Skip to main content

Tuesday Tidbit: Cries of London

One of the places I found inspiration for Galitha City was in the artwork depicting eighteenth century London.  The "Cries of London" are actually a catchall for quite a few series of prints, one of the more famous of which is by Francis Wheatley.  Wheatley may have idealized his subjects a little bit; comparing his work to, say, Paul Sandby's sketches, his criers tend to look better-kempt, less dirty, and significantly less likely to steal something.

Wheatley:


Cheerilee, I'm selling prettypretty primroses! Tra-la-la!

Sandby:


Get your liver for your dogs, or don't, I don't give a ****.

It may be little surprise that I prefer Sandby for historical research purposes...if he depicts someone with a certain cap or their apron tied in a knot (y'all are seeing that, too, right?) it's pretty sure that's because someone *actually did that.*

Still, Wheatley's work also gives insight into a busy, bustling, *loud* city life in eighteenth century England, even if his cabbage sellers and matchstick girls are all a little too rosy-cheeked and cheerful.  There is the texture of life here--what people are wearing how they wear it, what they carry and what they use.

Hot Spiced Gingerbread, Smoking Hot
{Stuff I see: Scrounging doggo, man wearing some sort of gaiter over his shoes, cheery red short coat, knotted neck kerchief, sweet bonnets on mom and daughter}

Fresh Gathered Peas, Young Hastings
{Stuff I see: Aprons used to carry goods, I think that's a pocket revealed by the uplifted apron, a child helping mom, a small dog that I *think might be* the "Spitz" breed very popular in the eighteenth century and later renamed "American Eskimo" in the US due to anti-German sentiment in WWI but don't quote me on that}

Round & Sound, Five Pence a Pound, Duke Cherries
{Stuff I see: A young gentleman in a wee suit, a wheelbarrow for toting fruit, cherries measured by weight, a fellow without a waistcoat under his coat--it must be a hot day!}

Strawberrys, Scarlet Strawberrys
{Stuff I see: A tucked up apron, a woman wearing stays--corset--but no gown or jacket, those curious little baskets called "pottles" used for portioning out strawberries.  You by them not by the pound, but by the pottle!}

Wheatley named each work after the "cry" a street seller might use to entice customers.  Taken en masse, we could envision a very loud street scene with competing voices vying for attention.  This is the bedrock of good marketing--a product, a slogan, placement where the customer can reach it!  Beyond this vitality that inspired a lively city in my writing, I love that these images touch on the less commonly depicted people. These folks were poor.  They were scraping by, often selling seasonal items.  Many of them are women; many of these women have children tagging along, assisting Mum with sales, portioning out vegetables, toting baskets.  That's what I see in these images--LIFE lived by people who are usually silenced by the passing of time, which often only records the work and deeds of the Big Important People.  It was important to me to craft a city full of life being lived by ordinary people

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Accountable to the Page: Writing and Schedules

Tuesday I shared what gets me motivated to write--today I'm thinking about what I can do to hold myself to write.  Having a schedule or goal or other expectation keeps you accountable to your work--and the best partner, I think, to creativity is accountability.  We writers have a little problem most of the time during our writing careers: We aren't accountable to anyone but ourselves and the page--no boss, no time card, no nosy coworkers--so we have to create that accountability for ourselves.  I want more of a schedule-based writing life, and a few ways of doing so have emerged for me: 1) The Clock Method .  This one is basic--you clock in, you clock out.  Your butt is in your chair for a set number of hours each day, hands on keyboard, writing. 2) The Goal Method .  A little more flexible, but also, in my opinion, harder to hold yourself to.  You have a daily (or, depending on your schedule and lifestyle, weekly) writing goal, and you meet it by scheduling yourself to com

Going to Your Happy (Writing) Place

Slumps happen.  Sometimes they're life-induced--no matter how much of  a superwriter you are, it's not easy to balance giant life changes and normal writing habits.  Sometimes they're creativity-zappage-induced--everyone hits a point where you just don't feel like writing.  Or thinking.  Or being creative or imaginative at all. Either way, when you decide to get back in the swing of things, I find two things help. One is a schedule--more on that on Thursday. The other is finding your happy place. No, seriously.  I don't do the tortured artist thing.  Even if I'm writing something deep or introspective or dark (umm, as deep or dark as I can get, anyway...), I find I do much better if I start with a smile.  Or at least not a scowl. So I've identified a few things that never fail to put me in a better mood--and a more optimistic mood is a better writing mood, at least for me.  Because if you're feeling like a giant pessimist, you start to

Plot Crap

If you ever watch a movie with my husband and I, you're very likely, if it's not a great movie and sometimes even if it is, to hear me exclaim at some point, "OK, this is total plot crap, right?" What do I mean by plot crap?  And does it apply to books? Are you calling this plot crap? Plot crap does not mean crappy plot.  In fact, it can often have nothing to do with how well a story is plotted.  A great example of plot crap is the movie Gladiator .  Now, I love this movie.  I love the story, the incredibly orchestrated battle scenes, even the soundtrack.  But the historical facts framing the film?  Total plot crap.  Sure, Marcus Aurelius and Commodus existed...but there are a lot of factual missteps.  There's no evidence that Marcus Aurelius ever wanted to restore the Republic, therefore the basis of the film's struggle is historical plot crap.  (Commodus also didn't die in the arena, but was strangled in his bath.  Sometimes truth really is more