With the help of a loan from the Steinway Piano Company, German immigrant August Luchow bought a beer hall on East 14th Street, New York in 1882. Over the years it became "Luchow's Famous Restaurant .... where "lunch, dinner and after theatre supper is served in a rich old atmosphere reminiscent of by-gone days". At one time or another most of the rich and famous of the twentieth century passed through the doors of Luchows. Theodore Roosevelt dined there. Rachmaninoff and Paderewski played the piano. Caruso, Marlene Dietricht and Jack Benny drank steins of imported German beer. And Gus Kahn composed "Yes Sir That's My Baby" on one of the restaurant's tablecloths. During the height of its fame, Luchow's would serve 24,000 litres of beer a day and it was proud to proclaim that it was "down where the Wurzburger Hofbrau and pilsner flows". With such a proud heritage it is surprising that 100 years after its' establishment, it closed its doors for the last time. And it is perhaps equally surprising that one of its' promotional postcards, dating from the first decade of the twentieth century, should end its' days for sale in a second-hand shop in West Yorkshire for just 20 pence.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Monday, October 27, 2014
|Back Hope Hall Terrace from Union Street, Halifax : October 2014|
Images can acquire a form of non-Euclidian logic where less equals more. Detail can be reduced to such an extent that, what remains, is sharp enough to cut your knee on. Shape drains meaning. Black becomes white. Line is boss.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
I must have taken this photograph back in the 1980s. I can't remember taking it but it was in my negative albums and it is the kind of photograph I take (it's a pub, after all). It is (was) the Earl of Arundel and Surrey on Queen's Road, Sheffield which is certainly no longer a pub and, at one stage, was due for demolition.
The part of the photograph that caught my attention was the large RAOB notice board. The RAOB were (are) the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes, one of the oldest Friendly and Burial Societies and one of the very few that have survived into the twenty-first century. I have always quite fancied being a Buff; they are my kind of organisation, they meet in pubs and seem to be dedicated to having a good time and a decent burial. My good friend and shipmate, H, used to be a Buff and he once showed me what he said was a secret Buff greeting. A few months later a group of local RAOB officials walked into my local pub - their coach had broken down - and I practiced the secret greeting on them. They looked at me as though I was barking mad, so I suspect that H was having me on, and my chances of ever being invited to become a Buff disappeared before my eyes.
At the beginning of the twentieth century there were over 50 RAOB Lodges in Sheffield with names like the Hope and Prosper Lodge, the Shakespearean Lodge, and the Nil Desperandum Lodge. I suspect that the Hope and Prosper Lodge is long gone, but, hopefully, the Nil Desperandum Lodge has not sunk into anonymous despair.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Elderly Lady 1 (EL1) : Look at her. Tessing, or whatever they call it.
Elderly Lady 2 (EL2) : Texting, that's what it is, I think. Our Debbie does it all the time.
EL1 : What do they jabber on about? Why can't they write proper letters like we used to do?
EL2 : Our Arthur, he used to write me lovely letters.
EL1 : It's like that twerping. What's that all about?
EL2 : Twitting. Debbie does that an' all.
EL1 : If you have some'at to say, write it properly. Sentences, things that make sense. Like we did. Like our parents did.
EL2 : I can't imagine our Arthur twitting.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Isobel and I received an e-mail from my brother yesterday checking up on our recovery from the various ailments that have beset us over the last few months. Even though we live on other sides of the world we tend to keep up with each others' lives by reading the others' blog - Roger's excellent blog is Sculpture Studio - and referring to the absence of posts on my blog over the last couple of months he wrote, "I assume that no News From Nowhere is good News From Nowhere". And, generally speaking, he is right. Isobel continues to recover from her emergency surgery and is doing remarkably well considering the scale of the operation. The date by which she can resume a little light housework seems to be continuously pushed back, and the amount of shopping therapy she has to undertake seems to increase in inverse proportion, but other than that she is doing very well. In a few weeks she should be able to drive again which means that my services as a retail chauffeur will no longer be needed, and I will have to find some other way of spending my time.
My eye was recovering very well but over the last few days it has flared up again so it looks like a further course of poking, prodding, dropping, cleaning and waiting will be called for. We did, however, manage to get away on holiday and we had a splendid time with calm seas, good company, fine food, and soothing drink. My picture was taken as we sailed past some of the lovely little islands off the coast of Montenegro.I will use my "Picture Post" blog to feature some of my other recent photographs over the next few months.
With the holiday over and things return to some kind of Autumnal normality, it is time to return to my usual pattern of blogging. It is time to set aside blog posts which are little more that health bulletins or bleating essays in studied self-pity. News from Nowhere can now return to being obsessed with the inconsequential and, as far as my personal well being is concerned, please assume that no news of it is good news of it.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
|Railway Viaduct, Milnsbridge, Huddersfield. September 2014|
I went out and took some photographs today. It is the first time in over a month: the first time since my eyes got infected and Isobel's gut got twisted. It was nowhere special; just Milnsbridge on the far side of Huddersfield (which is special, I suppose, if you come from Milnsbridge). The little expedition was, however, a sign that things are getting back to normal, a sign that I can allow myself the luxury of doing insubstantial things: worrying about light rather than dark, compositions rather than constitutions. Things are on the mend and what they need now is a little push in the right direction. It's time for that holiday, It's time to catch the sun. Off to the seaside, back soon (now where have I heard those words before!)
Tuesday, September 09, 2014
Looking back on my last post, it is entitled "Off To The Seaside" and it simply says "Off to the seaside, back soon". As it happened, little of this turned out to be true. Compressing down what feels like one of the longest couple of weeks of my life, the facts are as follows. A couple of days before we were due to go to Cornwall I had a hospital appointment about the nasty eye infection I had been suffering from for five or six weeks. They warned me that it was more serious than we thought and that I needed an intensive period of antibiotic and steroid treatment and appointments with further specialists. On their advice, we cancelled the holiday. A few days later, my wife, Isobel, returned from a short shopping trip with severe abdominal pains. Within an hour she was rushed to hospital and she finished up having emergency surgery in the middle of the night. She was on Intensive Care for a few days, but then gradually recovered and finally came out of hospital yesterday. In between visiting the hospital to see her, I saw various other specialists and I am glad to report that my eye problem is equally responding to treatment. Alexander was given the week off work to help look after us and his care and support, and that of his new wife Heather, have been something we will never forget. Hopefully things will continue to improve over the next couple of weeks and I can return to my regular blogging schedule, but until then posts to my various blogs might be few and far between.
Two years ago, the Olympic Games were held in London and the film director Danny Boyle was given the task of putting together an opening ceremony which would somehow showcase the achievements of the host nation. In a move of genius, he decided to base the main part of the ceremony around a celebration of what the programme described as "the institution that more than any other, unites our nation - the National Health Service". In a fortnight in which that same NHS and its dedicated staff have saved my wifes' life and helped save my sight, I cannot do other than express my sincere thanks to it and rededicate myself to help ensuring its continued survival as a free and first class service available to all.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Saturday, August 23, 2014
For Sepia Saturday this week we are given faces and fans with a hint of hidden meaning. I have stripped things down to a minimum and concentrated on the face. And when you get rid of all the extra bits you realise what strange things faces - that concentration of sensory organs, that data input terminal of the human consciousness - are.
I am not sure who my featured face belongs to. It comes from my collection of family photographs and therefore it is someone within - or close to - the various family trees that inhabit this house. When I show the photograph to people who live in these trees, they all tend to claim it as their own - "it was a friend of my mothers"; "she worked with Uncle Harry"; "didn't she marry Dick Hudson?" - without being able to provide any reliable prevenance. I did an experimental Google Image Search and, reliable as ever, that suggested it was George Washington.
I searched through all my other family photos hoping to find a match which would help to pin her down to Edith or Harry or Dick, but to no avail. By the end of the day, the mysterious lady remained mysterious, and my room was a mess. Papers were everywhere, plastic storage boxes - that scourge and boon of the modern hoarder - were thrown all over the place. It is time for a Spring Clean (I work to an antipodean timetable ever since I bumped my head as a schoolboy). It is time to order another rubbish skip. Or maybe two.
Visit the Sepia Saturday Blog and follow the links to become fans of more faces.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
From The Halifax Courier : Saturday 22 August 1914
By the third week of the war, a pattern was beginning to develop in terms of the reports appearing in the local newspapers in Great Britain. On the Western Front the allies were still enjoying "brilliant successes" and many still saw the war as a short-term escapade. It would be another four, murderous years before the Germans actually were retreating on the Rhine.
The most visible signs of the war for most people were the price increases, short-time working in the local mills, and the long list of donations to the War Relief Funds. As yet, the long lists of casualties had not become a feature of local newspapers.
Government representatives were touring the country requisitioning horses, transport vehicles and all types of equipment that could possibly be pressed into war service. Anti-German feelings were widespread and suspicions turned on not only those people of German origin who had been long-term British citizens, but even those who had slightly unusual names.
The Chesswas family were long-standing residents of the area, and even today the name is well known in the Lower Calder Valley. It is an indication of the zealotry that existed in some quarters that such a letter ever had to be written.
But even in those early days of the war, calmer, more measured voices could be heard. John Henry Whitley MP represented Halifax in the House of Commons from 1900 until 1928. During the war he chaired the Committee on Labour Relations which gave rise to the establishment of "Whitley Councils" which were responsible for determining wages in certain industries. In 1921, Whitley became Speaker of the House of Commons.
And despite the war, life went on. It was still possible to buy a block of ten cottages for £1,000 or a seven room house with a bath, a long garden and a greenhouse, for £250. And it was still possible for Lord Savile to take to the moors and shoot the local wildlife. Given the slaughter that was just around the corner, it was a relatively harmless vice.