We’re all familiar with the stereotypes surrounding pipes, and those of us who enjoy them. If we have beards, they’re expected to be grey, or at least well-grizzled; we’re to be old-fashioned, steady, inclined to ponder (even to the point of becoming ponderous), restful, quiet, staid, so on and so forth.
While I can’t speak knowledgeably as to whether or not Stuttgart artist and graphic designer Hanns Lohrer himself may have borne or resembled any of these archetypal aspects, I can say that his life’s most famous work certainly didn’t. And that’s because it looked like this:
I’m not a “Porsche guy” – four out of the five vehicles that I’ve owned have been in excess of 18 feet in length, and all have moved out of their own way courtesy of cast-iron V8 engines displacing a minimum of 300 cubic inches. Yet I can’t deny that from the first time I was exposed to Lohrer’s advertising work for Porsche, I was taken. His creations were vibrant and confident, without forced affectation; the stuff a good life is made of. They spoke to that boyish spark in a man’s soul, the one which remembers most fondly those times when with a wink or smile Father or a favorite uncle might have said, “Alright kid, just don’t tell your mother.”
Hanns Lohrer’s artwork is remembered today for his ability to speak to such a spirit. He was good at it, and he had to be good at it – uniquely good at it. That is because attention-grabbing advertising materials were a full one-eighty from Porsche’s own planned approach to building recognition. Word of mouth and face-to-face customer exposure with the automobiles themselves were what Ferry Porsche was comfortable with, trusting that reputation would spread within the sports automobile driver community. Yet Hanns Lohrer’s work wowed and wooed, with brilliant, clean, quite often deceptively simple images, depicting not only Porsche as a car, but Porsche as a chosen mode of transportation in a world made much larger and more exciting. In many of the most famous Lohrer materials, the automobile itself appears only in small scale,
…or only in part,
…or even not at all.
Unlike Ferry Porsche’s far quieter, more old-fashioned approach, Hanns’s work captured the attention not only of those already within the small, exclusive community of sports-car drivers, but those who might have aspired to be a part of it as well. No doubt his work also inspired quite a few lads, and ladies alike, as yet still too young to even get behind a wheel.
Even in his old company headshot Hanns appears to have been playing with the themes seen in his work; the curious forward posture, that satisfaction in his smile, the line and angle of the pipe he holds, and the roundness of the chosen briar’s bowl and the streamlined shape of its stem remembering the lines and contours of the performance automobiles he helped make icons.
Crazy Eddie? I can live with or without home electronics, insane deals or not. Last summer’s biggest blockbuster? Odds are I still haven’t even heard of it. But Hanns’ work, like the restless ad-copy prose of Edward S. Jordan before him, was the stuff of life – that was its theme, and that was its essence. That’s what makes it enjoyable simply as art. And that’s the kind of thing we shouldn’t do without; art, and life, for art and life’s own sake. Can’t say I was surprised to find out he was also pipe man, stereotypes be damned.
This is part two in a series of blogs. Click HERE for part one.
”Presently our fire being exhausted, and the enemy pressing on with spear and javelin, the position became untenable; the tent was nearly battered down by clubs, and had we been entangled in its folds, we should have been killed without the power of resistance. I gave the word for a rush, and sallied out with my sabre, closely followed by Lt. Herne, with Lt. Speke in the rear. The former was allowed to pass through the enemy with no severer injury than a few hard blows with a war club. The latter was thrown down by a stone hurled at his chest and taken prisoner, a circumstance which we did not learn till afterwards. On leaving the tent I thought that I perceived the figure of the late Lieut. Stroyan lying upon the ground close to the camels. I was surrounded at the time by about a dozen of the enemy, whose clubs rattled upon me without mercy, and the strokes of my sabre were rendered uncertain by the energetic pushes of an attendant who thus hoped to save me. The blade was raised to cut him down: he cried out in dismay, and at that moment a Somali stepped forward, threw his spear so as to pierce my face, and retired before he could be punished. I then fell back for assistance, and the enemy feared pursuing us into the darkness...”
When Lt. John Hanning Speke joined the first Burton expedition, he was in search of fame and adventure, but it’s doubtful that he had expected that much ‘adventure’ on the very first night that they pitched camp. While Speke was beginning to gather provisions and make plans in England, Captain Burton was on expedition, and had already gained access to the city of Harar, the first European to do so; no mean feat, considering there was a local prophecy that the city would fall to ruin if a European was admitted inside the walls.
The preparatory first leg established, Lt. Speke and Lt. Herne made voyage to join Burton in Aden. Speke had been warned in advance that Burton was ‘not [his] kind’, but with Ruffian Dick’s fame already on the tongues of so many, Speke was willing to withhold judgment. That suspension of judgment wavered a bit when John’s request of a local officer to be introduced to Burton was rebuked with, ‘Never! That man is a damned fool!”, tottered a bit when, upon trying to enter a mosque where Burton was leading prayer, the junior officer was unceremoniously tossed into the street, and completely collapsed when he found RFB at his temporary residence, with local women, and received a lecture on the barbarism of circumcising females. On Captain Burton’s part, Speke’s reasons for wanting to join the expedition (“Hunting and the prospect of gold”) was something of an anathema, but John had brought a veritable arsenal’s worth as part of his provisions, along with some (then) state of the art cartography equipment, which was enough, from Burton’s position, to tip the scale in Lt. Speke’s favor.
Their First Journey
The trio, under meager funding from the Royal Geographic Society, set out for the interior with a small contingent of African bearers and on the very first night of encampment, were attacked by an estimated 200 Somali waranle ("warriors"), as described in the above passage from Burton’s Narrative of a Trip to Harar. RBB’s account, if anything, downplayed the incident. The fray lasted an hour into the night, with all but four of the expedition’s bearers (sensibly) taking flight at the onset. Odds stacked at roughly 20:1, with a pistol in his left hand and a saber in his right, Captain Burton became a deadly Dervish, often engaging up to seven opponents at a time. To complicate matters, Dick not only had his self-preservation to consider, but his bearers and lesser-trained subordinates as well. A considerable amount of insight into Captain Burton’s mettle is revealed within his remarks about the primary wound that he received. That spear entered the left side of his face, blew out the entirety of his soft palate, exited the right side of his face and became lodged to the point that removal was impossible, under the immediate circumstances. His sole noted reaction was anger that the attacker retired before Burton could exact punishment.
Believing John to be dead, Burton and one remaining bearer stole into the night, making their way to the nearest navigable waterway. It was there that the javelin was removed, leaving a huge scar which can be seen in all of his future portraits. Speke was alive, but under the circumstances, probably wished he wasn’t. Flat on his back, his limbs spread away from his body and tethered to deep stakes, he watched the systematic castration and death of the bearers who were captured with him. A lone waranle approached, presumably for a ‘warm up’, and thrust his spear deep into one of Speke’s quadriceps, and then into another. A combination of blinding pain and additional adrenaline gave JHS the strength to yank one tether free. A scuffle ensued, with John the victor, but now there were other adversaries to intrude on his hobbling attempt at escape. His pursuers were a scant 100 meters behind him when he crested the dune that led to where Burton was convalescing, the Captain’s face totally wrapped in bandages. Seeing Speke hobbling toward him, with at least 20 Somali warriors close behind, Burton could come up with no other solution than to grab his sabre and pistol, let loose a blood curdling scream, and charge towards his injured mate. Whether the warriors remembered their losses at the hand of Burton a few hours prior, didn’t know what to make of a wailing, blood-soaked demon rushing upon them, or both, the waranle decided that it wasn’t worth it and withdrew.
Continual Bad Luck
Failure, no matter the circumstances, was viewed under the harshest light by the powers that be. Burton spent the next year serving in the Army during the Crimean War, awaiting judgment (he was eventually exonerated) while Speke convalesced back in England. It was during this period that Dick became clandestinely engaged to Isabel Arundell. Secrecy was paramount, as Captain Burton was neither Catholic nor wealthy, both an anathema to her family. In 1856, the Royal Geographic society sanctioned a trip to explore an ‘inland sea’ that Arab slavers/traders had claimed to have seen. Burton was chosen to lead the expedition, and Burton, in turn, asked that John Speke accompany him as a second-in-command. While discovering the source of the Nile was the unspoken hope of all involved, it was equally understood that only an idiot would claim that was the goal of the mission; if word got out of their real purpose anything short of it would be deemed a failure. Rather, the stated intent was to survey inland tribes and discover possible resources which might be exported from the region.
Burton and Speke agreed that the caravan, even under the best of conditions, could only progress at a rate of ten miles a day, and laid in eight months of provisions: food, trinkets and cloth for trading, and huge amounts of tobacco (for personal consumption, rewards to the bearers at the end of the day, as well as a much valued item to barter with Arab traders/slavers). Given his history and experience, it would be impossible to tag Captain Burton as either an unrealistic optimist or poor planner, yet a maddening variety of tribulations, many of which ultimately resulted in death or severe deprivation, saw the eight months’ worth of provisions lost or expended within two months’ time. The journey would last almost two years.
The bearers’ desertions (along with the loss of the supplies they absconded with) began within less than a week. To get an idea of what kind of adventure this was, consider this: Shortly after they were underway a beetle crawled into the tent of a sleeping Speke and entered his ear. His (understandable) screams drew the entire camp who, in turn, attempted to subdue him and pour candle wax into his ear, with the hopes of immobilizing and extracting the coleopteran interloper. Speke, convinced he would go mad before the process worked, grabbed a nearby compass (and not the kind which indicates North), and drove one of the spikes deep into his ear. As a dark-humored aside; every time that Speke sneezed over the next two months, a “most amusing whistle emitted from his ear, delighting the bearers to such an extent that they continuously asked Lt. Speke to repeat the sound”. Both men contracted maladies/tropical diseases multiple times; malaria, sepsis, acute edema. Indeed, Speke was blind at the time that they came upon Lake Tanganyika, and Burton’s legs frequently swelled to such an extent that he had to be carried for days, sometimes weeks, on end.
Pipes and Tobacco
Through moments of wonder, meditation, deprivation and even outright terror, pipes were of constant note throughout Burton’s diaries of the trip (indeed, all of his diaries). Pipes were cited as a point of commonality: ”As usual in Eastern Africa, we did not enter the kraal uninvited. Presently the elders appeared bringing, with soft speeches, sweet water, new milk, fat sheep and goats. We passed with them a quiet luxurious day of coffee and pipes, fresh cream and roasted mutton.” As a method of bonding with the bearers: "You should walk up to your man, clasp his fist, pat his back, speak some words to him,— laugh a loud guffaw, sit by his side, and begin pipes and coffee.” Even proximity to an enemy was not sufficient cause to prolong the wait for a bowl: "At 11 P.M., after marching twelve miles in direct line, we bivouacked upon the plain. The night breeze from the hills had set in, and my attendants chattered with cold: Long Guled in particular became stiff as a mummy. Raghe was clamorous against a fire, which might betray our whereabouts in the 'Bush Inn.' But after such a march the pipe was a necessity, and the point was carried against him.”
While pipes enjoy a strong presence throughout RFB’s writing, they pale in comparison with the provision of tobacco:
"The Gudabirsi pursued us with shouts for tobacco and cries of wonder!”
"The Somal, from habit, enjoy no other variety (than Surat); they even showed disgust at my Latakia. Tobacco is grown in some places by the Gudabirsi and other tribes; but it is rare and bad. Without this precious article, it would be impossible to progress in East Africa; every man asks for a handful, and many will not return even so much as milk for what they expect to receive as a gift!”
"Yet the Eesa have their good points: they are not noted liars, and will rarely perjure themselves: they look down upon petty pilfering without violence, and they are generous and hospitable compared with the other Somal. Personally, I had no reason to complain of them. They were importunate beggars, but a pinch of snuff or a handful of tobacco and a pipe always made us friends.”.
Burton, Speke (blind at the time) and the remaining workmen came upon Lake Tanganyika; a lake so vast that the opposite shore could not be discerned. The date is unknown, as the party had by then been through so many scrapes as to lose all means to keep track of time. While both men were convinced that they had, indeed, found the source of the Nile, they also were acutely aware that, in absence of critical measuring equipment which had been destroyed/lost, only finding and following an outlet to the beginnings of the main river could serve as proof. After many days of paddling in a makeshift dugout, no outlet had appeared, and now it was Burton’s turn (again) to become too ill to be moved. Speke set out with a handful of the faithful, to return to Burton a few weeks later with the report that he had found a larger lake, and although he couldn’t take proper altitude measurements (nor find an outlet), felt that the immense fresh water body was the source of the Nile. They dubbed the basin “Lake Victoria”. To Speke’s credit, he urged the Captain to sojourn with him to the lake, but Burton’s illness, the inability to take the necessary readings once they hit the basin, combined with an impending local civil war, caused the leader to call the mission, and begin the return home.
Due to Burton’s need to convalesce prior to making sail, Speke arrived back in England first, and his findings were hailed by Sir Roderick Murchison, the President of the Royal Geographic Society, as "one of the most notable discoveries in the annals of African discovery." When Burton returned on 21 May, he was angered by Speke's precipitous announcements, believing that they violated an agreement that the two men would speak to the society together. For his part, Burton was adamant that either Tanganyika or more than one lake was genesis for the Nile and, in any event, lack of measurements or finding an outlet placed both arguments in question. A further rift was caused when Speke was chosen to lead a subsequent expedition (of well over 100 members) instead of Burton.
Upon Speke’s third return from Africa, he reported that while he didn’t see much of the West side of the lake, from the North he had discovered the Ripon Falls and subsequently boated down the Nile. Next he travelled to Gondokoro in Southern Sudan. From Khartoum he sent a telegram to the Society: "The Nile is settled”. Not even close. Speke's expedition did not resolve the issue. Burton claimed that because Speke had not followed the Nile from the place it flowed out of Lake Victoria to Gondokoro, there was no way he could be sure they were the same river.
Once the dearest of friends, each had a person (or people) in their camp who would whisper the latest purported backstabbing by his former partner, with one interloper going so far as to claim that Burton had reported Speke for cowardice after the first mission. The gloves were off, and another debate was set at the RGS. Burton was selected to deliver the first lecture. As Burton was warming up, Speke found, while rummaging through old reports, that not only had Burton not accused Speke of cowardice, but took full responsibility and even credited Speke with having saved his life! One can only imagine how the revelation that his best friend, contrary to the reports of the ‘worm tongues’, had remained a staunch supporter of Speke’s honor (if not his findings) effected John. While Burton’s presentation proceeded, Speke had a sudden urge to go on a hunting party. The trip found the experienced hunter/marksman placing his weapon (a Lancaster breech-loader) on the opposite side of a small wall, climbing over and, a few seconds later, that weapon discharging, resulting in (the by-then) Captain Speke’s death.
Though many years later, it turned out that Speke’s position was the more correct of the two (Victoria is considered the mother source of the Nile, but many other, smaller lakes also contribute in the nearby area). By the time that dust had settled, Captain Burton had traveled to and from America, had been installed for a third time, in a third nation, as a British consulate, and had begun a never-ending battle to publish works which would place him afoul of the infamous “Public Decency Act".
"Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none, but self, expect applause."
Consider, for a moment, the staunchly held notions of what constituted ‘proper conduct’ for those who held a commission in Queen Victoria’s ground forces. Now consider an officer whose regard for his superiors ranged from mild amusement to undisguised contempt. A man who, rather than ‘standing with his own’, ‘went native’ at every possible opportunity, spending his time with indigenous people, becoming so immersed in their language and culture that he was often conferred honors which previously would never be considered for a Westerner, much less a member of the occupational force. It was even said that the scoundrel had converted to Islam (as if being half-Irish wasn’t enough of a barrier to his acceptance). How could such a seemingly contemptible renegade eventually become a Knight Commander of (the) Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George? The answer is, he couldn’t, unless he was Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton.
Referred by contemporary scholars as both ‘The 007 of the 19th century’ as well as ‘…a James Bond’s James Bond’, Burton’s Wiki-listed occupations include “geographer, explorer, translator, writer, soldier, orientalist, cartographer, ethnologist, spy, linguist, poet, fencer and diplomat”. The inventory of his lifetime accomplishments would be a bit much for this type of blog (we have to have room for the pipes, eh what?), but some of the highlights include: saber fencing champion, mastery of at least 23 separate languages + eight different dialects of Arabic, and was the first non-indigenous person to be honored with the Janeu (Brahmanical thread). Not only was Burton the first European permitted to enter the (then) ‘forbidden’ City of Harar, he was asked to do the honors of reciting the bow to prayer, as well as read the 18th chapter of the Koran to the faithful. Disguised as a Dervish, Burton made a hajj (pilgrimage) to Mecca and, along with his partner John Speke, was one of the first Euros to set eyes upon Lake Tanganyika.
The above accomplishments were in his rear-view mirror by the age of 36… and he had 33 more years of achievements ahead of him.
Referred to by his peers as ‘Ruffian Dick”, due to his “demonic ferocity as a fighter and because he had fought in single combat more enemies than perhaps any other man of his time.”, Burton’s world perspective of being an outsider looking in, and not particularly caring for the view (nor the opinions of those within it), was well established by the age of nineteen. He was nearly expelled in his first year at Trinity College for challenging another student to a duel because the latter mocked his mustache. He then completely kicked his collegiate career into a top hat by not only attending a student-banned event, but later telling the Oxford authorities that he had attended, and (further) challenged their stance on attendance. Rather than being penalized with the same temporary suspension that some of the other offenders (most of whom were scions of the upper-crust) received, Burton was expelled. True to his nature, as a final gesture of defiance towards an institute and mindset that he had come to despise, Burton took his horse and carriage on a long and circuitous route out of Oxford… trampling a myriad of flower beds on the way.
Analyzing his situation as being "fit for nothing but to be shot at for six pence a day", RFB joined the East India Company, was posted to the 18th Bombay Native Infantry and found himself serving under General Napier; a circumstance that would prove to be pivotal in transforming something of a loose cannon into a nearly unclasped cannon, but one with purpose.
Working in India, Burton was in his true element; his near supernatural affinity for language led to his becoming proficient in Sindhi, Gujarati, Persian (Farsi), Hindustani, Marathi and Arabic, and his immersion in/understanding of the local culture was so profound that he was honored with the previously mentioned Brahmanical thread. He soon thereafter joined the Sindh survey and started to learn the equipment and sciences that would become crucial to his future success and an explorer and cartographer. While his initial mission was to map and level some of the canals in the Indus Valley, his ability to speak the local dialect without accent combined with his newfound penchant for wearing disguises (masquerading under the name of ‘Mirza Abdullah’, he often tricked the locals and even fellow officers into not recognizing him), caught the attention of General Napier who, in turn, felt Burton’s talents were better suited to other tasks. Finally sanctioned to conduct the most sweeping, comprehensive investigation of the region yet attempted, Burton’s intelligence on matters that ranged from geography/topography, to the smallest items used in religious rituals, made their way up to the Bombay government, which subsequently published two intelligence reports based on his notes.
Burton took sick leave in 1849, and returned for a couple of years to Europe. It was during this period that he wrote his first book, a guide to the Goa region, continued to hone his fencing skills in Boulogne, and met his future wife; a young woman from a highly respected Catholic family named Isabel Arundell. Well before he left India, however, Captain Burton was already toying with the unthinkable; making a hajj to Mecca. An adherent of Islam or not, the discovery of his true origins would result in death, and not likely a quick or painless one. By 1852 the idea had grown from a notion to a full blown obsession.
On a covert expedition, such as Burton was planning, the phrase “leave nothing to chance” was as ludicrous as it was impossible. The best RFB could work toward was minimizing the chance of maximum regret. Being discovered as an Englishman was far from his only worry; while all of Islam might worship the one Abrahamic god, that commonality vaporized when one rival sect or clan decided to dry-gulch another. To this end, he constantly practiced on-the-fly switches of dialects and accents, studied the minutest details of a daunting number of sub-sects, and created a core set of clothing with enough subtly differing elements that he could transform his appearance to match a new character. Perhaps one of the best examples of Burton’s fervor in preparation would be his submitting to circumcision (khitan).
From the start, RBF was a diarist for whom no detail was too small to be noted, and these diaries would eventually serve as the basis for 40 publications. Burton’s works are compelling and fascinating reads. The three volumes of “Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al Madinah and Meccah” is one of this author’s personal favorites. Within this work, a reader can find perhaps the best description of the Arabic “”Kaif” ever penned:
“In the East, man requires but rest and shade: upon the banks of a bubbling stream, or under the cool shelter of a perfumed tree, he is perfectly happy, smoking a pipe, or sipping a cup of coffee, or drinking a glass of sherbet, but, above all things, deranging body and mind as little as possible. The trouble of conversations, the displeasures of memory, and the vanity of thought being the most unpleasant interruptions to his Kaif"
As a pipe enthusiast, treats like the following passages abound in “Personal Narrative”:
“There are four types of tobacco smoked in Egypt. The first and best is the well known Latakia, also called "Jabali". Either from a small seaport town, about 3 hours south of Latakia or, more probably, because grown on the hills near the ancient Ladocia. Pure, it is known by its blackish colour, fine shredding, absence of stalk, and an indescribable odour, to me resembling that of creosote; the leaf too is small, so that when made into cigars, it must be covered over with a slip of the yellow Turkish tobacco, called "Bafra"...
...Except in the highest houses, unadulterated Latakia is not to be found in Cairo. Yet, mixed as it is, no other leaf exceeds it in flavour and fragrance. The best Jabali in Cairo costs about seven piastres the pound; after which a small sum must be paid to the Farram, or chopper who prepares it for me"
Shortly after his (relatively) unscarred return from Mecca and Al Medina, and now the proud recipient of the green turban that only the men who have made the hajj were permitted to wear, Captain Burton met Lt. John Hanning Speke; the man who would accompany Burton on the greatest and most dangerous adventure of either man’s career.
As a new pipe smoker, I am, of course, seeing pipes everywhere. Stephen Colbert featured one on his show a few weeks ago. And I just went to the movies this weekend, and it seemed like nearly everyone was puffing on a pipe for most of the first act (Okay, so the movie was Peter Jackson's The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey so that might not be quite as surprising as could be).
However, obvious pipe sightings aside, what I am surprised to notice is how pipes are interwoven with the Christmas season. They pop up everywhere, from classic cartoon characters to more modern movies and music to decorations and iconic imagery.
Of course, our modern image of Santa starts with the jolly ole saint downing a bottle of Coca Cola, but the fabled illustrator and chronicler of Americana Norman Rockwell also pictured him with a pipe nestled in his hand or clenched between his droll little mouth drawn up like the a bow.
That could be attributed to the 18th Century poem, T'was the Night Before Christmas: A Visit from St. Nicholas. Clement Clarke Moore (and/or Major Henry Livingston Jr.) had Father Christmas smoking a fine blend of tobacco (Surely, Kris Kringle would only smoke the best) as he filled those stockings hung by the chimney.
"The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath."
Images of the ancient, decidedly trimmer Father Christmas often show him with a graceful Churchwarden or Oom Paul styled pipes, but most are modern renderings which may not reflect what the early followers of Christmas envisioned for the gift bearer. However, they are there.
Santa isn't the only bearer of Christmas magic shown with a pipe. Frosty the Snowman, of song and animation has a Corncob pipe clenched under his button nose and two-eyes made of coal.
And its not only legends and cartoons that we see pipes interlaced with the holidays. The classic Crooner Bing Crosby was a well-known pipe enthusiast, and he and his pipes are forever intertwined with Christmas thanks to his movies White Christmas and Holiday Inn, as well as his many Christmas Albums with the singer posing with a briar pipe on the cover.
Other Christmas movies we watch every year with our family and friends also have pipes show up in one way or another. Jimmy Stewart has one in a wonderful life, and good guy lawyer in charge of proving Santa's identity, Fred Gailey (John Payne) breaks out the pipe and tobacco during a visit to his girlfriend's apartment. There are probably several more I could reference. I seem to recall the Ghost of Christmas Present smoking on a Churchwarden, but who knows which version of A Christmas Carol that was.
Anyway, the point is that I never really noticed how much pipe smoking has been woven into the holiday season. It is subtle, and really doesn't have a message of its own, like the Christmas tree, the manger, menorah an aluminum pole or Yule log, but it is part of the universal ideal of celebration, feasting and enjoying the better things in life...indeed to celebrate life itself that the Holiday Season has come to represent.
Happy Holidays from everyone here at Smokingpipes.com.
"I have been smoking since I was a small boy," Greta Garbo was known to quip. It was a rather unusual statement coming from a Hollywood starlet, yet it was also a sentiment very true to her nature. She was indeed a prolific smoker; cigarettes, cigars, and, yes, even pipes too. And she was as well what could only be described as "enigmatically contrary". The silver screen beauty often dressed in clothes which, in her day, were considered "mannish", and making such pronouncements as, "I am a lonely man circling the earth." was one of the intensely private vixen's preferred ways of breaking silent moments in conversation. As one of her biographers, Bary Paris put it, "Garbo liked to confuse people..." Even late in her life, this playful turn of secretiveness would keep her amused. In the 1980s a visiting friend of Garbo's, while she was out of the room fixing them drinks, dropped one of the peanuts he had been snacking on, and in bending down to pick it up discovered what he described as a "whole little community" of miniature "troll dolls" arranged beneath her couch - which is to say, right beneath the noses (and posteriors) of her every visitor. Thereafter he would take to peeking at them whenever he was over and she happened to leave the room, always finding them rearranged.
Greta was notable not only for her heady and intriguing combination of coy eccentricity and breathtaking, haunting beauty, but also for being one of the few big names who proved themselves able to transcend from the Silent Era into Hollywood's Golden Age of "talkies" - a transition which ended many of even the most prominent acting careers. The talent and character which enabled her to survive this great upheaval of the medium, and likewise the roots of her complex, curious quirks of personality, likely traced themselves back to her formative days, growing up in the Sodermalm slum district of Stockholm as the daughter of an unskilled laborer. It was a place she described in no fond terms: "It was eternally gray — those long winter's nights. My father would be sitting in a corner, scribbling figures on a newspaper. On the other side of the room my mother is repairing ragged old clothes, sighing. We children would be talking in very low voices, or just sitting silently. We are filled with anxiety, as if there is danger in the air. Such evenings are unforgettable for a sensitive girl. Where we lived, all the houses and apartments looked alike, their ugliness matched by everything surrounding us."
Such environs are as liable to break as to make a human being's spirit, but for young Greta her dull and oppressive surroundings gave birth to an escapist imagination. (And what was that penchant for unusual statements which she would later become known for, but a manner of escaping the status quo of the mundane norms of commonly accepted social interaction?) The young Greta was known as a shy, quiet girl, who hated school and who played little: "I did most of my playing by thinking. I played a little with my brother and sister, pretending we were in shows. Like other children. But usually I did my own pretending." Her "own pretending" found its outlet in a love for theater, a love she developed at an early age; a love that would see a girl born into nothing emerge as one of the most famous women in the world, and which was itself born of the same elusive imagination which kept her amused long after she retired to a life of privacy and discrete playfulness. It was a love of imagination, one the girl known as the Swedish Sphinx kept carefully guarded.
The Devil's Ballroom, Amundsen's team called it. The last great obstacle in their path to the South Pole, a deceptive terrain - a glacial plateau littered with hidden crevasses of deadly depth disguised beneath thin crusts of ice. '"Oh, as usual," they shouted back; "no bottom." I mention this little incident just to show how one can grow accustomed to anything in this world.” Amundsen wrote in his memoirs. It had taken months to reach this point - a long and perilous time for men at the end of the earth, who had no civilization to fall back on but that which they carried with them. Amundsen's careful, not to mention covert planning had not only well and thoroughly gotten the drop on the English, but had given his team the direction and decisiveness in spirit, training, and equipment to advance more rapidly.
Amundsen's and Scott's teams could hardly have been more different: The first was small, agile, and composed and equipped with a single focused purpose. The other was large (65 men, though only 5 were meant to try for the Pole), burdened by competing goals (not expecting to be in a race, Scott had set achieving the South Pole as only one of several objectives), and equipped lavishly but with questionable focus; though his plan called for men to haul their own supplies for most of the trek to the Pole, he still had not only dogs, but ponies and even three mechanical sleds, an unproven technology (one would fall through the ice upon being unloaded, the other two would suffer mechanical failure and be abandoned). Amundsen's team were all experienced skiers who had not only trained rigorously for the journey to the South Pole, but who also counted amongst their number Olav Bjaaland, a champion skier specifically taken on to set their pace in the Antarctic. In contrast, Scott's men had not even been required to train beforehand, and by and large didn't begin learning how to ski until they were actually attempting to do so in the Antarctic. Finally, there was the choice of location: For the sake of his scientific goals, Scott's expedition made base camp at McMurdo Sound, whereas Amundsen's own team wintered in the Bay of Whales, specifically because it allowed them to sail a full 60 miles closer to the Pole, while also providing a plentiful source of fresh meat.
Another key element for Amundsen's team would be his focus on dogs. Amundsen had correctly assessed that dogs would be capable of traversing any terrain required of them, and his planning was so purposeful as to even include using the weakest of the pack as food both for the surviving dogs and for his men, saving precious weight in supplies that would otherwise need to be hauled along. (Not to mention that the dogs, unlike ponies or machines, could be sustained by meat and fat from the local penguins and seals.) The fate which would ultimately befall Scott and the four other men from his team who marched to the Pole would be all the more tragic, given the explicit advice he had received from none other than Fridtjof Nansen, the famous explorer who had initially conceived and first commanded the Fram herself. His advice had been simple: “...dogs, dogs, and more dogs”.
The Antarctic winter had been a time of preparation, the laying out of supply caches along planned routes, and the practiced discipline necessary to keep men so isolated from the world functioning as a team, yet it had also been a time of inventiveness and improvised entertainments. The team from the Fram had barely set foot on solid ground (or at least, ice) before they set about doing what great explorers often do best, what truly tends to separate them from the, shall we say, not-so-great ones: they innovated and adapted like mad. Bjaaland, the team's carpenter as well as lead skier, redesigned the sledges and sledge cases on the spot, drastically reducing their weights, while Oscar Wisting designed and assembled new tents from windcloth, each weighing nine pounds less than those originally purchased for the expedition. The team had even built a one-man sauna consisting of a shell which left only the occupant's head exposed, and which was heated by paraffin lamps. Once a man had enjoyed his turn inside, the shell was lifted off over him by ropes and pulleys, and he would be left to sprint naked through the Antarctic cold to reach the nearest tent - this became a regular Saturday night ceremony.
Trials, tribulations, comical larks, internal squabbles, endless waiting followed by endless traversing of the barren Antarctic landscape, and most of all preparation, preparation, preparation; Amundsen's key guiding principle to a successful life of exploration... all leading to this - this Devil's Ballroom, a terrain utterly unpredictable in its deadliness. But it was precisely because of Amundsen's focus on preparation and purpose that he and his men were now still fit, determined (despite the effects of a drastically increased altitude), and sound enough to meticulously pick their way across the Ballroom, probing the treacherous ice.
Amundsen's team conquered the Devil's Ballroom, or at least navigated it in one piece, that is, and at 3:00 PM, on Friday, December 14, 1911, Amundsen called out for them to a halt. They had reached the South Pole. In a sign of solidarity, each put their hands to the Norwegian flag as together they planted it at one of the farthest ends of the earth - the geographical Southern Pole. Thereafter, following several days of observation, they were able to return safely and without casualty. On the 17th of January, Scott's own five-man team would also reach the Pole, anguish at seeing they had been beaten, and ultimately be lost to a man in their attempt to return. While Amundsen and his men had diligently built a trail of cairn's and caches spaced regularly, each containing a note with its location and the direction to the next marker, Scott's own were placed irregularly and with little consideration for navigation during obscuring weather. Like their markers, Scott and his five-man improvised polar team disappeared into the endless Arctic white. Eight months later, the bodies of three of those men, including Scott, would be found frozen inside a tent only 11 miles short of one of their team's supply caches.
"Victory awaits him who has everything in order — luck, people call it. Defeat is certain for him who has neglected to take the necessary precautions in time; this is called bad luck.” Amundsen wrote in The South Pole. Yet despite all their differences, and though he and his men conquered where Scott and his own perished, Amundsen too would one day vanish as well, far to the north.
On the 25th of May, 1928, the purpose-built Polar exploration airship Italia smashed into the Arctic ice, shattering her control cabin, and then, relieved of its weight, drifted upwards once more. Several members of her crew were left stranded upon the ice, while the rest slowly rose towards the firmament in an aircraft now beyond any means of control. In a final and desperate act of heroism, Chief Engineer Ettore Arduino, still aboard the rising airship, tossed everything he could lay his hands on to the men upon the ice below. When word of the Italia's sudden radio silence and disappearance reached Amundsen, he immediately volunteered to lead a rescue operation. Alas, when the Norwegian government approached that of Italy, then under the control of Benito Mussolini and his National Fascist Party, they were rebuffed. As the Italian government dithered and interfered, Amundsen and others raced to the rescue regardless. On June 18th, Amundsen, along with pilots Leif Dietrichson and Rene Guilbaud, and three other men, were on board a Latham 47 "flying boat" en route to the rescue operations when it went down in the Barents Sea. Though most of those whom the Italia left stranded upon the ice would survive long enough to eventually drift to land (in large part thanks to Ettore Arduino's quick thinking), Amundsen, his fellows, and their Latham, like Arduino, the Italia, and the rest of the airship's crew, would never be seen again.
In Wes Anderson's film The Royal Tenenbaums, the title character, estranged patriarch Royal Tenenbaum is visiting his mother's grave with his two sons when he spots an epitaph reading: "Veteran of two wars; Father of nine children; Drowned in the Caspian Sea". Royal, as played by Gene Hackman, remarks, "Hell of a damn grave. Wish it were mine." One might only wonder what Hackman's character might have said to, "Sailor and Adventurer; First man to conquer South Pole; First to cross over the Arctic and North Pole by air; First to navigate the Northwest Passage; Vanished racing to rescue stranded survivors of airship Italia disaster upon the Arctic ice."
"I may say that this is the greatest factor — the way in which the expedition is equipped — the way in which every difficulty is foreseen, and precautions taken for meeting or avoiding it. Victory awaits him who has everything in order — luck, people call it," famed Norwegian polar explorer Roald Amundsen is often quoted from his memoirs. He also summed it up rather more directly, if quite ironically, as, "Adventure is just bad planning." One of Norway's most widely-celebrated sons, Amundsen was born in the parish of Borge in July of the year 1872, to a family of shipowners and captains... yet life at sea was not to be for him. Or, at least, that was his mother's intention, as she pressed her youngest boy to pursue an education in medicine rather than seamanship and navigation. Roald did what any good son would, and followed his mother's wishes right up until the day she died... and then, at the age of 21, promptly abandoned his medical studies to pursue a life of exploring the farthest and most uninhabitable reaches of the earth.
By 1910 Amundsen had served as first mate to Adrien de Gerlache on the Belgica as part of the first expedition to winter in Antarctica, and furthermore gone on to lead the first ship, following centuries of repeated attempts, to successfully traverse the Northwest Passage - a small, aging, shallow-draft seal-hunting sloop, the Gjoa, which Amundsen had outfitted with a small 13hp paraffin engine. Crewed by a mere seven men, himself included, the little vessel set sail from Oslofjord on June 16, 1903 and arrived to a hero's welcome at earthquake-ravaged San Francisco on October 19, 1906 - succeeding where larger ships, and larger crews had failed. Amundsen had in fact planned for this, calculating that only so small a group could survive off the land at such northern climes. 1910 was to be the year Amundsen would lead an expedition intended to be the first to reach the North Pole. There was only one problem. Namely, that as Amundsen had engaged in long preparation, word arrived that first Frederick Cook, then Robert Peary had both made their own claims to having achieved the North Pole.
Amundsen, in response, did what any proper explorer would, and turned his attention to the South Pole instead. Of course, Amundsen's decision is rather more notable in that he decided not to let the world know what he was really up to - including his expedition's backers. He was going to conquer the South Pole, and he wasn't going to let out a peep about it until it suited him. In a bit of almost boyish mischief, he sold the idea of shifting the planned expedition south to his financial backers on the high-minded merit of scientific inquiry unblemished by any record-seeking heroics... while he was in truth pursuing a more glorious game: that of seeking out the very heart of the Antarctic's desolation. Only his brother Leon, who had assisted him greatly and his ship's captain were let in on the truth.
On August 9, 1910, with two years’ worth of provisions, tents, sledges, a portable hut, and 97 sled dogs, the Fram (a purpose-built, exceptional polar exploration vessel, with eighteen years’ of fame already to her name) sailed out of Christiania with Amundsen at command. On September 9, only a few hours before they were to leave Madeira and continue directly to Antarctica, Amundsen's crew was interrupted as they took advantage of this final bit of leisure-time, many writing their last letters home. They were gathered before the mainmast, where Amundsen stood beside a map of the Antarctic. Only then did he reveal his plans to the crew at large, asking each man personally if he would join in the historic expedition to achieve the South Pole. The last man to leave the Fram before she set out was to be Leon, who carried with him the men's letters, and a message his younger brother had asked him to send by telegraph - but not until early October, when the ship and her crew would be beyond the point of recall by any authority.
It was this same message which the English Royal Naval officer and explorer Captain Robert Falcon Scott would find waiting for him when his own much-publicized, under-way (and ultimately ill-fated) Terra Nova Antarctic expedition reached Melbourne on October 12, 1910. It read, quite simply: "Beg leave inform you proceeding Antarctic. Amundsen.”
Blue and yellow lights penetrate drifting whorls of pipe smoke suspended in silence. I can feel the audience’s anticipation. A tall man takes the microphone and announces, "Memphis - the moment you have waited for - Clarence Gatemouth Brown." The band kicks off a swing tune and Gatemouth saunters onto the stage, smoking a pipe and wearing western garb. He's in his seventies, with his custom Gibson Firebird guitar hanging over his shoulder. He begins to play swing lines as a horn player would, but on his guitar. As the set continues, Gatemouth moves from Texas swing, to a bluegrass fiddle tune on the viola. I really enjoy an eclectic set list and Brown always delivers. A voice like gravel mixed with molasses comes from the lean old music veteran. It's more powerful live than any recording can capture.
Throughout his career, Clarence Brown cleared hurdles and broke the rules of the music business as a matter of course. Brown loved the blues and played them well. However, he did not like the classification of "blues musician", or even "bluesman". He preferred no label at all, stating that he plays, “American and world music, Texas style.” He was born in Louisiana and his family moved to Texas when he was young. Although T-Bone Walker influenced Gatemouth, his music was not limited to blues. It was eclectic mix of Cajun, blues, country, rhythm & blues, and jazz genres. He approached classical style as well as roots and contemporary music. Perhaps he would be better known if he had chosen a less diverse repertoire. However, his influence on music is evident, and his criticism on musicians is harsh. He spoke his mind. For instance, when critiquing blues musicians Gatemouth said, "They were just coppin’ off of [T-bone Walker]. Now, when I first started I played a couple of T-Bone’s licks…I got away from that and I developed my own style…I can play stuff now that there’s no way in the world that B.B. King or any of those other guys can play…they’re all friends of mine, and they’ll admit they can’t play it.” He commented on the music scene of New Orleans in the1970's stating, "Everybody’s trying to sound like each other and they’re doing a damn good job of it. But I don’t want to be associated with it.”
The Gatemouth brown Philosophy:
Gatemouth played numerous instruments, including the guitar, viola, mandolin, drums, and harmonica. He began playing drums in his teens, and learned to play the fiddle and mandolin by age ten. The swing music he played in his youth influenced the way he approached other instruments. This is around the time he received the moniker "Gatemouth". I have heard a few accounts that differ on who gave him the nickname. However, the reason for his nickname is the same in all accounts. Here is the story in Gatemouth's own words: When asked who gave him the nickname he said, "The kids, actually… we used to have to go in Chapel and sing these spiritual songs before we would go to class. The PA system went out and when it did, I kept singing over the chorus. I was the lead singer. And when we finished the teacher said, "Brown, you don't need no microphone, you've got a voice like a gate." And the kids started saying "Gatemouth" and, man, I got mad a while, but the hotter I got the more they would call me that. So I got stuck with it and just worked with it to my advantage."
In addition to his nickname and signature western clothing, Gatemouth was known to be a pipe smoker. Several of his album covers have pictures of him smoking a pipe. When I lived in Dallas, I had many talks with Sam Myers (blues singer and harmonica player). In one conversation, we discussed Brown's versatile style and the fact that he enjoyed to smoke a pipe. Sam recalled a story from the 1940’s wherein Gatemouth stole a T-bone Walker show. Walter was feeling ill and dropped his guitar by accident. Gatemouth took the opportunity to grab the guitar and play. Sam said, “The crowd loved it. They started throwing money at Gatemouth. T-bone was not happy about it at all!” Gatemouth would, as a rule, sit at shows smoking his pipe with his custom blended pipe tobacco. Sam also told me that if he could not smoke - he would not do the performance. Adam recalled one particular interview he had seen with Gatemouth. When asked about smoke-free venues, Gatemouth told them sternly if he could not enjoy his pipe, he would play elsewhere - no smoke, no show.
Throughout his career, Gatemouth continued to redefine himself. For instance, while in Nashville in the early 1960's he made several appearances on the TV program Hee Haw, and recorded a series of country singles. He also hosted an R&B television show in Nashville called The Beat. In 1979, he and country guitarist Roy Clark recorded "Makin' Music," an album of blues and country songs that includes a cover of the Duke Ellington classic "Take the A-Train." In the late 1960's Mr. Brown was a Sheriff in New Mexico. Talk about breaking barriers!
His discography is too large to list in this forum, but here are a few of my favorite Gatemouth albums:
Alright Again, 1982. Grammy Award/ Best Traditional Blues Album
Pressure Cooker, 1986. Grammy nomination for Best Blues Recording (my favorite blues label- Alligator Records)
Gate Swings, 1997, Produced by Jim Bateman and John Snyder.
He played fiddle and guitar on Professor Longhair’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Gumbo album. (1974)
In addition to countless recordings, other credits include eight W.C. Handy Awards, and induction into the Blues Hall of Fame in 1999. Gatemouth influenced numerous guitar players such as Albert Collins, J.J Cale, Guitar Slim, Roy Buchanan, Johnny Copeland, and countless others. Frank Zappa named him his all-time favorite guitarist and it has been suggested that "Okie Dokie Stomp" should be the new Texas National Anthem.
Here is a video of Gatemouth Brown and Roy Clark on the TV show Austin City Limits. They are doing a cover of a Louis Jordan - Fleecie Moore song called "Caldonia":
Have a listen, and a bowl in honor of Clarence Gatemouth Brown… and pack a custom blend.
Jacques Brel's lyrics teamed with life and the lust for women, wine, and laughter, yet simultaneously they were ominously spiced with a violent awareness of death, estrangement, corruption, obscurity, and oblivion. The very same obscurity and oblivion he himself might have lived in, had he not dared to take to the stage. Despite the richly evocative and utterly singular talent which would eventually make him famous, this French-speaking Flemish prodigy very nearly wound up in obscurity himself; he could have lived out his life running a cardboard factory, following in his father's footsteps. Though he first began to show his talents through forming a small theatre troupe at the age of 16, his notably poor academic performance (failing most of his exams) led his father to insist that he should, at the age of 18, cease his education and instead learn the family business.
Despite his small, and less than promising beginnings, Jacques chose to gamble on the riskier path of a performing artist. Yet, he at the same time had few qualms about taking on responsibility; rather than wait to be drafted, he enlisted in the military in 1948, by 1950 he was married to Thérèse Michielsen, and by 1951 he was a father. Though as he climbed to success he and his wife would come to live separate and distanced lives, and though there were other women, they were never divorced, and in death Jacques would claim "Miche", as his wife was known, to be his sole heir. Though no saint, he had his principles, and Brel stuck to them throughout.
Accounts differ regarding Brel's early career. Some state that an early Catholic-humanist troubadour style held him back. Others, that from the beginning his friends and family, shocked at the unflinching passion and earnestness his lyrics would later be known for, disapproved of his efforts. The one common thread seems to be that meeting Georges "Jojo" Pasquier (who came to be his manager, chauffeur, and closest friend) in 1955 was an important turning point. While his early years were an absolute struggle, in 1954 placing 27th in the Grand Prix de la Chanson competition, out of a field of 28 performers total, Brel persisted, gradually building on those successes that did come his way, refining his work, and collaborating with two talented pianists, François Rauber (who gave Brel the formal training he had until then lacked) and Gérard Jouannest (whose influence and contributions would be seen in many of Brel's most famous songs). By 1957, Jacques Brel had his first hit single, Quand on a Que l'Amour, which would win him the prestigious Grand Prix de l'Académie Charles Cros. Where in 1954 his performance at Paris's famed Olympia music hall had been met with indifference, a return performance in 1958 left the audience stunned. His fame soon spread, and in time his records sold millions in France alone, in at least one case even without any marketing campaign.
Through his deeply developed perception of the human condition, the unmitigated honesty of his songwriting, and his amazing skill, both physically and lyrically, of expression, Brel rose to become one of the biggest names not only in France, but of Europe, his fame eventually spreading to America, where in the 1960s the feature-length musical film Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris would be produced. Its arrangement and cinematography would influence the concept of the music video to this day.
Jacques Brel was, in short, a rare breed of un-romanticizing romantic; a man whose lyrics practically bled a deep love for and perception of life, while simultaneously honoring that love by refusing to cheapen it with saccharine pretense or wishful white-washing; refusing, that is, to portray the object of his love as anything but what it was in truth. It was beautiful, it was rapturous, it was terrifying, it was heartbreaking - and it could only truly be any of those things, because it in truth was all of those things.
Only a man with such an unflinching perspective, and the will to pour it out upon stage, with thousands watching, could sing of port-side prostitutes selling their virtues for a coin, not with derision, or condemnation, but with anger and heartbreak at witnessing the tragedy of the Faustian bargains such women strike, night after night - and likewise those of the sailors who have given their lives to drunkenness and dissipation, and as such find themselves with no women but those they must pay for. And this is just what Brel did in the final part of one of his most famous pieces, Amsterdam, though it was strangely enough a song he only performed on stage, never recording it in studio:
There's a sailor who drinks
And he drinks and he drinks
And he drinks once again
He drinks to the health
Of the whores of Amsterdam
Who have promised their love
To a thousand other men
They've bargained their bodies
And their virtue long gone
For a few dirty coins
And when he can't go on
He plants his nose in the sky
And he wipes it up above
And he pisses like I cry
For an unfaithful love
In the port of Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam
Though perhaps best known by francophones for his intensely concentrated lyricism, which could express great complexity in but a few perfectly chosen words (unmatched in English translations), those of us farther removed from our eighth grade French lessons (sorry, Madame Nicholson) often better know him for his performances on stage - performances at once seemingly on the very verge of a Dionysian abandon, yet perfect in the expressiveness of their execution:
It is claimed that the morning Brel finished the lyrics to Amsterdam, in a house overlooking the Mediterranean at Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, he read them to a friend and restaurateur by the name of Fernand - and that Fernand was so overcome with emotion that he broke out in tears and took to chopping up sea urchins in an effort to regain his shattered self-composure.
Though his songs have been covered in English by everyone from British pop icon David Bowie, to the American neo-cabaret duo The Dresden Dolls, none have matched the fire with which Jacques Brel himself burned so brightly. Yet for all the standing ovations he received, Brel never performed a single encore. When the performance ended, it was ended - perhaps a discrete statement on the nature of finality, from a man whose music was in no small part driven by an awareness that everything in human life, be it love or misery, had its own final curtain-call.
Many are the men who proudly hang their diplomas upon the walls of their offices, or line their dens with trophies of sport or the hunt. Jean Bart likely did not have many formal awards in recognition of athletic prowess lining his den, and it seems equally unlikely that he had much in the way of framed certifications, either – but that is to be expected when you spend the majority of your life at sea, engaging in running battles. So he’s had to settle with having some twenty-seven plus ships of the French Navy named in his honor over the past two centuries, and having fathered some fourteen children (that we know of – he was a sailor, after all).
Tall, swaggering, Jean Bart was unapologetically a man of action, rather than class. Literally; being of common birth (the son of a fisherman), he was initially socially excluded from receiving a command in the French Navy, even though he had experience serving in the Dutch Navy under the notable Admiral De Ruyter from the age of 12, learning seamanship and tactics fighting the English. (The English assault upon and capture of Dunkirk being what first inspired Jean to take up arms.) Fortunately, the 17th century's military culture provided an unenfranchised man of action, itching for a fight, the perfect outlet: To become a corsair. (Likewise, one did not have to be a gentleman by birth to enjoy the long-stemmed clay pipes that were popular in his day, and from simple contemporary drawings intended for mass-printing, to the intricate 19th century portrait by Jean-Léon Gérôme, seen above, Jean Bart has typically been portrayed with a pipe at hand.) This was even better than becoming a pirate, as you could be assured there was, at any given time, at least one government that wasn't trying to kill you. When France and the United Provinces went to war upon each other in 1672, Jean Bart signed on with Louis XIV's Marine Guard, by then based out of his old hometown, a much refurbished and refitted Dunkirk. The city of Jean's boyhood was now not only much-improved as a port; it was also the drop-off point for the captures and war-booty of the Fleet du Nord.
And so it was that Jean Bart made his name and rose through the ranks, all the way to admiral, the old fashioned way: By seeking out the enemy, destroying his will to continue battle, and making off into the sunset with everything he possessed - his ships in particular. Three-hundred and eighty-six of them, to be precise, with many more simply sent to the deep. To put that into perspective, if the French were to continue naming military vessels after Jean Bart until there has been one Jean Bart for each of his captures, naming them at the same rate as they have over the past two-hundred years they would finish up sometime around the year 4669 A.D.
A Herculean task, no doubt, and you might well expect even so famed a man of action and celebrated national icon might be forgotten by then. Or perhaps not. Jean Bart's legacy has, it must be said, thus far shown a rather peculiar resiliency. When the unbridled - and unprecedented - industrialized war machines of WWII ran roughshod over Europe, they in the course of affairs managed to completely flatten more than two-thirds of old Dunkirk. Nonetheless, when the smoke cleared and the flames had all danced their last, and the sound and fury was quit, Jean Bart's memorial remained standing tall, and defiant, with sword raised in hand.
Hours of Operation:
Our website is always open and you can place an order at any time. Phone/office hours are 9am-7pm US/Eastern (GMT -5:00) Monday-Friday and 10am-5pm US/Eastern (GMT -5:00) on Saturdays. Our Little River, SC showroom is open 10am-7pm US/Eastern (GMT -5:00) Monday-Saturday. We are closed on Sundays.
We reserve the right to verify delivery to cardholder via UPS. You must be 18 years or older to make any selections on this site - by doing so, you are confirming that you are of legal age to purchase tobacco products or smoking accessories. We will deny any order we believe has been placed by a minor.
WARNING: Smokingpipes.com does not sell tobacco or tobacco related products to anyone under the age of 18, nor do we sell cigarettes.WARNING:Products on this site contain chemicals known to the State of California to cause cancer and birth defects or other reproductive harm.