For days after Christmas I didn’t leave the sofa, enthralled by The Beatles Tune In, the first of three volumes in which Mark Lewisohn intends to tell the definitive story of the Beatles. It’s a grand book in every sense of the word: this volume clocks in at close on a thousand pages, ending as the group travel to London to record their first single ‘Love Me Do’; it’s also meticulously-researched and written with passion, authority and elegance. This is not your average pop hagiography, but is also an informed and insightful social history of Liverpool and the emergent youth culture of the 1950s. After this, all future accounts of the lives of the Beatles will be redundant. Continue reading “The Beatles Tune In: Mark Lewisohn’s definitive account of the Liverpool years”
Since Christmas Day I’ve been reading Tune In, the first of three volumes in which Mark Lewisohn intends to tell the definitive story of the Beatles. It’s a grand book in every sense of the word: this volume clocks in at close on a thousand pages and ends just as the group travel to London to record their first single ‘Love Me Do’; it’s also meticulously-researched and written with passion, authority and elegance. This is not your average pop hagiography, but an informed and insightful social history of Liverpool and the emergent youth culture of the 1950s.
As the year turned, I found myself coincidentally reading Lewisohn’s evocative descriptions of two New Year’s Eves in Liverpool at the close of the 1950s. I thought I’d share them. Continue reading “New Year’s Eve, Liverpool, at the close of the 1950s”
35 years after John Lennon’s death, and 50 years since the release of Rubber Soul, here’s one of his best songs: ‘In My Life’. Half a century has passed since The Beatles’ Rubber Soul was released on 3 December 1965, and as the years have passed the song that I have come to love most off that album is Lennon’s ‘In My Life’. Continue reading “‘In My Life’: the song from Rubber Soul I grew to love the most”
The months drifted by, and to complete my plan to walk the Mersey from source to the sea I still had the section from Warrington down to Widnes to do. On what turned out to be the hottest day of the year so far, four of us set out on a walk through 250 years of industrial history. Continue reading “Walking the Mersey: Along Sankey Brook to Widnes”
One Saturday morning some time in the mid-1980s, when home-grown art works and photographs were displayed for sale on the railings outside the Bluecoat Arts Centre, I bought this moody photo, taken in 1984, of the Seacombe ferry arriving at the old wooden landing stage at Pier Head. It’s either early morning or a late winter afternoon. Shot by a photographer who has signed the print, but whose signature I can’t decipher, this iconic image has hung in our hall since we moved in here some thirty years ago. Continue reading “Razzle Dazzle on the Mersey”
Detail of the reconstruction of the Peacock Room at the Bluecoat
Ruskin famously put down Whistler with his sneer on seeing his painting Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket that the painter was ‘a coxcomb asking two hundred guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face’. Whistler promptly sued him for libel. At about the same time, the tempestuous Whistler, who didn’t suffer fools gladly (and anyone was a fool who failed to understand his work) was having another mighty difference of opinion with his patron, the Liverpool shipping magnate from Speke Hall, Frederick Richards Leyland, who had commissioned Whistler to decorate his dining room. The resulting Peacock Room was rejected by Leyland as a gross act of vandalism, though it is now considered one of Whistler’s greatest works.
A reproduction of one wall of the Peacock Room forms the centrepiece of an exhibition at the Bluecoat, part of the 2014 Liverpool Biennial programme, A Needle Walks into a Haystack. It’s a small exhibition, consisting of several etchings from local collections, a couple of watercolours and a couple of oil paintings. But it’s intriguing, nonetheless, highlighting a row with local connections, and revealing works by Whistler squirrelled away in the archives of the Walker and, more surprisingly, Liverpool Central Library.
Frederick Leyland, the owner of the Bibby Shipping Line, and his wife Frances were generous Whistler patrons. Frances, a beautiful, lively woman, was, according to a rumour spread by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (another artist patronised by Leyland), Whistler’s lover. In later years, Frances Leyland denied the rumour, but did add that had she been a widow she might have married Whistler. Certainly, the artist was a ‘never-ending guest’ (his words) at Speke Hall, and the Bluecoat exhibition begins with the painting Whistler and the Leyland Family in Speke Hall, painted in 1875.
Whistler and the Leyland Family in Speke Hall, 1875
The woman about to play a shot is Elizabeth (‘Lizzie’) Dawson, sister of Frances who is portrayed in the red dress, seated next to Whistler, who looks as if he’s been at the laudanum. For several months the family were under the impression that Lizzie was engaged to Whistler, but it became clear eventually that there was no engagement. To Frances right are her daughters Fanny, Florence and Elinor, while to the left of Whistler is Jane, Frances’ other sister. The man at the far end is Frederick Leyland’s first cousin Thomas Layland (different spelling) who was married to Jane. Thomas was an architect and gifted amateur painter – Whistler would arrange for some of his work to be exhibited in London – and some art historians think it likely that Thomas painted this portrait of the Leyland family.
Whistler, ‘Speke Hall, No. 1’
Whistler stayed with the Leylands at Speke Hall several times, including the period from January to March 1875 during which he worked on several etchings of the house and the nearby area. One of these, Speke Hall: The Avenue aka Speke Hall, No. 1 is in the Bluecoat display. Kathleen Lochnan commented on the composition:
Whistler employed … the compositional structure which he had learnt from Japanese prints, selecting a high viewpoint, “tilting up” the background, and constructing a shallow picture space. The long, lean vertical format of the etching, which emphasizes the distance between the figure and the house, resembles that of the Japanese oban print … [he] isolated the foreground figure, silhouetting it against a white ground in the Japanese manner, … The position of the figure, seen from the rear in a three-quarter pose, appears to have been adopted from Japanese prints. In the ukiyo-e woodcut, a rear view of this kind is often used to show off the beauty of a kimono.
Whistler, ‘Speke Hall’, 1875
On 1 February 1875 Whistler wrote from Speke:
The etchings and drypoints are getting on famously – I have quite got back into my old delight in the work and think I shall have some pretty things to show you soon.
‘Mr Leyland gave Whistler commissions to paint his four children, Mrs Leyland and himself … and Whistler made long visits at Speke Hall, Leyland’s place near Liverpool. … The record of these visits is in the etchings and dry-points of Speke Hall and Speke Shore, Shipping at Liverpool and The Dam Wood and the portraits in many mediums. The house was not far from the sea, which he loved to paint. But often days passed without his finding the effect he wanted… But Speke Hall always put him in better mood for work, and when the sea failed he turned to the portraits … There are pastels of the three little girls, sketches in pen and ink, and the fine group of dry-points.
Whistler, ‘Speke Shore’, 1875
Whistler, ‘Shipbuilders Yard, Liverpool’, 1875
Whistler, ‘The Little Forge’, 1875
While Speke Shore looks as if it was sketched at nearby Oglet, it would be interesting to learn the location of the shipbuilders yard and the little forge.
Meanwhile, Whistler was about to embark on the act which would bring his relationship with the Leylands to a dramatic end. Frederick Leyland had bought an elegant townhouse at 49 Prince’s Gate in Kensington, London, and had engaged the British architect Thomas Jeckyll to remodel the dining room in order to display his collection of porcelain.
Jeckyll covered the walls with 6th-century wall hangings of leather that had been originally brought to England as part of the dowry of Catherine of Aragon. They had hung on the walls of a Tudor house in Norfolk for centuries, before they were bought by Leyland for £1,000. They were painted with her heraldic device, the open pomegranate, and a series of red Tudor roses, to symbolise her union with Henry VIII. Against the walls, Jekyll constructed an intricate lattice framework of walnut shelves that held Leyland’s collection of Chinese blue and white porcelain. Over the fireplace was hung Whistler’s painting, Rose and Silver: The Princess from the Land of Porcelain, to serve as the focal point of the room.
Whistler, The Princess from the Land of Porcelain in situ in The Peacock Room
Jeckyll had nearly finished the work when illness forced him to abandon the project. Whistler volunteered to finish Jeckyll’s work in the dining room while Leyland returned to Liverpool, allowing Whistler to work on the room alone.
Concerned that the red roses adorning the leather wall hangings clashed with the colours in The Princess, Whistler suggested retouching the leather with yellow paint, and Leyland agreed to that minor alteration. But while Leyland was away, Whistler grew bolder with his revisions:
Well, you know, I just painted on. I went on ―without design or sketch― it grew as I painted. And toward the end I reached such a point of perfection ―putting in every touch with such freedom― that when I came round to the corner where I started, why, I had to paint part of it over again, as the difference would have been too marked. And the harmony in blue and gold developing, you know, I forgot everything in my joy in it.
Whistler covered the ceiling with imitation gold leaf, over which he painted a lush pattern of peacock feathers. He gilded Jeckyll’s walnut shelving and embellished the wooden shutters with four magnificently plumed peacocks. He wrote to Leyland that the dining room was ‘alive with beauty – brilliant and gorgeous while at the same time delicate and refined to the last degree’. ‘I assure you,’ he said, ‘you can have no more idea of the ensemble in its perfection gathered from what you last saw on the walls than you could have of a complete opera judging from a third finger exercise!’ He urged Leyland to delay his return to London, so that he would see the room complete and perfect in every detail. Meanwhile, without Leyland’s approval, Whistler invited friends from the London art world around to the house to admire what he had done.
When Leyland did return, he was aghast. Whistler demanded two thousand guineas for his work, but Leyland refused to pay, adamant that the artist should have consulted him before extending the scale of the work. Eventually, Leyland did pay Whistler – but only half of the amount requested, and added further insult by writing his check in pounds, the currency of trade, when payment to artists and professionals was customarily made in guineas.
The reconstruction of the Peacock Room at the Bluecoat
A bitter feud resulted. In retaliation, Whistler returned to coat Leyland’s valuable Tudor leather with Prussian-blue paint and on the wall opposite The Princess he installed a mural depicting a pair of peacocks aggressively confronting each other . He used two shades of gold for the design and highlighted telling details in silver. Scattered at the feet of the angry bird are the coins (silver shillings) that Leyland refused to pay; the silver feathers on the peacock’s throat allude to the ruffled shirts that Leyland always wore. The other peacock has a silver crest feather that resembles the lock of white hair that curled above Whistler’s forehead. To make sure that Leyland understood his point, Whistler called the mural of the fighting peacocks Art and Money; or, The Story of the Room. He obtained a blue rug to complete the scheme and titled the room Harmony in Blue and Gold.
After concluding his work in March 1877,Whistler never saw the Peacock Room again. But, despite the feud, Leyland kept the Peacock Room as Whistler had left it until his death in 1892. Twelve years later, the Peacock Room was removed from the Leyland house and exhibited in a London art gallery. It was then purchased from the gallery by Charles Lang Freer, who took the room apart and reinstalled it in his house in Detroit. After Freer’s death in 1919, the Peacock Room was transported to Washington DC, and installed in the new Freer Gallery of Art. The Peacock Room is now regarded as one of Whistler’s masterpieces.
Meanwhile, Whistler had had the last word in the feud with Leyland. In 1879, bankrupted by the costs of the Ruskin trial and with huge debts from building ‘The White House’, his studio-house in Tite Street, Chelsea, Whistler made a painting which he left in The White House for his creditors to discover when they arrived to make an inventory of his possessions. One of the creditors was his former patron Frederic Leyland.
The Gold Scab, displayed in the Bluecoat exhibition, depicts Leyland as a hideous peacock, seated upon the White House as his piano stool. Whistler caricatured Leyland’s miserliness, piano skills, and habit of wearing frilled shirts (hence the title, “Frilthy Lucre”). Whistler’s butterfly monogram bears a barbed tail poised to strike at Leyland’s neck.
Whistler, ‘The Gold Scab- Eruption in Frilthy Lucre (The Creditor)’,1879
There’s another caricature of Leyland in the exhibition – a small, decidedly unflattering, etching of a shaven-headed, thin-faced Leyland looking lean and rapacious and again wearing one of his frilly shirts.
Whistler, ‘Caricature of F.R.Leyland’, 1879
After all this feuding we enter calmer waters, with a series of Whistler’s Thames-side etchings, now held locally in the collections of the Walker Art Gallery and Liverpool Central Library.
Whistler, ‘Old Hungerford Bridge’, 1861 (Liverpool Central Library)
Whistler, ‘Old Westminster Bridge, 1859 (Liverpool Central Library)
Whistler, ‘Early Morning Battersea’, 1863 (Liverpool Central Library)
Whistler, ‘Limehouse’, 1859 (Liverpool Central Library)
Whistler, ‘Rotherhithe’, 1860 (Liverpool Central Library)
Whistler, ‘Chelsea Bridge’, 1871 (Walker Art Gallery)
Whistler, ‘The Little Pool’, 1861 (Walker Art Gallery)
The Thames etchings are followed by examples of Whistler’s Venice etchings, many of which were presented in his 1883 exhibition at the Society of British Artists, titled Arrangement in White and Yellow. Whistler arranged for the walls to be painted in different shades of white, the skirting boards yellow, and he displayed his butterfly signature throughout the gallery. He asked the gallery attendants to wear yellow clothes to match and as a final touch, he made small yellow butterflies for his favourite guests to wear at the exhibition’s opening. The press quickly nicknamed the exhibition ‘The Poached Egg’. The catalogue for the exhibition was a personal compilation of heavily edited snippets from
Whistler’s worst press reviews.
Whistler, ‘The Palaces, Venice’, 1879
Whistler, ‘Two Doorways’, 1880
The exhibition culminates in three magical paintings. Sunrise Gold and Grey, is a tiny watercolour from 1883, first exhibited as part of Whistler’s major solo exhibition, Arrangement in Flesh Colour and Grey, in London in May 1884. Subjects included scenes of Chelsea and the Cornish coast; nocturnes set in both London and Amsterdam; and a series of watercolours of female models in Whistler’s studio. Most were mounted in unusually wide, flat gilt frames Whistler designed himself.
Whistler, ‘Sunrise Gold and Grey’, c 1883, watercolour (not ‘evening’ as labelled)
As with the previous year’s Arrangement in White and Yellow, Whistler showed himself to be at the forefront of exhibition design. He devised the colour scheme for the show – pale pink walls and light grey furniture, while the works were ‘hung on the line’ and well-spaced out – a radical departure from the conventional salon-style hang in which pictures would cover every inch of the walls. Whistler’s approach was controversial and innovative, challenging long-standing assumptions about the display of art, and paved the way for the minimal style of exhibitions familiar today.
Whistler was unusual, too, in describing his works in musical terms – as symphonies, arrangements, harmonies, or nocturnes. The Bluecoat had one of these – Nocturne in Grey and Gold: Piccadilly, an atmospheric impression of thick fog through which pedestrians and omnibuses are barely visible, as pale light glimmers through the murk from windows and gas lamps.
Whistler, ‘Nocturne in Grey and Gold: Piccadilly’, 1881-3
In the summer of 1899, Whistler stayed at Pourville-sur-Mer, near Dieppe, convalescing from a recurrent illness. While he was there, he painted a series of nine small seascapes on panel, thinly brushed, and subdued but refined in colour. One of these paintings, Beach Scene with a Breakwater, concludes the exhibition.
Whistler, ‘Beach Scene with a Breakwater’, 1899
This was a fascinating exhibition, enlivened by the story of Whistler’s feud with the local shipping magnate from Speke Hall. Quite what the connection was with the Biennial theme, A Needle Walks into a Haystack, remains a mystery to me. I can’t do better than end by quoting the last paragraph of Sandra Gibson’s review of the exhibition for Nerve magazine:
You can’t help but be drawn towards someone who was dismissed from the US Military Academy at West Point for “deficiency in chemistry”, who lost his map-drawing job because he drew mermaids and whales and sea serpents in the margins, whose girlfriend was the model for Courbet’s L’Origine du Monde (1866) and who collided with the art establishment with such bloody-minded passion that he took John Ruskin to court. It’s easy to get side-tracked into the nineteenth century road movie that was often Whistler’s life but he was an immense figure in the development of Western art. He had the courage to walk his talk and the passionate conviction not to be floored by ridicule. He was a pioneer in the movement towards abstraction, in the acceptance of colour as subject and the concept that art and its environment are one. His public life might have been tumultuous and financially precarious but his inner conviction was harmoniously tranquil and beautiful, otherwise we wouldn’t have the Nocturnes.
The Mick Jones mural in the Old Blind School
Do the walls of a derelict building hold the memories of those who once inhabited its rooms? Recently I visited the old Merseyside Trade Union Community and Unemployed Resource Centre building at the top of Hardman Street which has been opened up for a Biennial exhibition. I wasn’t there for the art (least said about it the better) but because the building holds memories of mine, and I wanted to see inside before it is turned into a swanky hotel.
The Biennial programme describes the building as ‘The Old Blind School’, which it was, but that was not its most recent function. The Liverpool School for the Blind was founded in 1791 by Edward Rushton whose own sight was impaired (more about him later). It was the first school of its kind in Britain, and second in the world after one in Paris. The school made Hardman Street its second home in 1851, after it had begun life on London Road.
Today, on the corner of Hope Street and Hardman Street, there is a white Portland stone extension that dates from 1932. It replaced the neo-classical school church, designed by John Foster junior, which was built in London Road and, amazingly, moved to this corner site stone by stone in 1851. There’s a photo of it in 1929, dwarfing the original Blind School building.
The Blind School in 1929
The Portland stone extension that replaced Foster’s church dates from 1932 and features a row of bas-relief sculptures designed by John Skeaping, Barbara Hepworth’s first husband and a leading figure of modern British sculpture in the mid-20th century. The bas-reliefs depict the trades taught here: brush-making, Braille, basket weaving, piano tuning, and knitting.
The Blind School extension dates from 1932
In 1958 the Blind School moved to Church Road in Wavertree where it still remains today. The Hardman Street building was sold to Liverpool Corporation and served as the Merseyside Police headquarters until 1982. When we lived on Canning Street in the 1970s the extension housed the local police station, and I recall several visits to report a stolen car or a burglary. With the move of the police headquarters to the riverfront, Merseyside County Council was left with a large, empty building. The left-leaning Labour council agreed to a plan to turn it over to a consortium of trade union, training and community organisations to manage as the Merseyside Trade Union, Community and Unemployed Resource Centre.
Merseyside Trade Union, Community and Unemployed Resource Centre: the name is still there
This was the height of Thatcher’s attack on the power of trade unions and so-called ‘loony left’ councils – and both the county council and Liverpool City Council were in the forefront of the fightback against her policies and the rising unemployment caused by de-industrialization (in Liverpool this meant the closure of workplaces such as Tate and Lyle’s, Dunlops, Meccano, and many, many others).
In 1981, the first Peoples March for Jobs, modelled on the Jarrow March of the 1930s, had left Liverpool for London, led by the Labour leader Michael Foot. Both the march and the idea of Unemployed Centres were born out of a TUC special conference held in 1980, called to address the issue of mass unemployment – pushing towards 1930s levels at that time. The march forged links between trade unions, community and unemployed workers groups and led to Unemployed Centres being set up to develop those links and provide a focus for the unemployed to organise themselves.
The Hardman Street building, which opened its doors in May 1983, served a wide variety of purposes with conference and function rooms for trade unions and other organisations, a Welfare Rights Advice Centre, a small theatre cum cinema, a basement recording studio, a bar which had a bust of Marx placed (ironically?) next to the till, and the famous Flying Picket music venue, developed with funding from artists including Paul McCartney, Elvis Costello, Yoko Ono and Pete Townshend.
The Peoples March for Jobs 1981
Most memorably from my point of view, the building also housed a Children’s Centre, attended by our daughter, and the Women’s Technology Centre, a project to train women in information technology skills which had been established, with support from Merseyside County Council and the European Social Fund, by two adult educationalists, one of whom was my wife. So, all in all, I got to know the building very well.
The centre closed in 2004, and has stood empty and unused ever since. But for the past few months the Liverpool Biennial have opened up the building for a group art show called A Needle Walks into a Haystack. I went inside for nostalgic reasons, but I also had a particular objective: I wanted to see if a particular feature from the glory days of resistance in the 1980s was still there.
Walking through the disused rooms, where paint peeled, buckets caught leaks and plaster crumbled, provoked an elegiac mood. The distinctive odour of rotting plaster permeated the place; cornices and ceiling rosettes had partly collapsed; architraves and window mouldings had crumbled with rot; old cast-iron fireplaces were filled with rubble.
The art was rubbish, and I began to feel angry that neither the Biennial organisers, nor the artists, seemed to have made any attempt to respond to the history of this listed building and the three major functions which it had served. Talking to a couple of the young attendants, it was clear that they knew next to nothing about the building’s history and were unaware of its iconic status for the city, whether as the ‘Old Blind School’ or as the trade union centre.
My feelings were powerfully expressed by Zoe Pilger in her review of the Biennial for the Independent:
In March this year, cuts of £156m to Liverpool’s public services were announced, which means that half of the city’s 19 libraries are expected to close, as well as the majority of children’s centres. Against this backdrop of social injustice, the 8th Liverpool art Biennial has just opened.
What is the relationship of art to politics? Do artists and the institutions that commission them have a responsibility to respond to the most pressing issues of the day? Or should art exist as a form of aesthetic escapism, untouched by the realities of everyday life? […]
This omission is most keenly felt in one of the biggest exhibitions, housed in the former HQ of the Merseyside Trade Union, Community, and Unemployed Resource Centre, which closed down in 2004. The sign is still printed above the door, albeit with letters missing. This stunning though derelict building is a symbol of Liverpool’s “gentrification”. The building will soon be converted into a complex of apartments, a gastro pub, a spa, and a restaurant with Michelin aspirations.
For nearly 150 years, the building was also the Old Blind School, and the interior appears untouched. Sadly, it is more fascinating than the art itself. There is a lime-green and pink art deco banister, bricked-up fireplaces, graffiti, a maze of corridors, and, most strikingly, a ceiling mural of the “people’s march”, which shows demonstrators with fists raised and banners flying. The paint has flaked off in places. This relic of Liverpool’s radical past seems overlooked, which is a great shame – for me, it is the most interesting work in the exhibition, despite the fact that it is not officially included.
Instead, there is a sprawling group show by international artists. There is a lot of bad art. Baskets inexplicably left in a room, a large white patent sofa shaped like a hand, boxes transformed into sheep, a painting of what appears to be a meteor, another of a space station, yet more of people copulating on a picnic blanket while an 18th-century earl looks on with feverish glee.
The elegant dilapidation of the building is an ideal space to show new, experimental, challenging work, but I found myself more enthralled by the decades of peeling patterned wallpaper, wondering what had gone on inside these walls. I would have preferred to see a bold exhibition that asked artists to respond to the history of the site.
In another online article, Laura Harris also argued that the Biennial had shown itself to be distinctly disengaged with the reality of Liverpool’s present political situation:
Against a backdrop of cuts and arts job losses, the need for curatorial politics is perceivably augmented. Moreover, I believe that the choice of The Old Blind School as the main festival venue — an explicitly politicised, evocative space, set up by philanthropist Edward Rushton and more recently used as a Trade Union headquarters – is a promise of a politics that is traitorously unfulfilled. In choosing The Old Blind School, and failing to develop a social and historical narrative, an unspoken politics goes so resolutely ignored as to be offensive.
The site’s exhibition, A Needle Walks Into a Haystack, declares itself to be about our habits and habitats. Incorporated in the theme is an engagement with spaces and their significance; yet a deconstruction of the contextual history of the building is palpable in its absence. Instead of confronting this history in a socio-politically engaged manner, the show confronts us with impenetrable works coupled with impenetrable texts; we must rely on the pretentious copy of the programme as our interpreter. […]
The Old Blind School site itself is a relic of a struggle that continues … Once the Biennial has closed, the building is to become a boutique hotel and a restaurant with ‘Michelin aspirations’. This is gentrification worthy of the most ardent protest, and if ‘silence becomes a type of knowledge’ in the show, as claimed, the lack of protest from within the Biennial is certainly illuminating. […]
It is not enough to rely on implicit politics. It is not enough to suggest a history and leave it unspoken. Unengaged with a political present and an important social history, the Liverpool Biennial fails a public and a city. It is a missed opportunity to explore radical political alternatives, and encourage dialogue between people who feel largely ignored.
Above one of the first floor staircases is a dome containing the feature I had come to see – a mural that condenses the history of this place into a stirring swirl of images representing episodes from Liverpool’s radical past and present. When the Merseyside Unemployed Centre took over the Hardman Street building from what had been the Old Blind School the management team commissioned Mick Jones to paint the dome in 1986 and he made a tribute not only to working class activism on Merseyside, but also to the man who helped found the Blind School.
The mural that fills the entire rotunda commemorates the Peoples’ March for Jobs in Liverpool, a celebration of all the rage and passion of 1980s political activism. It was painted in 1986 by the artist Michael ‘Mick’ Jones, son of the Garston-born trade unionist Jack Jones. As you crane your neck to follow the swirling design, you see depictions in socialist realist images of the 1981 Peoples March for Jobs; young unemployed people wearing t-shirts emblazoned with the message ‘Give Us a Future’; Liverpool dockers; marchers who include miner’s leader Arthur Scargill as well as Karl Marx; workers at the Halewood car plant; the house-building programme of the 80s; John Hamilton the leader of Liverpool City Council in the 1980s: the Women’s’ Technology Scheme; and the central image of Edward Rushton, one of the co-founders of the Blind School. There is a companion piece made by Mick Jones in 1993 entitled Unemployment on Merseyside – Campaigning for the Right to Work on display in the Museum of Liverpool. Mick Jones, who also painted murals in London, died in 2012.
Despite the building’s mouldering condition, the colours are still surprisingly vibrant, but one large area of the paper and plaster has peeling away and hangs in mid-air. It seems scandalous to me that a work of such significance for Liverpool should have been left to decay. Laura Harris again:
Peeling from a feature dome in the roof of the building is a mural from the space’s iteration as a Trade Union centre. Workers march together, fists in the air, to a backdrop of industry: a salient reminder of the lost art of protest. As visitors are herded around the Biennial, the mural flakes further and the true significance of the building flutters with it to the floor. The Old Blind School is offering us its own metaphor; as bit-by-bit, festival programme in hand, the people’s history is ignored…
Edward Rushton was one of Liverpool’s great radicals, not only a founder of the school for the blind, but also a campaigner against slavery and poverty. He wrote poetry, and became a tireless campaigner against slavery and against the press gangs. He was a revolutionary republican, supporter of the American war for Independence, the French Revolution, and the struggles of the Polish and Irish people.Mick Jones has depicted him in the mural, blind in one eye, sweeping forward with representatives of all the causes he fought for cradled in his arms.
This summary of his campaigning work is taken from Nottingham Trent University’s Labouring-Class Writers Project:
Rushton (1756 – 1814) was a poet, slavery abolitionist and co-founder of the first school for the blind in the country. Born in John Street, Liverpool, Edward was the son of Thomas Rushton, a victualler. Apprenticed to a Liverpool shipping company by the age of eleven, Edward was promoted to second mate around five years later after demonstrating outstanding courage in guiding a vessel – which the captain and crew were prepared to abandon during a storm out in the Mersey Estuary – back to port.
While on a slaver bound for Dominica in 1773, Rushton grew so appalled by the sadistic treatment of the captives he remonstrated with the captain to the point of being charged with mutiny. As the only member of the crew willing to tend to their suffering, Rushton contracted the highly contagious ophthalmia, which left him blind.
Rushton’s aunt took him in shortly after his return – his father having now remarried a woman antagonised by Edward’s presence. The injustices Rushton observed at sea led to the publication of his first book-length work, The Dismembered Empire (1782), a denunciation of British rulers and merchants in the framework of the American War of Independence. His disgust at the slave trade was given further voice in The West Indian Eclogues (1787). A decade later he wrote to his former hero George Washington, pointing up the hypocrisy of retaining slaves while fighting for freedom: ‘In the name of justice what can induce you thus to tarnish your own well-earned celebrity and to impair the fair features of American liberty with so foul and indelible a blot’. A similar letter was dispatched to Thomas Paine, but neither he nor Washington tendered a reply.
After his marriage around 1784 to Isabella Rain, Rushton went on to become editor of the Liverpool Herald. This career was soon cut short after he reproached brutal press-gang practice in several articles, and rebuffed his partner’s suggestion of a retraction. This episode in Rushton’s life inspired the poem Will Clewine (1806).
When he became a bookseller at 44 Paradise Street, Rushton’s outspoken political convictions deterred potential custom, but not to the extent of preventing him from living out his life in relative comfort, and giving his children a sound education. In the late 1780s Rushton became a member of a literary and philosophical society – thought to have been the forerunner of William Roscoe and James Currie’s ill-fated radical Debating Society – where the idea of raising funds to offer care for local blind paupers came into effect. The Liverpool School for the Indigent Blind opened in 1791. Rushton published a collection of poems in 1806, and the following year an operation by the Manchester surgeon Benjamin Gibson restored his sight, enabling him to see his wife and children for the first time.
Rushton died of paralysis on 22 November 1814 at his home on Paradise Street, just a few years after the death of his wife and one of his daughters. The eldest of his four children, also Edward, became a prominent social reformer in Liverpool’s political landscape, advocating Catholic emancipation and prison reform.
There is a book about him, written by Bill Hunter, which I must get hold of. It’s called, Forgotten Hero – The Life and Times of Edward Rushton. Hunter says: ‘I wrote this book on Edward Rushton in an attempt to rescue from obscurity, this uncompromising fighter for the common people, and to pay tribute to his indomitable spirit.’
Meanwhile, the survival of Mick Jones’ wonderful mural is in doubt. The Hardman Street building was sold to the owner of the Hope Street Hotel in 2010. He intends to convert the building into a complex with serviced apartment bedrooms, a gastro-pub, bistro, chocolatiere and coffee shop, a restaurant, a spa and offices. There ought to be a campaign to ensure that, as part of the redevelopment, the mural is preserved, along with the carving above the doorway on Hope Street which reads: ‘Christ heals the Blind For who denies / That in the mind / Dwell truer sight / And clearer light / Than in the eyes.’
- Rushton’s letter to Washington about the president owning slaves (Word document)