MISSING IN ACTION (1920)

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, London, poetry

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Poem for a London Screever

Lament for the unknown PAVEMENT ARTIST of World War I (1914-1918)

The Pavement Artist: Illustration 1912

[This artist, who was distinguished by the scope and freedom of his work, enlisted in the Army in 1914, and has not since returned to his usual place.]

BEFORE half-seeing eyes and hurrying feet

Five years ago in daily sacrifice

He laid the willows and the meadow-sweet:

Now he is gone, and all his sunlit skies

Are with the dust that floats along the street.

All vanished are the low-hushed tropic vales;

The glinting kingfisher; the lions’ den;

And Nelson with his powder-blackened men

Gliding to action under tattered sails:

And near to these the wide Pacific calm,

And mirrored islands, where the tilted moon

Had left her trellis on the dark lagoon,

And sheathed in silver mail the tufted palm:

And divers groping on black ocean floors,

Whose loaded feet slowly as feathers fall

Through the stern pressing water, and the tall

Deep-sunken ribs of wreck, where rusted doors

Are clamped on hidden gold: and sightless things

That flicker through the deep, where bubbles race

Up to the green light of the sun’s embrace

And burst beneath the seagull’s dipping wings.

And here were rainbows dancing in the spray

And coral pillars from the deep-sea bed

Gashing the crested surf in gleams of red;

And elephants with lordly gait a-sway

Rocking their loads along dark forest ways;

The moth poised on the lily, and the pale

Diffused starlight on the nightingale

Half-shadowed by the leaf from heaven’s gaze.

And here the flying squirrel left the trees

To take his arrowy high road through the sky;

Here armadillos walked, and peccaries,

And other creatures, stranger far than these,

But not more strange than you, who travelled by I

Great things and little from the undying Mind,

Toys fashioned in the morning of the earth,

Imagined by the gods, and brought to birth

For childhood in themselves or in mankind.

Artist, to some far garden are you gone

To find the great originals of these,

Under the streamers of the western sun,

Immortal butterflies, unfading trees?

by HERBERT ASCHRTH.

Published in the Spectator Magazine 21^st August 1920

Researched and transcribed by Philip Battle

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Exposition of a Secret (1937)

17 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, London, writing

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Childhood memories of the London Embankment

By JOHN RAYNOR

WHEN I was a small boy, and lived in London, I used to clamour to be taken along the Embankment by my nurse for the afternoon walk.

This was not because I particularly loved the river with its slow-moving traffic of unkempt barges, its white throngs of wheeling seagulls, its grimy wharves; or because there, where no traffic could drive, it was quiet, and little boys were in no great danger of sudden annihilation; or even because of the old man at the corner of Westminster Bridge who for a penny would let you peer through his glittering, brass-mounted telescope at the hands of Big Ben, and give you a dog-eared postcard of the great clock with a profound description of its works into the bargain.

No, it was for none of these reasons that I loved the Embankment; nor would I ever have revealed the real reason to any grown-up so impertinent and tactless as to inquire. Like all children I loved secrets, and the more harmless the secret, the more determined I was that it should never be dragged into the cold light of adult criticism.

By a cynicism born of long experience I knew that the revelation of any secret would be followed inevitably by prohibition, and so I was careful never to reveal the excitement that filled me, as, trotting demurely beside nurse (or on nurse’s afternoon out, mother), I espied far down the long stone path the man who drew such lovely pictures on the pavement.

As we approached him my heart would beat faster; I could feel the tell-tale excitement colouring my cheeks, and could only hope that if observed it would be put down to the breathless heat of summer or the cold winds of winter, according to the season.

London Embankment pavement artist (1950)

He sat, the old man, with his squat legs crossed; in front of him a battered tin cup; to his right a greasy cap filled with stubs of coloured chalk, and farther to his right a row of some four or five pictures of a gaiety and brilliance that had little connexion with the dull world of everyday materialism. I used to marvel at the old man’s energy in drawing them anew every day; weep mental tears of pity and sympathy at the thought of the cold-hearted rain that had the power to make a muddy puddle of his labours in five minutes. Most of all I used to wonder where he got his chalks, and why they always seemed to be worn down to their last quarter inch; the chalks I bought at the little toy shop in Marsham Street were always white, (” there ain’t no call for colours,” the proprietor would gloomily remark) and so long that though I broke them in half, ground them into the blackboard on the nursery wall, stamped on them even, it was weeks before I could legitimately go and buy more.

London Embankment pavement artist 1935

And the pictures themselves! I could find no words worthy of describing them. They lay there, each in its tortuous yellow frame a small miracle. There was “Eventide,” an elaborate confection of distant, sheep dotted fields; a blue river that rippled like a snake round the foot of the much pinnacled and spired church (a perfect example of rococo); and a shepherd with dog and crook; the whole lit by the glow of a sunset that is scarcely touched upon by the adjective lurid. For artistic reasons, this was my favourite.

There followed “His Majesty the King, God Bless Him”—a highly imaginative portrait—and others which I am ashamed to admit that I have forgotten. But the last of the row remains minutely detailed in my mind, because here my budding emotions were stirred to violent activity. It depicted a figure-of-eight loaf and a piece of ruddily-blushing salmon, each on a plate white as snow. It was titled “Easy to Draw but Hard to Get” I could never look at it for long because, tears welling to my eyes, it blurred, righted itself, blurred again, and I was in terror lest this moving piece should prove the downfall of my jealously-guarded secret.

“‘Ard to get ‘Im!”—nurse would toss her head- “‘c makes a good enough living, I’ll be bound. And ‘oo wants a loaf like that, let alone the butter?” With which cryptic, remark she would urge me onwards.

There came an afternoon when nurse met a friend and gossiping forgot me. Round the corner, I knew, sat the artist. I looked at nurse’s earnest face, and edged unobtrusively, along the high wall. When I reached the old man’s pictures I stared long and satisfyingly at them, till they had soaked into my existence and formed part of it.

Lady pavement artist: Thames Embankment 1930

Breathless with admiration, I moved on a few steps to stare in turn at their creator. He sat hunched up as usual, unmoving, a red scarf supporting his bristly grey beard; a leather boot on his left foot; his right thrust into a velvet slipper. I felt in my pocket. There was a penny in it. I would give it to him. A warm glow of satisfaction flooded me as I dropped the coin into the ringing tin cup. The grey lips parted, moved. “Thankee, kind sir.”

Reluctantly I turned away. I had much to think of. I had been called “sir” by the man I most admired…..

Why could not I wear one leather boot and one velvet slipper? Why could not I sit all day, in sight of the passers-by, in sound of the seagulls, and chalk beautiful pictures on the paving stones? I could and I would— when I was grown up. The words were magic in my head. “When I am grown up! When I am grown up!”—they circled like rings of coloured light around me; they rang in my ears like the tune of an old song.

London Embankment Screever: Postcard 1915

Back to nurse I edged my cautious steps. “She’s ‘ad one too many already come to that; I don’t know ‘ow she’ll manage with another on the way,” she was saying. I saw by the expression on her face that I was unobserved. My secret was safe.

Safe till today, that is. For, turning the pages of a contemporary magazine, I saw, some pictures that put me in mind of the old man’s. Suddenly I realised that it had fallen to me to make a great discovery. Proudly I sat down to record this reminiscence of the first Surrealist, and his greatest admirer.

Published in the Spectator Magazine: 1st JANUARY 1937

Researched by Philip Battle

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SANCTUARY (1938)

15 Saturday Jun 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, London, writing

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The John Stewart Story

A story in stones of a man who did wrong and has suffered ever since

On the pavements of London, Daily Mirror reporter, Eileen Ashcroft found John Stewart writing his life-story.

Wednesday, Sept. 21

“GIVE a dog a bad name” And it’s a terrible struggle to get back on your feet. Mr John Stewart walked into my office the other day. He is a pavement artist, and you’ll usually find him at his pitch between Scotland Yard and Charing Cross Station He had a spot of bother at one time and spent a spell in prison, and ever since, although he’s made up his mind to go straight, he’s never been able to get back on his feet again.

As soon as a prospective employer hears he’s been in prison, it’s good-bye to his chances of a job. “It seems that nobody’s willing to give lame dog a chance,” he said rather forlornly.

JOHN STEWART: All he wants is somebody to Trust Him!

Mr Stewart’s great ambition is to get back into the building trade like his father before him, who was a stonemason. His father was a very brave man and was once presented with a silver watch and a bag of gold for a very courageous rescue. He went down a dangerous draw well to rescue one of his workmates who had fallen from the scaffolding during repairs. He died when his son, John, was sixteen and left eleven children, five younger than John. John had been working for about five years having left school at the age of eleven through winning a scholarship. His wages were 4s. 6d. a week, with board and lodging found.

John Stewart writes his life story on the pavement.

Then in 1914 came the Great War, and young John, then eighteen, enlisted and served until April 4, 1919. In 1917 he was decorated for bravery on the field. He was strangely reticent about this decoration and I like him for it. “There were thousands of Tommies who did much more than I did,” he told me, “but they were never seen doing it like I was. I did my duty and that sufficed,” His eldest brother was totally disabled during the war in the Air Force, and his sister lost her life when serving as a tram conductress in Newport.

The trolley runner of her tram became disconnected while descending the steep hill coming down into the town. The brave girl, knowing that possible death faced all the fifty passengers in the car, climbed on to the top of the tram. Somehow, with a courage born of desperation she succeeded in replacing the trolley roller. But trying to climb back into safety she slipped and fell into the roadway. She died from her injuries, but the lives of perhaps fifty people had been saved.

Another chapter from John Stewart’s daily writings

When the war ended, John looked for a job, but as soon as he had found something he was stricken down with blackwater fever and malaria, and for a long time was unfit for work. When he got back his health and strength he could find no work and in a moment of rashness stole a bicycle. To this day he doesn’t know why he did this stupid thing. For this petty crime he was sentenced to two months’ imprisonment, which he served at Cardiff, and this event changed his whole life.

When he came out he was looked upon as no good in his home town, and he was shunned by everybody. He decided to go away and sailed on board a ship as scullery man, peeling potatoes, etc. He remained at sea for a time and gradually worked his way up until he sat for and obtained his Chief Cook’s Certificate under the Board of Trade. “At last,” he thought. “I am back on my feet.” Then the shipping slump came, and like thousands of others he was destitute, without hope. Mixing with other destitutes, he slid slowly into a life of crime and pilfering and served several small sentences.

Every day, for years John Stewart writes his biography on the pavement

Then he came up before Judge Whiteley, now at the Old Bailey, while he was at the London Sessions. This was the last time he was sentenced. The Judge was wise and kindly and told him to give up his life of crime and become a useful citizen again. “For a man of your general ability and brain to stand where you are now is a pity,” were the words Mr Stewart remembers. In prison, he mixed with all kinds of notorious criminals, but he never forgot the words of the Judge, and determined in future his life would be blameless. One cold, bleak December morning he was released with his fare back to London and what belongings he had. All the way back in the train, he told me, he cried for joy to be free again. He went home and was received like the prodigal son.

His mother had died while he was in prison and he had never been told. This was a shock, but his family were kind and soon he obtained a job. He had been there six weeks doing good work when his prison record was mysteriously placed in the hands of his employers and he was asked to leave. He found another Job and the same thing happened. Wherever he went the ghost of his past dogged his footsteps and blocked his path. I do honestly believe that it is not for want of trying that this man has been so unlucky. He is earning a bare living now by the only way he can—by writing his story on the paving stones of London for the entire world to see and read.

But people who stop to read cause a crowd and he has been told that he must not cause an obstruction. For several years now this man has gone absolutely straight in spite of hardship and bad luck. He is a trained workman and builder. He wants to use his hands and his head in a job which can give him back his self-respect and give him a chance to show what stuff he’s really made of. He has a bad record over a few years. That is the bogy that stands between him and a job and a chance in life, it’s the old, old story of “Give a dog a bad name . . .” But somewhere there must be someone who’s willing to give a lame dog a chance to get back on his feet again. That is why I print this story to-day, in case that someone may read this page.

Published in The Daily Mirror newspaper, England, Thursday, September 22nd 1938

Researched & transcribed by Philip Battle

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Top Screever Says: It’s ‘a Gift’ (1953)

05 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, London

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The Story of Alfred Horton

A cockney artist in pastels, who lives and works in the glow of the sunset—morning, noon and night. He is part of the London street scene.

You will see him any fine day on the Thames Embankment, near Charing Cross Pier, kneeling on a little pad, and rubbing the crimson and orange glow of the setting sun into the paving stone with a grubby finger. This week his pastels have won for him the title “Screever Number One, London.”

Alfred Horton cartoon as it appeared in the Christian Science Monitor 1953

The word “screever” isn’t defined in Webster’s. In a cockney slang book, however, you would find it means a pavement artist, one whose canvas is the sidewalk. London’s seven top screevers were invited to compete in the National Hobbies and Handicrafts Exhibition at the Central Hall here this week. Seven great slabs of paving stone were taken along as canvases.

Three-Hour Job

Alfred got down to work. He took nearly three hours, much longer than usual, to complete his picture, “Running Water.” What with the mike, and the lights, and the flashing bulbs, and the questions of the news-papermen, it was hard to concentrate,” he told me later. But Alfred knew his subject. And his colleagues applauded as he took off his French beret and rubbed his stubbly beard on receiving the cash prize of £5 from Jean Carson, Actress.

Alfred Horton with actress Jean Carton (Original press photo 1953)

Alfred Horton with actress Jean Carson (Original press photo 1953)

“I joined the merchant navy when I was 14,” he said. “I’ve seen sunsets all over the world. When I pick up a piece of chalk, the pictures all come crowding back to me.” He was doing a repeat of his prize-winning picture on the pavement the next day when I visited him, just a stone’s throw (pavement stone) from Cleopatra’s Needle.

‘Bit Bright?’

A battered old felt hat had a few pennies in it. I dropped in a coin. It chinked, but Alfred didn’t look up. He selected another crayon from hundreds on a piece of sacking on the pavement. Two sprightly white lambs gambolled into the picture. Alfred took a black crayon and etched in a gate. “Bit bright, ain’t it—that sky?” a voice behind me said. Alfred dropped his chalk. “Time and time again I’ve seen it.” He said. “Where?” the critic asked. “In Scotland when I was in the Army.”

Alfred joined the Army in the last war, he told me. Maybe it was on manoeuvres among the heathered banks and braes he had seen the golden sunsets. The wooded copes, the sheep, the water dashing up from black rocks.

‘Just a Gift’

He had a precise, well-ordered way of doing his picture—starting with the sunset. “Never ‘ad a lesson in my life. It’s just a gift,” he said modestly. I could see the faint outlines of the sunsets of other days on the pavement.

“Do you have to rub them out each night?” I asked. “Well—yes,” he said, “but often the rain does it for me. It’s late when I leave.” My own feeling was he couldn’t bear to part with his sunsets. “Oil paintings—yes I do them, but not for sale. I might do a masterpiece one day. Where would I be if I sold it?” So Alfred parts only with pastels—as pictures and trays. He is sending one to Jean Carson, “so she can remember the screever she gave the prize to,” Alfred said.

Published in the Christian Science Monitor (19^th September 1953)

Here’s another take on the same story……….

No Appreciation

Seven pavement artists competed yesterday for a £5 note at Central Hall, Westminster. They were provided with paving stones and set to work at 10.30am Judging started at 1.30pm.

Alfred Horton with actress Jean Carson (Original press photo 1953)

The winner was Alfred Horton of the Oval, Kennington. Whose normal stand is outside Charing Cross Station. His picture—a lush Highland scene called “Running Water.”

Alfred Horton working on his winning piece “RUNNING WATERS” (Original press photo 1953)

Horton, 51, said: “I spent 30 years in the Merchant Navy, another six in the Army. After that I felt I wanted to do something more creative.” But like most artists he doesn’t think much of the English public. . . .“Englishmen don’t appreciate art nowadays. I have to rely on foreign visitors for a living.” His takings—30s. a day in the summer, down to 5s. a day in winter.

Published in the Daily Express (Friday 18^th September 1953)

Just on a side note; the competition judge was American Actress Jean Carson, who starred in many US film and TV productions, including The Twilight Zone, Perry Mason & The Untouchables, to name but a few. Later in life, she developed a drinking problem which limited her acting career. Her last film role was 1977′s Fun with Dick and Jane. On November 2nd, 2005, Carson died from complications of a stroke; she was 82 years old.

Related blog: FLAGSTONES FOR SALE (1953)

Written and researched by Philip Battle

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ARTIST PUTS CHALK TALK ON SIDEWALK (1976)

18 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, USA

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In the shadow of the White House

“It is definitely message art, more so than Bicentennial art of any kind,” said George R. (Randy) Hofman, 24, as he put the finishing touches on a huge chalk drawing of the Crucifixion on the sidewalk across the street from the White House.

Hofman said he spends summers in Ocean City, N.J., doing chalk drawings, acrylic paintings and sand sculptures, mostly on religious themes. He has sculpted and painted the Last Supper, Moses parting the Red Sea, and Moses with the Ten Commandments.

He has also reproduced famous art, such as “The Starry Night” by van Gogh, but he prefers religious motifs, because “more people can identify with (them) right off.”

“They love the spiritual enlightenment of it,” Hofman said. “They get inspired.”

Hofman lives with his parents at New Hampshire Ave. near Brookeville in Montgomery County. He said he converted the stable there into a studio, and he has painted a huge acrylic mural on the walls and the ceiling depicting the second coming of Christ.

The young artist works quickly; it took a little over an hour yesterday to complete most of the picture’s detail. About eight feet square, its main elements were Christ on the Cross, a centurion and a kneeling follower.

Artist Hofman puts finishing touches to drawing of crucifixion at Madison Street, NW (1976)

“You have to juxtapose the warms and the cools, the darks against the lights for the contrast,” Hofman said. He said he begins by drawing an outline with ordinary blackboard chalk and filling it in with colored chalk.

Hofman said he was concerned that the authorities might object to someone “painting” the sidewalk in front of the White House and the (guard) said if you go across the street maybe it’d be OK,” he said.

So Hofman picked up his chalk and found a concrete “canvas” in front of Lafayette Park. Several pedestrians stopped to admire his work, “although one person didn’t like it, because he didn’t think Christ should be on the ground like that.”

Others were enthusiastic. Brother Luke, of the international Order of St. Luke the Physician, said it was “super.”

“If we could get teenagers turned on to ‘defacing’ sidewalks with chalk, maybe they wouldn’t deface walls with spray paint,” he said. “This is a beautiful expression that’s not detrimental to anybody.”

Hofman said he wants to see sidewalk art in his home town. “There’s hardly any of it here,” he said, though it’s common in Europe and in Boston and San Francisco.

Published in the Washington Post USA (11^th Feb. 1976)

Researched by Philip Battle

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Art on the Asphalt (1967)

13 Wednesday Mar 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, USA

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One of America’s first Sidewalk Art Festivals

A sure sign of spring is a bunch of kids chalking a hopscotch court on a city sidewalk. The warm sunshine seems to give urban people such impulses. But few policemen would sympathize if they found adults using the pavements for drawing boards.

Sidewalk Pet Portraits: US cartoon Cir. 1967

In San Francisco, however, authorities understand. The city’s Recreation and Parks Department recently sponsored an official “chalk-in for all ages.” It staged it in an area where the “hippies” congregate—the rendezvous of the philosophic college dropouts and other young people.

The results were exciting. In almost no time, we are told, 200 eager entrants in the contest claimed the 200 packages of colored chalk which the Park Department had ready to distribute. Others brought their own. Soon the chalk artists had covered with their sketches the four-foot squares of asphalt assigned to each. Many bright, original designs appeared. Spectators crowded.

The first rain was expected to wash away the entire art exhibition. But its lesson will remain. It indicates that cities should find more outlets for the creative abilities of their youth. More than half a century ago the settlement house movement sought to meet this need. Now other organizations such as the Job Corps are taking on the task.

But the focus should not be on the needs of the poor only. The San Francisco Recreation and Park Department is on the right track in setting up its chalk-in for people of all ages and stations.

Published in The Christian Science Monitor (10^th April 1967)

Researched by Philip Battle

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THE LEAGUE OF GENTLEMEN (2000)

09 Saturday Mar 2013

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Royston Vasey and the Monster from Hell

Series 2 Episode 6 – Broadcast (18^th Feb 00)

Here’s a quirky little one, from the hit dark British comedy series, the League of Gentlemen.

OPENING TITLES: League of Gentlemen (2000)

OPENING TITLES – STELLA HULL WANDERS DOWN THE MAIN ROAD THAT IS A SCENE OF COMPLETE CHAOS. THE ARMY HAVE NOW BEEN CALLED IN, AND JEEPS, TRUCKS AND A SMALL TANK DRIVE ALONG. TROOPS ROUND UP PEDESTRIANS AND USHER THEM BACK INTO THEIR HOMES. HOUSES ARE CORDONED OFF, AND SOME WINDOWS HAVE BEEN COVERED WITH BOARDS MARKED WITH CROSSES. A MAN SITS ON THE PAVEMENT, OBLIVIOUS TO THE PANDEMONIUM. BY HIS FEET IS A SIGN THAT READS ‘PAVEMENT ARTIST – PLEASE GIVE WHAT YOU CAN’. NEXT TO HIM ARE PHOTOGRAPHS AND PAINTINGS OF PAVEMENTS.

OPENING TITLES: The pavement artists paintings of pavements (2000)

Researched by Philip Battle

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A Woman’s Realm (1902)

08 Friday Mar 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, London

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The Latest Encroachment

Here’s a little story for International Women’s Day:

Still more encroachments upon the masculine preserve, writes a correspondent. Hitherto the profession of the pavement artist has been the exclusive prerogative of the indigent male who has supplemented the appeals of art by the more eloquent pleas of a wooden leg or an exaggerated squint.

But we have changed all that at Hampstead. Coming down the high-street yesterday I beheld a lady neatly and prettily attired bending over the pavement, on which she had drawn a series of excellent scenes.

A Lady Pavement Artist: Cartton from the Leeds Times. Published 5th August 1899

A Lady Pavement Artist: Cartoon from the Leeds Times. (5th August 1899)

The pavement artists, new style, struck me as a distinct improvement on the old style, and it suggests a new sphere of labour for—must we use the discourteous phrase?—superfluous woman.

Published in the Sunderland Daily Echo and Shipping Gazette (Friday 3^rd October 1902)

Researched by Philip Battle

Related blog: Alice G. Coleman (1893)

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THE END OF PAVEMENT ART (1871)

07 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, London

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By-laws to stop the Screevers

The authorities have always tried to regulate pavement art by any means possible; today, the high street is in danger of dying through lack of trade, and still, the artists, and buskers who bring life and vitality to our streets are having a hard time of it.

It was no different back in 1871, as this little article proves:

The wayfarer in London has doubtless occasionally noticed on the pavement some highly-coloured work of art—a mackerel, somehow or other, usually being a stock subject with the artist; and a beautifully chalked inscription, involved in some very complicated flourishes, has informed the looker-on that the accomplished artist, who crouches down behind his chef-d’oeuvre, is out of work, and has a wife and seven children; or something of that sort.

Poor fellow, the pavement artists’ occupation is gone, or going. The Metropolitan Board of Works has no feeling for such art, or for the artist; and the former is now declared a penal offence and the latter liable to punishment.

SUSPICION: Punch cartoon from 1872

At first glance this may be regretted; but if it be true, as I have heard, that man behind the pavement drawing was seldom the real artist, and that some other mendicant “did it for the trade,” why that lessens one’s regret. As for the advertisers who are henceforth forbidden to stencil their announcements on the pavement, one has no pity for them. This is not legitimate advertising. Moreover, it must be very annoying for a tradesman to have plastered all over the pavement in front of his shop the advertisements of a rival in the same trade—very!

Published in the Alnwick Mercury (Saturday 18^th March 1871)

Researched by Philip Battle

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The Suffragette Chalkers (1908)

05 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by Philip Battle in history, London, suffragettes

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Pavement artists of the Women’s Suffrage Movement

In 1908, the penalty for a woman suffragette pavement artist caught drawing in chalk on the pavement, was seven days in prison for a first offence.

How the Suffragettes Advertise

The English Suffragettes are going about the country chalking up notices on houses, walls and pavements. This photograph shows three prominent ladies in the campaign for Woman’s Suffrage—Misses Eye, Kenny, and Crocket—chalking up an advertisement on a fence.

Suffragette Wall Chalkers: Published 25th April 1908

Suffragette Wall Chalkers, LONDON: Published 25th April 1908

Published in the Brisbane Courier (Saturday 25th April 1908)

SELF-DENIAL

A Suffrage poem by “Nemo” (a Suffragette)

The supporters of the movement for female suffrage in the United Kingdom have decided on a week of self-denial—(Morning paper.)

Not for a life, or for a year,

But for a week (of seven days clear),

The suffragettes will make a trial

Of unaccustomed self-denial.

What means the term? The plainest dress.

Quite simple in its ugliness,

No milk and sugar in the tea,

The bread from trace of butter free?

There may be something of this sort,

But ’tis not found in our report.

We read of street vo-cal-isations.

Of raising funds at railway stations,

Of organ-grinding, pavement-chalking

(To catch the eye of persons walking).

So far, so very good—but let

Each self-denying suffragette

Go one step further, and deny

Herself the right to speechify.

Let not a single female raid

On patient Parliament be made.

Keep, but for one short week, the peace.

And earn the blessing of the police!

Published in the Western Mail, Perth (Saturday 22^nd Feb. 1908)

In order to raise funds, Mrs Pethick Lawrence had designated 15^th to 22^nd February 1908 as self-denial week. During this week, WSPU members were to do without luxuries such as cocoa, coffee, and tea, perform extra work, or use other means such as pavement chalking, to raise funds for the Union. Mrs Lawrence (President of the WSPU) stated, in reference to Self-Denial Week that “some of the members who were artists meant to add to the funds by working as pavement artists, while other intended to sing in the streets.” According to Miss Christabel Pankhurst, “the results from street singing, organ playing, and pavement drawing have been excellent!”

Activities during “SELF DENIAL WEEK” in 1908 raised over £8000 for the Suffrage movement. £672,851 in today’s value!

‘VOTES FOR WOMEN’ THE CRY

On March 1^st 1908, the NEW YORK TIMES reported that the “Suffragettes where begging in London streets” On many street corners, all the way from the eastern part of London to the extreme west, and even in the slum districts, they are presenting their contribution boxes for substantial aid to the “cause.”

Woman Pavement Artist POSTCARD: Published by VOTES FOR WOMAN 1908

Miss Coombes, who is a well-known artist, has been making many pennies by sketching on the pavement with varied colored chalk, and unlike the pictures of Joe Elvin’s famous sidewalk artist, you do not have to “tell ‘em by the writin’ underneath.”

SHE sallied forth with chalks to make London in some measure picturesque!

Suffragettes Chalk Creed on Sidewalk

LONDON—Prime Minister Asquith’s garden party at his official residence on Downing street provided the suffragettes with a new role, that of pavement artists. Stopping suddenly, one of them, writing with a heavy piece of chalk, had got as far as “Do woman want” before a policeman rushed up and removed her. Another chalk-wielder accomplished the word “votes” before an inspector of police rushed her off. Then the police formed a cordon around the house and frustrated further efforts.

Suffragette chalkers released from the Gaols 1908

Published in the Oakland Tribune USA 20^th June 1908

Researched and written by Philip Battle

LINKED BLOG: Pavement Art and the SUFFRAGETTES! (1907-1914)

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All My Own Work!

~ A history of pavement art!

Category Archives: history

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