Screech and Japanese Woodcuts
Screech has an obsession and that is Japanese woodcuts. His knowledge of this art form is huge. He has a small collection of framed prints, displayed on the walls of his spacious Bickenhall Mansion flat which he changes regularly but mostly he likes to look at them without the reflective barrier of glass. The vast majority are kept under tissue in folders in a large oak map chest in the corner of his living room. Without the obstruction of glass, he can see more clearly the artistry involved, the layer upon layer of colour applied onto hand carved blocks of seasoned cherry wood, the fine detail and texture of the design. As with any collector, he can never have enough and is constantly in search of rare and unusual pieces.
He has a dealer in New York who knows his preferences and often purchases on his behalf but mostly Screech searches out his woodcuts in auction rooms, antique junk shops or in the Brighton Lanes. Not having a computer, he does not have the benefit of online shopping but, even if he had, would eschew this instant form of purchase. For him rooting around in dusty boxes, among old rocking horses, books and wooden towel rails at the back of some junk filled shop and coming across an unexpected treasure of a woodcut, at a bargain price because the shop owner doesn’t recognise its worth, is for him a pleasure of almost indescribable intensity.
Screech’s taste is eclectic. He has in his possession some early works of Kabuki actors and courtesans. He acknowledges the discreetly sexual nature of these prints: the subtle but provocative revealing of an ankle; the dishevelled hairdo or kimono or a glimpse of a kimono’s red lining but he is not fond of the more overtly sexual “pillow” prints or the even more graphically sexual Shunga woodcuts that were used to educate newly-weds or for pornographic purposes. He is also fond of more recent work – the 20th century depictions of modern life by Toshi Yoshida and the contemporary woodcuts of Teruhide Kato who harks back nostalgically to another age.
While he acknowledges that his daily need to peruse and scrutinise these valuable possessions is more than a little eccentric he also feels that his obsession is totally harmless and hurts nobody.
Screech and Opera
Screech was first introduced to opera when he was a child by his grandparents and his aunt Dorothy. Every evening after supper his grandparents would take out a different opera recording and play it on their Bush hi fi system. Sometimes the recordings were very old but despite the cracklings that issued from the venerable record player he could still make out the emotion and the technique and the sheer artistry of those early 20th century singers – Caruso, Gigli, Corelli, Shipa. Bjorling, Pinsa, Flagstad, Tebaldi, Victoria de Los Angeles, Sutherland, Olivero, Gobbi, Callas.
When his aunt Dorothy took him to his first performance of Madame Butterfly at the Opera House he was so blown away he almost fainted and she was fearful of taking him again.
Over the years he saw all the best singers and productions with their magnificent stage sets and colourful, lavish costumes. Sitting in the Lower Slips, right over the orchestra pit, the seats costing next to nothing, Screech vicariously experienced the passion, the fire, the humour, the pathos, the hate and desire of the human condition. Leaving the theatre, his hands hurting from clapping, his soul uplifted, he would arrive home, still carrying that afterglow of pleasure.
But these days he rarely visits the opera. Opera directors have assumed such a role that it is McVicar’s Carmen or Miller’s Rigoletto, the composers forgotten and the libretto even reworked to fit the director’s ideas. Screech has decided he can no longer stomach the suits and cocktail dresses, the SS and camouflage uniforms, the radiators, chairs and swimming pools that populate the contemporary opera stage and prefers to listen to his collection of the bery best recordings in the comfort of his own home, a glass of wine in his hand and Potemkin on his lap.