I wish a very cordial happy Easter to my friends and their families. This item has an Easter theme, combined with a brief reflection on contemporary British politics.
I am an early riser, and begin my day preparing breakfast. While I cut up our breakfast fruit, I listen to BBC Radio 4. On Sundays, breakfast preparation coincides with Something Understood (last Sunday the Dalai Lama exploring the philosophy of the mind) and Natural Histories, which featured a topical investigation of the egg in religion, art and literature.
The egg, it turns out, is an extraordinary feat of design and engineering. It must be very strong, to resist accidental breaking, yet fragile enough for the chick to break out. It keeps the chick dry while being sufficiently porous to allow oxygen to enter.
Carl Fabergé’s famous bejewelled eggs are elaborate pieces whose roots lie in Russian Easter traditions. A humble peasant may be given a real egg as an Easter gift symbolic of rebirth. A wealthier person might be given a porcelain egg. And for the mega-rich there were Fabergé eggs. Apparently, Fabergé made 50 eggs, of which the current location of 43 is known. One egg, last seen in a sale in 1943, was an elaborately decorated affair, which contained a bejewelled miniature vanity set.
The Coronation Coach Egg by Carl Fabergé, presented to Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna on Easter Day in 1897 by Tsar Nicholas II
The segment about Fabergé included an interview with a jeweller at Wartski’s, a shop in St James's Street that I could never hope to visit as a customer. But one day in the early 1990s I called there for lunch with the proprietor, Kenneth Snowman, a bon viveur (a fine lunch washed down by two bottles of “frightfully good pinot noir dear boy”), and the world expert on Fabergé.
The Third Imperial Easter Egg by Carl Fabergé
Kenneth’s father, Emanuel Snowman, was the son of Polish Jewish parents. In the 1920s Emanuel travelled to Russia with Armand Hammer. While Hammer bought oil fields for knock-down prices, between 1927 and 1933 Emanuel bought art, including nine Fabergé eggs, at equally keen prices. Kenneth grew up with Fabergé and became the world’s leading expert. He was once asked to authentic an egg due to be sold at one of the great auction houses. Kenneth confirmed that in his opinion the piece was an authentic Fabergé. It sold for a fortune. Several years later the owner offered the same egg for sale and the auction house approached Kenneth to re-authenticate it. This time Kenneth declared that it was not a Fabergé. The irate owner demanded to know why his egg was once a Fabergé but was no longer. Kenneth replied urbanely “I changed my mind”.
Wartski's current premises on St James's Street, London
Kenneth’s trade introduced him to many of the world’s rich and famous. Wartski’s website has a photo of Kenneth walking down Regent Street with Bing Crosby. He was also a friend of Ian Fleming and must be the only art historian to have advised 007 at an auction of a Fabergé jeweled egg. Kenneth appears by name in Fleming’s short story The Property of a Lady.
Kenneth Snowman, right, with Bing Crosby on Regent Street. At that time Wartski's shop was on Regent Street
The most curious item discussed in the BBC programme was the egg face library of the Clowns International, a professional association formed in 1947 as The International Circus Clowns Club by Stan Built, a circus enthusiast. A condition of membership is that each new applicant must have her/his own unique face. To ensure that every new applicant’s face has never been used previously, the club needed a record of members’ face designs. Stan had a ready-made solution, for since 1946 he had travelled to circus performances throughout Britain to paint portraits of clowns’ faces on eggs. Initially, the registry consisted of portraits on real eggs, but in due course these were replaced by porcelain eggs. Until recently, the eggs could be seen at the Clowns’ Gallery Museum in Holy Trinity church in Dalston, London. Alas, the church is undergoing restoration and the eggs are in storage.
Egg clown portraits. Lou Jacobs is no relation
This brings me to the political element of this story. The BBC is, in my experience, one of the great treasures of British culture. Its range of programming is admirable and its standards of content and impartiality superior to any other broadcaster of which I am aware. It is therefore viscerally loathed by its commercial competitors and by politicians who consider that the BBC does not always see the world the way they do. These politicians come from across the political spectrum, but the most persistent in seeking to destroy the BBC are from the right and, in particular, the Conservative Party.
Brexit created a particularly dangerous environment for the BBC, since it fostered the most visceral divisions in society that I have seen in my lifetime. Brexit is a highly ideological issue, and those who feel passionately about it frequently care little for fact or accuracy. At its root is either a deeply-held belief in a common European sense of community or a profound loathing of anything European. Since the Conservative Brexiters won and now control the political debate in this country, they naturally expect the BBC to promote their views. The BBC, does not in their view, reflect the views and values of the nation. The problem is that if the views and values of the nation were that black is white, the BBC does not report that as fact.
Brexit combines a dangerous mix of values and views. At its root is an intense nationalism which translates into pride in a version of British history which preaches that our Empire was a fine human achievement that brought civilization to vast swathes of the world. To suggest that the Empire was built on foundations of white domination, racism and slavery is to invite vituperation. And symbols of national pride – statues, the flag, the monarchy etc. – are sacrosanct. Government minsters now appear for interview with a large government-issue flag and bookshelf behind them. Sometimes, in a limited domestic space, the arrangement can be haphazard or slightly comical. One hapless BBC interviewer gently teased a minister about the way he had displayed his flag. This was interpreted by the BBC-bashers as sneering at the flag. They seem to lack a sense of humour.
Minister Robert Jenrick with his insufficiently prominent flag
As I listened to the Dalai Lama and learned about the egg register of clowns, I reflected that its enemies might succeed in destroying the BBC, or forcing it to conform to the mindset of nationalist zealots. What then would I listen to as I make breakfast on a Sunday?
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