In Dialogue
A correspondence between Luke Edward Hall and Philip Warkander on design, beauty, and living in the countryside.
Dear Luke
I grew up by the ocean, on the border between Denmark and Sweden. This experience has defined me in many ways– I often think of the sea, I dream of it, and when I write (books, articles, or essays) I tend to use the sea as an analogy for whatever the subject of the text is. I remember watching the sea together with my father, and how he once said that the sea is never the same, that it’s ever changing. He never grew tired of observing it through our living room windows, and I feel the same.
In your work, I see strong connections to different places, eras, and people. Or at least I think that I do… in your drawings, I sense an inspiration from Jean Cocteau (which subsequently makes me think of seaside towns like Menton, Villefranche-sur-Mer, and Villa Santo Sapir in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat). Your textile prints for Rubelli are (at least to me) reminiscent of the Bloomsbury group, while the prints for the clothes from Chateau Orlando look like they belong in a phantasmagorical place, like a fairytale (with a set design by Wes Anderson or Alessandro Michele). I guess my question to you is, how do you use different places as a source of inspiration? Are there certain artists whose work you often return to? How do you turn these references into something that is distinctly your own?
I’m writing this while sitting on a chair by an Italian country road, in the Apennine mountains between Bologna and Florence, perhaps the farthest you can get from the ocean in Italy. I’m waiting for a delivery, but our house has such an obscure address, in such a tiny village, that it can’t be found on google maps, and so I have to sit here, in the shade under an old chestnut tree, waiting to jump out and wave down the driver. Am I correct in assuming that you also live in the countryside? What drew you to cottage life? What do you enjoy most about it? Does it in any way inspire your work? Until recently, we lived in Stockholm, but I found myself looking for a new way of living, longing to grow things and to not be in a city anymore. It’s a steep learning curve, and our dog is very confused about the situation, but so far, it’s been great.
Buona giornata
Dear Philip
These are really wonderful observations – I am pleased to read them! I often feel like my work has a real melting pot of inspirations behind it. Some artists and designers have a very rigid set of inspirations, but I've never really been like this. I soak in lots of things, and they kind of blend together. I suppose I see my output as a sort of patchwork - the drawings, paintings, clothes and interiors fitting together like a jigsaw to create one giant image that is always changing but has a very distinct aesthetic. Saying this, there are sources of inspiration that I will always see myself returning to – mythology and folklore being key, for example. There are particular places that I return to often for inspiration, yes – classical Greece and Rome, my surrounding countryside, Cornwall.... It's the same with artists – I have heroes that I think will always inspire me – Cecil Beaton, Stephen Tennant, the Bloomsbury Group... I think that because I have so many different references, my work will always be distinctly my own, because I'm always mashing things up. Plus, my work revolves around my drawings – my individual touch, my handprint, is on all that I do.
Yes, we live on the border of Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire. I love the country – I didn't grow up in it as such, my childhood home was in a town, but it had beautiful countryside surrounding it. When living in London full-time, my husband Duncan and I would often escape at weekends. Eventually we realised that perhaps we could start renting a place of our own, which we did in 2019. We lived in our cottage during the pandemic and never looked back really, although we return to the city for meetings every couple of weeks. We rent our cottage, but I have recently bought a small house by the sea in Cornwall – it's as far west as you can go, almost. It's a wild place, full of magic.
Where we live now already inspires much of what I do, from the flowers we grow in our garden inspiring knitwear designs to the local folklore, which often seems to work its way into my paintings. I really do love being here - I need the space and quiet. We walk our dogs in the woods every day, we garden, we grow our own food... It's just a lovely, really quite simple, happy-making way to live.
/Luke
Dear Luke
I’ve been thinking about your letter while working in the garden, raking leaves and collecting wood for the fireplace. No one has lived here for at least a decade, and everything is overgrown (and derelict). Today, the former gardener came by, and he told me about how it once used to look (“fantastico”) and about his vision for how we now will bring back its former glory. He’s 72 but still working as he loves being outside, helping trees, plants, and flowers grow, making sure that everything is in its place. I work slower here than in the city, I don’t know yet if that’s good or bad. Everything takes more time, but it also makes me more present in a strange way (though also more absent, professionally speaking, as the WIFI is barely functioning).
For a long time, I worked in academia, where everything you publish must conform to a certain, quite streamlined, format. If you don’t follow the rules, you won’t be successful. This approach, I imagine, is the opposite of working creatively, where emphasis instead is placed on having an independent vision and a unique understanding of the world. I’m curious about your thoughts on creative agency, as you’ve both collaborated with others and worked independently: What is the main difference, if there is one? In collaborations, do you adapt and adjust to the brand that you’re currently working with, finding inspiration in their history while holding back your own aesthetics? Do you like to receive a detailed brief, or do you prefer to have more freedom to explore? Sometimes a person’s work is improved through creative constraints, like with Tom Ford, who did some of his best work when having to translate it to the Gucci brand universe. Is it the same for you? And conversely, what’s it like for you to work completely independently, is it liberating to do something where no one else has any say? Or do you miss the constraints of having to adapt your expression to someone else’s requirements?
This leads me to my other question. When I was young, I didn’t know anyone else who was gay (or so I thought at the time). To learn about gay history and culture, I went to the library and the bookstores, and I read Jean Genet, Jean Cocteau, Gertrude Stein, Pier Paolo Pasolini… and of course the Brits; Virginia Woolf, Tennant, and all the rest. It’s an eclectic list of names, never complete and at times quite random looking, but nevertheless there is a sort of informal canon of 20th century gay culture, and sometimes, I can see links between your work and the world that I read about as a boy, growing up.
Perhaps this is more of a comment than a question, but I’m curious to learn about your interest in this history, especially as it’s so intertwined with a quite specific approach to self-presentation – placing an emphasis on the aesthetics of the everyday and thinking of the style of life. What role has gay culture played in shaping your sense of style? How can you utilise this archive when creating contemporary expressions?
A presto
Philip
Dear Philip
I am very lucky in that I have been able to collaborate with some excellent brands over the past ten years such as Ginori, Rubelli and Svenskt Tenn. I have to say that I only really work with brands that I am naturally drawn to, brands that I love. These brands usually have rich histories, and they certainly make (or have made in the past) products that I find beautiful. I have never felt as if I have had to hold back my own aesthetics, which is also very lucky. Brands tend to come to me knowing what I'm about: a Romantic approach, colour, storytelling... Naturally a collaboration is a collaboration - there will always be a bit of back and forth, and it's impossible to have full creative control. But with collaborations I'm not really after full creative control - I'm more interested in tapping into a company's history, their archives, their excellent manufacturing capabilities...
Collaborations are exciting because each party brings something to the table and the result is always a product that I absolutely wouldn't have been able to make on my own. Take my fabrics with Rubelli - this Venetian company has the capability to produce incredible woven fabrics. They're the best in the game. With Chateau Orlando, my own brand, it's a different story. We're very new, and we have a lot to build, but the outlook is totally mine, and I can control, or direct let's say, (almost!) everything, from the designs and materials to the photography and communication.
As for briefs, I can happily work in different ways - sometimes I am given complete free rein by a brand, which is always fun, but I do also appreciate a bit of a framework. When I am painting and drawing for an exhibition, let's say, I feel like this is when I am making my most pure work, or at least - there is no client as such (apart from my Athens-based gallery) and the freedom I feel when working in this way is exhilarating. Really though I enjoy the constant mix, the thrill of working in different ways, for myself and for various people and companies.
Oh, and gay culture has played a huge role, and I agree with you about the sort of informal canon. When I was in my late teens and twenties I was drawn to a wide variety of gay or queer artists, designers, photographers and writers. Mostly from the past, but contemporary ones too. I'm thinking of Cecil Beaton, Stephen Tennant, Oliver Messel, Jean Cocteau, Christopher Isherwood, Denton Welch, Edmund White, John Craxton, Christopher Wood, Duncan Grant and the Bloomsbury Group... I really soaked up as much as I could. I suppose what tied many of these figures together, apart from their sexuality, was their appreciation of beauty, their approach, their professional output of course but also the fabulous lives they led or lead. I think a lot of gay people growing up see themselves in their role models, or they see what they want to become.
When I was perhaps twenty or twenty-one, having moved from English suburbia to go to art school in the big city at eighteen, I dreamt of being able to make art and design my job, but more than this, I dreamt of living a certain kind of life... A life with a partner... I pictured travel, painting, a garden, cooking... So, it was this life of work that I wanted, but I wanted just as much a happy, queer domestic life. But also, a life of visiting wondrous, beautiful places!
A couple of years ago I came across the painter and plantsman Cedric Morris and his partner the artist Arthur Lett-Haines – new to me at the time – and I got really rather obsessed with reading about them. I'm still constantly adding to my own personal canon of inspiring queer creatives.
/Luke
Dear Luke
I gave a lecture earlier today; the subject was the birth of fashion. While I was speaking, I was thinking about our conversation and what you said in your last letter about beauty. As I’m sure you know, modern fashion manifested the first time in the 1350s. For several reasons, at this time garments became more elaborate and well-designed. In other words – because of fashion, sartorial practices became more beautiful (or at least more flattering to the wearer).
What I was thinking about, more specifically, was the role of beauty in a person’s life. Had people always – even before the 1350s – wanted to dress more elaborately? Or was the shift in human behaviour extrinsically motivated; did the societal developments of this era (such as the plague and the emergence of capitalism) create a new kind of aesthetic desire? To put it more directly – what role do you think that beauty plays in people’s everyday life? Do you think that enjoying beauty is a universal experience – part of simply being conscious, more or less – or is it defined by other parameters? Is a person born with a sense of style or is it something anyone can develop through practice? What was the case for you, have you always been interested in (and good at) aesthetics and design? Personally, I struggle. I would like to think that I have a good sense of style but whenever I see old photos of myself, I doubt it.
Another thing that I was reminded of while reading your letter is that for cultural references – in fashion, literature design, art and illustrations – to be recognized, the audience/consumer needs to have access to the same knowledge as the creator. Historically, this wasn’t a concern as culture was much more homogenous. It was easy for most people to decode the messages in art. Today, many symbols and messages remain hidden, simply because most people don’t have the key to unlock their meaning. The message has turned into a shape without meaning. Do you ever think about this, especially in regard to your own work? What do you think about this development (if you think about it at all)? Does it matter if no one can really decode your work, but mainly like it because it’s pleasing to the eye?
Tomorrow we’re leaving for the coast. I'm looking forward to getting a break from gardening. My body aches from cutting down trees, and my hands smell from harvesting the walnuts. Sometimes, it’s nice to escape the countryside…
Take care
Philip
Dear Philip
I completely understand where you're coming from. When I look at photos of myself as a teenager and young adult, I have to smile at my often rather mad outfits. Surely those years were all about experimenting? What I see in those photos is a boy having fun. I've always been interested in aesthetics, absolutely. I was a very shy kid and young adult. I still am rather reserved I suppose. I was much happier pushing my work out into the world versus having to speak to people I didn't know. Creativity was my outlet; it was the way I was able to express myself. I was incredibly happy to lose myself in the things I was making. Can a person develop a sense of style? Well, you sort of know the real thing when you see it, don't you? For me a very stylish person is one that is completely confident in whatever it is they're doing, how they dress, what they cook, what their home looks and feels like... Yes, style is about having the confidence to say and do what you like and standing by it. Authenticity!
I enjoy the idea of my work being out in the world and people taking it from it what they will. There are plenty of references that feed into my work – some people will understand and appreciate these, as you have here yourself, mentioning connections to Bloomsbury, Stephen Tennant and the world you read about as a boy. This, of course, is wonderful because it feels good, as the artist, to sort of share the same page with the viewer. There is a mutual grasping of something. On the other hand, I don't think it's absolutely necessary for a viewer to know about all of the people from the past that I love, all of the books and the flowers and the mythology. Really this is the joy of art – a viewer can take from a picture or piece of design what they will, they can imagine their own connections and references and perhaps these will hit home with the creator, but perhaps they won't. A picture can just be a lovely thing to enjoy, and this is also a simple concept worth celebrating.
We're about to put the garden to bed for the year and I hear you, it is actually a lovely thing to get to this point in the year when things shut down and we can stop worrying about how much needs to be done outside... Of course, there will always be jobs...
Luke
