Click on the images to see each picture's description ​

Captioned ‘Our Holiday Puzzle Picture. What Are the Wild Waves Saying?’, it shows a bearded man in a rowing boat surrounded by people bathing in the sea. Unless you are an expert in either the history of British beards or eccentric and short-lived crazes (or both) you might struggle to solve the puzzle. In 1922, no answer to the question was given in the magazine because no answer was needed. The contemporary audience would have known the solution all too well – all the bathers (the ‘wild waves’ as Shepard called them) are shouting ‘Beaver!’ at the hapless bearded boatman. Even the toddler at the sea’s edge, barely old enough to wade without the support of his mother, joins in with the ‘Beaver!’ chorus.
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For those sporting beards, 1922 looks to have been something of a trial.​

​​In 1959, some insight into the ‘Beaver!’ phenomenon was provided in The Spectator: 
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​The rules may have been simple but as an article on The Atlantic website describes, ‘Beaver!’ was popular enough to provoke some enterprising soul to publish a book detailing the rules of the game (there is a copy in the British Library). ‘Beaver!’ was played by two people each attempting to be the first, upon sighting a bearded man (or woman – the elusive Queen Beaver), to call out ‘Beaver!’ The scoring system was based on that used in tennis as Lewis Baumer’s cartoon below illustrates. Mis-beavers – calling out ‘Beaver!’ only to discover that the poor beavered quarry was beardless – incurred a double-fault.

​​We can only speculate as to why the word ‘Beaver’ was chosen as the game’s trigger. Beards and beavers are, of course, both hairy and there is a satisfying alliterative connection between the two words. Furthermore, beaver is also the name of the lower portion of the face guard of a helmet (Oxford English Dictionary).
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If we are to gauge the popularity of the game by its appearances in Punch, the ‘Beaver!’ fad seems to have lasted only a few months. Speed’s cartoon attributing the creation of the game to Oxford University was published in July 1922 (the craze would have been extant before this date, of course; how long before is not known). By the following January, Fougasse (below) had one bearded gentleman asking his similarly hirsute friend, ‘Now that the excitement seems to have finally died down, I wonder if you can tell me what was that joke about beavers?’

During the early nineteenth century etching held a minor position in the arts in Britain. Considered something of a ‘lost’ technique, it was little utilised until the formation of the Old Etching Club in London in 1838. Members of the Club, and the Junior Etching Club that developed from the original group, were principally concerned with producing etchings to illustrate works of literature in an effort to subsidise their primary pursuit of painting. For much of the nineteenth century etching was considered a minor element of the artistic canon; indeed, the Royal Academy gave greater prominence to engraved reproductions of paintings than it did to original prints.
This dismissive attitude was to change due primarily to the work of Francis Seymour Haden (1818-1910) and his brother in law James Abbott McNeill Whistler (1834-1903). These two men, through a combination of example and promotion, provided the platform for a renewed interest in etching.
In the mid-1850s, Whistler spent three years in France where he had been introduced to the work of Charles Meryon (1821-1868), Félix Bracquemond (1833-1914) and Charles Jacque (1813-1894), the leading French etchers of the time. In 1858 Whistler moved to London where, influenced by the work he had seen in Paris, he began a series of etchings of scenes along the River Thames.

​By the late 1870s, the Old Etching Club had largely ceased to function as anything other than a social group. Haden, a surgeon and talented etcher, proposed the formation of a new society dedicated to promoting etching as an important medium in its own right. The first meeting of the Society of Painter-Etchers was held in 1880 with Haden its President. He gave the group its original motto: Ne Desilies Imitator – ‘Do not stoop to be a copyist.’ In this phrase lay Haden’s central aim – that printmakers should produce original works and, by extension, the art of etching should come to be viewed as a valid and important artistic medium.
Eight years after its formation the Society was granted a Royal Charter and six years later, in 1894, Haden was knighted for his service to the arts. The influence Haden exerted over the Society was immense. He promoted the idea that an artist could convey as much with empty space as he or she could through the use of a multitude of unnecessary (as Haden saw it) bitten lines. He also believed that each artist should, where possible, draw onto pre-prepared plates, directly from nature. To ensure that all aspects of the process could be overseen by the artist, Haden further suggested that etchers should master the techniques of the press to enable them to print and proof their own work.

​Demand for original etchings grew steadily through the later years of the nineteenth century. This growing interest was encouraged by the efforts of Phillip Gilbert Hamerton (1834-1894), ‘the chief publicist for the British [etching] revival’ (Lang and Lang, p.42). Hamerton, himself a keen etcher, believed that the biggest obstacle to the acceptance of etching as a valid art form was a largely ignorant public. He endeavoured to rectify this through the publication of Etching and Etchers (1868) in which he lauded the efforts of Whistler and Haden (‘Here is a book written to increase the public interest in an art we [Haden and Hamerton] both love’, was the rallying first line of the book’s dedication to Haden). Furthermore, Hamerton argued against the prevailing view that the technique was a purely illustrative medium. Published at a guinea and a half and much to Hamerton’s surprise, the book rapidly sold out.
The success of Etching and Etchers confirmed Hamerton’s belief that an educated public could lead to an informed and enthusiastic market. Hamerton’s subsequent publications (The Portfolio, The Etcher and English Etchings published between 1879 and 1891) continued to supply an ever more interested public with information about works by the growing spectrum of artists working in the medium.
Throughout the first decade of the twentieth century as the number of practitioners increased so the demand for original etchings also grew. In 1911 The Print Collector’s Quarterly was launched ‘as a response and a stimulant to the growing demand’ (Lang and Lang, p.51).       

This charming work from our selection of drawings (appropriately titled Charmingly Finished; ​click here or on the drawing to see the full description) was sketched in 1823. The artist is unknown (it is initialled ‘W.T.C.’) but it provides a small insight into an overlooked subset of art history that first came to prominence in the 16th century.
Known as singeries (from the French for ‘monkey tricks’), works depicting apes dressed as humans and acting in a human manner were first produced by Flemish artists; the idea was then taken up by painters and designers in France.

Within in our house and its histories, the monkey has held numerous attributes. ‘Medieval and Renaissance man saw in the ape an image of his baser self. Thus it came to symbolize Lust, one of the seven deadly sins, idolatry and vice in general. In Christian art, with an apple in its mouth, it stood for the Fall of Man’ (Hall, 2001, p.10).
A little further up the house, it was the artist who became most closely associated with the ape – both being known for their skill in imitation. This imitativeness was enshrined in the saying Ars simia Naturae – art is the ape of nature. In turn, this led to painters depicting ‘the artist as an ape, in the act of painting a portrait, generally of a female… This parody of man was extended to other human activities and apes were represented sitting at the meal table, playing cards or musical instruments, drinking, dancing and so on’ (Hall, 1989, p.22).
The high point of anthropomorphised monkeys in art was during the Rococo period of the 18th century. Already a playful diversion in the arthouse, Rococo style was further enlivened by the introduction of monkeys in, for example, the work of Antoine Watteau (1684-1721), above.
Although the vogue of Singeries largely died out in the nineteenth century, the monkey is still used (albeit without the anthropomorphism), for both parody and satire, in art today.

Here on the top floor of the house we'll find monkeys in the work of Jeff Koons and far off in the distance we might find, beside a group of builders hastily constructing yet another staircase, something like this on the wall:

And, as this is an imaginary house, we might find Banksy, spray can in hand, standing next to it.
References
Hall, James (2001), Illustrated Dictionary of Symbols in Eastern and Western Art
Hall, James (1989), Dictionary of Subjects and Symbols in Art

Here is just such a note and at first glance it appears to be nothing more than a mundane piece of domestic detritus. The author, as we can see, is off to the post office and the K.A. for a drink. We don’t need to bother Bletchley Park to conclude that in this instance, K.A. stands for Kings Arms.
The note isn’t signed but I know who wrote it. I know because this is on the other side:

The author was an artist called Sydney Buckley and the note was left for his sister with whom he shared a house at Cartmel in Cumbria. News of Buckley’s whereabouts was written on the reverse of this fine woodblock print titled Cornish Pattern which was designed and printed by Buckley perhaps in the 1940s or 1950s. The scene, typical of Cornwall, is of the rambling rooftops of a town edging on to a beach. In flavour and form it has the feel of Port Isaac, perhaps.
It is showing some minor evidence of foxing and this may have existed when Buckley penned the note to his sister. Even so, it is a curious item to use to leave a note. Was there no other paper in the house? Buckley was a noted artist and printmaker (you can see two examples of his etched work on our website here and here) so it seems unlikely that the household was devoid of unused paper.
This piece came from a larger collection of prints I bought about ten years ago, all by Buckley. There were ten or so copies of Cornish Pattern and I kept two. One is in mint condition with signature and title and the other is the copy illustrated above.
Retained purely for its curiosity value, I was recently reminded of Buckley’s note when I acquired another small collection of artworks. These are all drawings and all by the same unknown hand (one of the many lost artists for whom the term ‘20th Century British School’ was invented).
Here is one of the drawings:

As we can see, it’s a competent, rapidly executed pencil sketch of a house. It is not fundamentally exciting as an image unless you happen to live in the depicted house, I suppose. Even so, the artist, for whatever reason, took the time and trouble to record the scene.
The artist also used the reverse of the sheet for this:

As the handwriting isn’t as clear as Buckley’s, here’s a transcript:
'Bill, do you think the tyres could do with a change round?
Driver’s door lock stiff.
Brakes?'
Another note on the reverse of another artwork. It is possible with this example that the note preceded the drawing – at this remove there is no way of knowing for sure. But if the drawing came first, again, one has to ask why?
Perhaps the artist dropped the car off at the garage and left the note on the car seat intending for Bill to read the message and then keep the note. This certainly didn’t happen – perhaps Bill didn’t turn the note over to see what was on the other side. Who knows?
So many questions raised from two simple relics, each no more than forty of fifty years old, from a time before the age of instant communication. What, I wonder, did Buckley have to drink at the Kings Arms? And the enigmatic ‘Brakes?’ in the second message. Check the brakes? Fix the brakes? Sabotage the brakes? We’ll never know.

The gremlins in Joe Dante’s 1984 film Gremlins aren’t actually gremlins – at least to begin with – they’re mogwais. Mogwais are happy little furry creatures and they’ll stay that way provided three simple rules are followed. When looking after mogwais, it is vital that:

• They are not exposed to bright lights (this will hurt them)
• They are not allowed to get wet (this enables them to multiply)
• They are not fed after midnight (this turns them evil)

As you may know (or can guess), these rules are not strictly adhered to and the once-friendly mogwais turn into something far more troublesome: gremlins.
The regulations that govern the care of mogwais are simple and relatively straightforward (what ‘after midnight’ means is anyone’s guess) and they can be applied equally to the care of watercolours, drawings, etchings and engravings. In fact, the ‘mogwai rules’ are a useful primer when considering the mounting, framing and display of any work on paper.
If you overly expose your watercolours to bright light (direct sunlight, for instance) they might react in a mogwailian fashion and fade away, over time, like a well-intentioned diet in the middle of January. Once-sharp colours can lose lustre and definition may blur.
Naturally, we wouldn’t choose to get a paper-based artwork wet - that would ruin it. But moisture (due to an overly humid environment, for example) can be just as damaging. The picture on the right has been subjected to overly moist environment and is showing evidence of foxing as a result.
And feeding? In addition to the moisture we unwittingly feed them we are also apt to expose our pictures to a varied diet of changing temperatures; hot, cold and all points in between.
The very best place to display a work on paper is in a stable environment with a temperature of between 16°and 19°C and a relative humidity level between 45%-60% (source: Conservation Register, www.conservationregister.com). This is the ideal. It is also known as a museum. Museums have thermometers and hygrometers to measure ambient conditions and thermostats and humidifiers to maintain an optimum environment.
Museum conditions are the gold standard but we, of course, don’t live in museums. We live in houses where we like to take steamy baths and showers; we might also, from time to time, have mist-emitting pans of vegetables bubbling away in our kitchens. In the winter, we like to have the central heating on in the morning, turn it off when we go to work and turn it back on again in the evening. Thus we live in occasionally humid environments with large variances in temperature. In terms of paper-based art, our homes are not stable environments.
Does this mean we can’t own watercolours? No, of course not. For thousands of years, we humans have sought to decorate and embellish the spaces we choose to occupy – it is an innate human instinct (you can satisfy your own innate human instinct by visiting our ‘Watercolours’ section here).
Happily, there are tools at our disposal that help us limit any potential risks to art – namely knowledge and choice.

We now know more about how to conserve and care for the works we own. The picture on the left shows a print that was mounted in the late 19th or early 20th century. The mount boards from that period were made of acidic wood pulp and we can clearly see how this has ‘burnt’ the paper. Today, acid-free mount boards are readily available (The Saturday Gallery only uses conservation-grade board for the works we mount in-house) and additional protection is provided once works are framed and appropriately sealed to the reverse.

In terms of choice, we can decide where best to hang a particular work. For watercolours, drawing and prints, opposite a south-facing window may not be such a good idea. Similarly, you might want to reconsider if you decide that the best place for a fine watercolour is above the bath tub.
Thanks to the work of conservators we know what harms works on paper and we have a better understanding of what we can do to reduce the potential risks to them. So next time you are deciding how to mount and frame a piece or considering where to hang it, remember it’s not just a watercolour or a drawing or a print – it’s also a mogwai. And you wouldn’t want it to turn into a gremlin.  

Next time: Oil Paintings and Ewoks: Just Good Friends or Something More Serious?