Marc Chagall, Man Ray and Doris Lessing, she photographed plenty of the most innovative artists, thinkers and writers of the time.

Her photos have a deep, almost inky depth to them as light and shadow converge or contrast. Subjects are often pictured in situ, rooted in the paraphernalia of a studio, gallery or home environment. There is always a sense of context. Paintbrushes, canvases, sculpted heads, wire mesh. These are the frames surrounding her subjects. Bridget Riley stares up from a background of geometric lines; TS Eliot sits surrounded by shelves and stacks of books; a pensive Maggie Smith leans against the back of a chair.

Two words that often attach themselves to photography are ‘capture’ and ‘preserve’. Faces are captured by the lens and sensor, preserved on a strip of film or blown up in a print. The moment of taking is fleeting but the image often outlasts both the creator and her subject.

Perhaps part of the process of portrait photography is not only to document the sitter as they outwardly appear (which Kar so skillfully achieved), but also to catch something of the inner self – manifested in an expression, the placing of hands, a particular stance. Kar’s careful balance between internal and external gives her work an intriguing depth. There is both a curiosity and vivacity in her photos. They are utterly alive.

It’s this sense of life that I love the most. An hour spent poring over her work makes me want to put down the book, pick up my camera and seek out intriguing people. It reinforces my interest in the world’s richness, and potential. It’s so easy to get caught up in the camera-flash pace of twitter, blog views, Facebook debates and breaking news, that it can be revitalizing to be reminded of the slower satisfaction of craft – be it painting, writing, sculpting, making or taking photographs. Kar’s work not only stirs me to be more creative myself, but to be interested in others and what they do. There is so much out there to see and learn, so many to meet and make connections with. What a dazzling prospect that is.