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The British, as we are always told, are a reserved people. Along with fish and chips, our stiff upper lip is what we’re most famous for. I must admit that whenever I hear this, I have to remind myself that, within this sweeping statement, they’re talking about me. I don’t know about you but I’ve never considered myself the shy and retiring type, if anything, I’m a bit of a Cavalier. A what, I hear you ask. Let me explain. According to a particular school of thought, we Brits divide into two camps – Roundhead and Cavalier. Students of history will know that these were the opposing sides in the English Civil War – the Parliamentarians aka Roundheads were known for their spartan tastes – banning Christmas carols and anything that looked even remotely pleasurable while, on the other side, the Cavaliers revelled in all that life had to offer and showed it with their big hair, Saville Row tailored uniforms and their all-round flamboyance and love of the good things in life. We have a saying that if someone has a ‘cavalier attitude’ it means they don’t care (like that’s always a bad thing). If ever someone accuses you of that just tell them to stop being such a Roundhead.
Anyway, so the theory goes, these opposing traits have become key aspects of the British character, battling for supremacy in every walk of life like it’s 1642 all over again. As a design historian, one of the things I love is being able to make connections between man-made objects and the wider world. I think, down the centuries, this Roundhead versus Cavalier tension has played out in the way we decorate our homes. Roundheads are all about straight lines and classical order, while Cavaliers are more laissez-faire and letting things go curly. Normally it works pendulum style – think of the florid excesses of High Victorianism being stamped out by William Morris and his smock-wearing acolytes, or those ‘Form Follows Function’ Modernists showing Art Deco exactly what it could do with its decorative flourishes - but occasionally those two forces fight it out at the same time. With this in mind, this week we’re taking a look at the curious affair that was English Rococo.
Rococo, it’s a word you’ll have heard before but what exactly was it? Quite simply, the most self-consciously decorative – cavalier - of all decorative styles. Developed in Louis XIV’s (it was known as “the French taste” in this country) it was the dominant style in northern and central Europe during the first half of the 18th century, affecting all the arts from furniture to fashion and sculpture to ceramics. The word rococo actually began life as a term of ridicule in the 1790s, when the style was already dead and buried. It sounds Italian but actually derives from the French rocaille (pronounced 'rock-eye'), describing the shells and rocks which were used as decoration in shell-rooms and garden grottoes.
There’s nothing straight about Rococo, it’s all about the curve. Flowing lines became obligatory. Think twirly-whirly, think wedding cake decoration, sinuous C and S-scrolls, garlands, ribbons, shells and sea monsters. Familiar objects lose their well-known outlines and, to quote the Bard, suffer a sea-change, into something rich and strange. In Rococo’s surreal world everything swirls, moves and writhes. Designers plundered the natural world for inspiration; crabs, eels, and crustaceans happily rub along with seaweed, mermaids and river gods. Rococo’s essential motif was the cartouche – an amorphous, unformed shape that was somewhere between a jellyfish and the human ear, which could be moulded into any shape. From this basic motif the great French ornemanistes – like Nicolas Pineau, who could take a console table and turn it into an all singing, all dancing gilded extravaganza – produced their extraordinary designs.
Across the channel, the British were grinding their teeth. Paris was the undisputed centre of European fashion and the French luxury trades set trends for all the other European nations. Despite being almost constantly at war with France throughout the 18th century, those thrifty Anglo-Saxon Protestants still craved the exquisite sophistications of the enemy. Rococo arrived in England just at the point when things were getting more square and architectural. Since the 1720s when Lord Burlington had led a campaign to revive the classical splendours of Palladio and Inigo Jones, the Palladian movement had been the dominant force in design. The watchwords were symmetry and balance and, as styles go, it was sober and serious – Roundheaded, even. For some, Rococo’s arrival was looked upon rather like the arrival of a flu pandemic. Frothing with indignation, one commentator had this to say:
They heap cornices, columns, cascades, rushes and rocks in a confused manner, one upon another; and in some corner of this confused chaos, they will place a cupid in great fright, and crown the whole with a festoon of flowers.
The Rococo first inveigled its way into England via the fashionable dining rooms of the aristocracy. Gastronomic success rested not only on the best ingredients, but also on the service, the convivial atmosphere, and the visual interest of the table and eating room. By the 1740s, the best dining tables were groaning with a prince's ransom of rococo silverware: a still-life centre piece or a branching epergne holding flowers and fruit surrounded by a flotilla of tureens, condiment sets and candelabra. The greatest Rococo silversmiths were Paul de Lamerie and Nicholas Crespin (who once found the perfect Rococo shape in a turtle’s shell and so mounted it in silver and turned it into a punch bowl) both of whom specialised in elaborate tableware that were swirling rocaille masterpieces, which must have ruined the taste of the soup for more Palladian-minded diners.
The outstanding English interpreter of Rococo was Matthew (or Matthias) Lock. He was a designer and cabinet-maker who had workshops in Tottenham Court Road but about whose life we know virtually nothing. Lock was an outstanding draftsman who, probably more than anyone else, understood the French style giving it his own, very English, twist. In his fantasy world – best seen on his mirror frames – a riotous assembly takes place; friendly goats confront surprised foxes; monkeys precariously perched monkeys blow bubbles; squirrels admire spring flowers; Chinaman in coolie hots and drooping moustaches cling to trees, the roots of which dissolve into icicles; all among a riot of fountains, shells and running water.
So did, England ‘go Rococo’? Well, for the answer to that, look around. Visit France, or southern Germany, or Austria or northern Italy and you’ll be tripping over Rococo palaces, churches and townhouses, try looking for the same in this country and your search will be in vain. The truth is Rococo made only a brief stay as a fashionable style and only touched the smart and the grand, even then, mostly in the form of small objects – vases, candlesticks, soup tureens, mirrors - rather than whole interiors.
As styles go, Rococo was elegant and charming but insubstantial. This was to sow the seeds of its downfall since it showed a lack of reverence for classical architecture which became unacceptable to the new generation of Rome-inspired architects, like Robert Adam who openly despised it. In fact, what was called Rococo in England bore little resemblance to the rich, creamy, wedding-cake heights it achieved in Europe. Done properly, Rococo was smart, urban and sophisticated it was also expensive and hard to master. Rococo designs demanded that each craftsman be also an outstanding artist as well. That was asking too much. John Betjeman, the great architectural historian, said that political history explains the style’s failure to launch. Because of the Civil War and gradual reform of Parliament, the aristocracy took a greater interest in politics here than on the Continent. Rococo required commitment and we were just too busy with other things. Perhaps it was a victory for the roundheads after all.
Styles never quite come to a full stop. In the early 19th Century the rococo impulse was revived under the flamboyant Prince Regent. Its last hurrah was at the turn of the century with Art Nouveau, when it made a flamboyant if brief return. While the austere geometry of modernism governed much of design thinking during the twentieth century, designers continually returned to organic, natural curves as a source of inspiration in the 1950s, and the psychedelic 1960s.
Fantastical, daring, highly decorative and never, ever sensible, it’s almost impossible not to be charmed by Rococo. There again, as a Cavalier, I suppose I would say that.
Since the ancient world, we as humans have felt compelled to explore and document our natural surroundings. Over the course of a mere few centuries, revolution after revolution in printmaking produced botanical prints in a variety of forms. Not only do antique botanicals represent early scientific progress, but they also offer a stunning form of wall art.
We are always aware of our origins as hunter-gatherers. We once depended on our knowledge of the natural world to survive, and this has never truly dissipated. The earliest and most primitive forms of botanical prints date to the ancient world. From then until well into the Middle Ages, nature printing was invaluable for recording the medicinal value of different plants. Might this herb cure a fever, or serve as a death sentence?
This utilitarian purpose gave rise to nature printing. This simple practice uses the surface of a natural object, such as a leaf, to produce a print impression. Leonardo Da Vinci’s Codice Atlantico is well-known for his singular print of a sage leaf, along with instructions for nature printing. All that was required for this method was the beauty and detail presented by the natural world itself, an inky substance, and a receiving surface.
It wasn’t long before nature printing became entwined with evolving colonialism. As empires expanded and expeditions were sent further and further afield, knowledge of new species grew rapidly. In one instance, botanical printing was even harnessed to create paper money societies in American colonies.
In 1723, an ambitious 17-year-old boy arrived in Philadelphia to seek a career in printing. Benjamin Franklin was dissatisfied with the financial chaos he found in the city. Shrinking metal coinage was putting a halt to Philadelphia's economy. Franklin realised that this physical payment method could be replaced by little more than a promise. Amazingly, the founding father’s experiment worked. He circulated paper money throughout various states with great success. But paper money presented one major issue- counterfeiting.
Franklin was good friends with the talented botanical artist Jacob Breitnall. He was impressed by Breitnall’s very detailed drawings of leaves and flowers. The two worked out that, by transferring leaf images onto banknotes, each would have its own unique signature. And so, using different plants, Franklin transferred the images onto his paper money using the old technique of rolling ink onto a leaf and pressing the surface onto the banknotes.
The experiment worked, and the four colonies that used nature printed notes experienced far less counterfeiting than those which did not. In 1775, the Continental Congress authorised the creation of a new national currency.
Contributions to nature printing came from far and wide, and perhaps the most seismic development occurred in Austria. Alois Auer became Director of the Austrian National Printing Office in 1841, and under his leadership, it became a centre of excellence in nature printing.
Auer kept the essential method of making an impression in a soft material. He first experimented with gutta-percha, a gum-like tree sap. His innovation was using electrotyping to create a duplicate copper printing plate and make many more copies of the print.
Electrotyping was a revolutionary technology at the time, as although it was quite laborious it meant that the number of copies that could be produced was infinite. When the quality of one copper printing plate started to deteriorate, a new one could be made.
Gutta-percha was still quite a messy material for creating the impression, like soft lead before it. Auer adapted the process further by using a rolling press in place of the gum. This method, whereby the specimen passes through plates of polished lead and steel, makes a cleaner impression to take an electrotyped copy from.
This new method was used extensively for large-scale botanical projects. Auer patented the process, but it wouldn’t go unrivalled…
The age-old case of the student becomes the master. Henry Bradbury, the son of an established British printer, was curious about developments over in Austria. He asked Auer if he could visit and learn about this new printmaking process. Auer showed Bradbury how electrotyping worked, perhaps in slightly too much detail, and the student mastered the technique.
Back in England, Bradbury took out his own patent on what he claimed to be a new and improved technique. Naturally, Auer argued it was essentially the same and a great deal of bad blood developed between the two.
In the midst of this dispute, Bradbury produced several stellar works- most notably The Ferns of Great Britain and Ireland. This folio, edited by Thomas Moore, demonstrates the suitability of Bradbury’s method for reproducing ferns- an ever-popular topic for botanical prints. Regardless of who true credit is due to, both Alois Auer and Henry Bradbury made enormous contributions to the field.
Lots of botanicals in our collection come from folios of engravings. Original, highly detailed drawings were engraved using copper plates and hand-coloured afterwards. Surviving prints made this way date back as far as the early 17th Century. Engravings turned botanicals into a true art form, and these prints are some of the most stunning on the market.
Among the most collectible antique botanical illustrations are those of Basilius Besler. Besler was an eminent horticulturalist and botanist, who was personally responsible for the gardens of Bishop Johann Conrad in Eichstätt, Germany. Inspired by these majestic gardens, Besler commissioned a team of skilled artists and engravers to document the extensive plant life. The end result was his Hortus Eystettensis, 'the garden at Eichstätt.' This folio, published in Nuremberg in 1613, represents the earliest large botanical compendium.
The work took over sixteen years to complete and depicts over 1000 different plants. It covered everything from European flowers to the newly discovered tobacco plant. Besler first published the work in black-and-white, but some ‘special editions’ were hand-coloured by Georg Mack. Among the lucky later owners of these rare coloured examples was George III.
Surviving prints from Besler’s Hortus Eystettensis demonstrate why botanical printing was about far more than classification. The drawings are incredibly accurate and include the root delineations of each plant, and they also have great beauty and character. Hortus Eystettensis prints have a wonderful liveliness that reflects true passion on the behalf of the patron and artists.
Despite being better informed than their counterparts in the Middle Ages, there was still a great thirst for medicinal knowledge in the 18th Century. A young woman called Elizabeth Blackwell faced an uncertain future as her husband spent two years in debtors prison. She undertook a considerable challenge, looking to provide the first definitive handbook for medicinal plants. The first volume of A Curious Herbal was published in 1738 and included over 500 plates. Elizabeth engraved her drawings on copper plates, and then hand-coloured the works afterwards. Elizabeth turned to botanicals out of financial desperation, but her pain-staking care is a common trait in so many botanical artists. Hence why the results are so breath-taking.
Another vast collection of botanical engravings came from Johann Wilhelm Weinmann. Weinmann was a renowned apothecary in Regensburg and published his Pytanthoza Iconographia in 1737. The work includes no less than 1025 plates, depicting several thousand plant specimens in total. Detailed original paintings act as a source for engraving each plate. This monumental folio represents a near-complete record of all flowers, fruits, and vegetables cultivated in the early 18th Century. The colour revolution in botanical art happened around 1700, and Pytanthoza Iconographia represents the earliest example of multi-colour printing from a single plate. Weinmann's greatest asset was the young Georg Ehret, who was a major contributor to the work. Ehret used a new printing method, mezzotint, to produce lively and detailed images that he finished with hand-colouring. Ehret would eventually abandon the commission due to the rather measly payment he received.
We often underestimate how botanical studies were not just a matter for scientific gain, but also an absorbing hobby for many. During the late 19th Century, many young women spent long periods of time documenting plants. Seaweed and ferns were always major topics of interest.
In the mid 19th Century, a young Anna Atkins pioneered a new sort of printing - cyanotype - which made use of photo technology. Through her connections with the prolific Royal Society, she learned of a new photographic process under development- sun-printing. Sun-printing used acid, water, and sunlight, to create a print impression. This method, otherwise known as blue-printing, was particularly useful in architectural and engineering contexts.
However, Anna saw an opportunity to use sun-printing to create botanicals. Over the course of the 1840s and 50s, she produced two key works: British Algae: Cyanotype Impressions, and Cyanotypes of British and Foreign Flowering Plants and Ferns. These were pivotal works and the first likely represents the earliest publication of any form of photography. Anna's beautiful prints demonstrated the scientific and aesthetic power of this method.
At the end of the 18th Century, the invention of lithography marked a seismic advance in printmaking. Lithographs rely on the basic premise that grease and water do not mix. It was actually the Bavarian playwright, Alois Senefelder, who stumbled across this simple concept. Senefelder found it difficult to reproduce his plays efficiently, so he experimented with different printing techniques. He hit the jackpot when he tried writing the play out in greasy ink and then printing it on a limestone surface.
Lithography took off in the 19th Century, presenting lots of advantages over previous methods. Because of the use of stone or another grained surface, it was possible to achieve far more variation in tone and texture. It also improved colour-printing, where one applies different colours to different stones and overprints them onto the same sheet.
Print-makers soon recognised the value of lithography for creating botanicals and it was particularly significant for colour differentiation. Whether the prints are originally black-and-white and later hand-coloured, or chromolithographs (printed in multi-colour), these results are vibrant, detailed and striking.
We have seen botanical printing evolve from a utilitarian means to an end to a powerful academic resource. Not only do these prints represent a long history of scientific discovery, but they also have immense decorative power. You can hardly escape a wall of prints whilst flicking through an interiors magazine. Why are botanicals and other nature prints in particular so appealing?
We often talk about foliage and bringing the outside in, but this doesn’t always have to be literal. Fascinating botanical prints bring a sense of the natural world into our interiors, and prints will certainly last longer than a fresh bouquet! The magic of botanicals lies in the blending of art and science.
The styling opportunities for a set of prints are endless. Whether you have a full set of ferns or just a couple of floral engravings, botanicals are a wonderful decorative accent. Choose prints with subjects that appeal to you and a story that intrigues you.
The fundamental rule of collecting prints is to source ones you will enjoy looking at every day and to put them where you will see them the most. Create a staircase gallery wall you will walk past daily, or cluster them together at the end of a hallway. A larger set of framed prints is particularly useful when a room lacks an obvious focal point, such as a fireplace or a big window. Above a bed, a console, or a chest, colourful prints provide height and cohesion in a room.
For centuries, botanical prints have appealed to physicians, scientists and gardeners alike. Those who contributed to the art, whether colonial explorers or pioneering women in science, have shaped its long and rich history.
Today, these studies of nature offer an important piece of history and an inspiring form of decoration. Prints from significant early botanical works are hard to come by, and we are lucky to have some special examples here at Lorfords. From vivacious Basilius Besler engravings to Henry Bradbury's revolutionary ferns, we are always excited by the botanical prints coming through our doors.
Looking at the prints themselves is by far the best way to understand the history of botanical illustration. You can browse our current collection of botanical prints here, and all prints and engravings here. Our lookbook, 'Where science meets art,' offers all the inspiration you could need for decorating with prints.
Whilst revolution brewed, a majestic furniture style emerged in France. Louis XVI and his infamous wife, Marie Antoinette, oversaw a period of design that is still coveted today.
Louis XVI was the last of the Bourbon monarchs. He reigned from 1760 to 1789, ascending to the throne at just 20. Indecision and weakness of character plagued the King, who never quite lived up to the legacy of his ancestors.
Louis Seize was married to Marie Antoinette in order to assert diplomatic links with Austria. What the King lacked, the Queen made up for in many ways. She was the last Queen of France, and Marie Antoinette is remembered for her headstrong and extravagant ways.
The reigns of his predecessors were characterised by their own design preferences. The intention of his great-grandfather Louis XIV was simple: splendid, extravagant furnishings that reflected the monarchy in all its glory. Known as, 'The Sun King,' the sun was the royal emblem and the dominating principle of this reign was brilliance.
His grandfather, Louis XV, embraced the Rococo style and his furniture embodies femininity, comfort, and curving lines. Due to his string of mistresses, he asked for shorter chair armrests to accommodate their full skirts.
Whilst each King Louis had their own personal taste, certain pieces of furniture defined the whole dynasty. Furniture for specific functions became popular; Louis XIV introduced the commode and popularised writing desks and console tables. His reign was the apogee of giltwood furniture and his successors kept such features in their own design.
In order to discuss Louis XVI design, we must delve into the socio-political tensions of his reign.
The King's life ended at the guillotine, accused of treason. Marie Antoinette's lavish tastes provoked the public and she met the same fate as her husband.
The royal couple was not ignorant of the angry masses, but their efforts to appease them were minimal. Pattern and design in furniture made use of the natural grain of the wood in an effort to identify with starving Parisians. The King once wore a peasant hat to sit for a portrait in an attempt to show solidarity, but the seeds of resentment were already firmly sown in the French people.
Louis XVI inherited financial problems and exacerbated them with his careless spending. Heavy taxation further alienated the people, particularly as the Queen ordered vast amounts of furnishings. Legend says Marie Antoinette once responded to news that the people had no bread with the classic remark, 'let them eat cake.'
When the monarchy was overthrown, royals and nobles had to forfeit their luxuries, and swathes of furniture from this period were lost. Therefore, a period Louis XVI piece prompts real excitement both for its beauty and historical context.
Design under Louis Seize was a mixture of continuity and innovation. The relationship between France and the classical world evolved over time and French neoclassicism was particularly aligned with the English style. English influence during this period is clear in the use of mahogany for chair backs and veneers.
Furniture design under Louis XVI consolidated previous eras in many ways. There was no dramatic overhaul or principled u-turn, but the changes transformed French furniture into a force of beauty. Louis XVI furniture is more angular than earlier periods, with straight lines and geometric patterns. Restrained, short tapering legs replaced the cabriole style associated with Louis XV.
Neoclassical influence already existed in France, known as goût grec or ‘Greek taste.’ The discovery of Pompeii and Herculaneum fuelled enthusiasm for this new architectural style. Marie Antoinette constantly commissioned pieces in this style for her quarters at Versailles. The classical influence was expressed through motifs as well as shape. Louis XVI pieces exhibit plenty of carved friezes, cornucopia, egg and dart, and oak and laurel leaf.
However, this was still the opulent French monarchy. Bronze fittings adorned almost every piece of furniture and ormolu mounts were common. Marquetry evolved away from florals and towards the geometric, so lots of beautiful games tables emerged. The commode, ushered in under Louis XIV, remained iconic under his great-grandson.
Louis XVI’s reign is often considered the golden age of cabinet-making. Marie Antoinette imported many designers from Germany and Holland. The Queen's Austrian roots had a clear influence on design and these individuals outshone their French counterparts.
Jean-Henri Riesener held royal patronage from 1771 and is one of the most prolific designers of the time. He preferred exotic, luxurious materials for marquetry and ornamentation. His works feature gilded lacquer, mother-of-pearl and gilded ormolu mounts.
18th Century French furniture would not have reached its full potential without Georges Jacob. Jacob began working in the style of Louis XV, but swiftly adopted the style of the new King. This latter period is when his innovative designs reached their peak.
Georges Jacob's motif of triangles with rosettes adorn the joints between the arms and backs of chairs. In the late Louis XVI period, Jacob decorated the square section at the top of chair legs with daisies or small suns. This master cabinet-maker pioneered circular seat frames and spiral armrests, which became distinctive features of this period. His patrons included Marie Antoinette and the Prince of Wales.
Louis XVI furniture reflects a truly special period of design. Although his reign lasted just under 30 years, its influence on design continued into the Empire period. This period remains one of the most widely emulated furniture styles.
This style has charmed collectors for centuries and it's not difficult to see why. Whether you are looking for a few antiques to compliment a contemporary scheme, or want to perfect a period home, Louis XVI is the pinnacle of French design.
Louis XVI furniture suits modern interiors because of its simple elegance. Don't be afraid to mix ornate French furniture with modern art and sculpture, there is no need to stay in the confines of one style!
We have a large collection of Louis XVI pieces here at Lorfords. This was the heyday of iconic antiques, including the bureau plat, stunning armoires, and elegant giltwood chairs. Browse these pieces and more in our Tetbury showroom and hangars at Babdown Airfield.
For a taste of the Louis XVI style, visit our lookbook, 'The Last King,' to browse a selection of our pieces.