Reading photographs: the seaside promenade

The very fact that we look at these photographic images [of late–Victorian England] at all and take them as emblems of reality, or imagine their reality to possess a new authenticity denied for example to the author if an Icelandic saga or the brush of Sir Joshua Reynolds, is a symptom of how deeply we collude in the Victorian love–affair with science, the confused empiricism which supposes that the distinctions between Appearance and Reality can be made by some organ independent of the human mind. The camera is then elevated into an arbiter. The belief that it can never lie becomes not only an invitation to hoaxers but the source of a tremendous confusion about the very nature of truth. 

A.    N. Wilson, The Victorians

C

learly, there never was any need for artists to worry that photography would make painting superfluous. However, Wilson’s main point is that we are in danger of thinking that we can know the past through the medium of black and white (and sepia) images: most of which are carefully posed, and all of which are neatly contained within a rectangle of paper or deckle–edged card.  We are looking at traces of ghosts from the past. However, no matter how artfully set up or casually taken, I think it fair to say that, as an adjunct to the study of history, the photograph can tell us a great deal. Consider, for example, the photograph below: St Leonards on Sea ~ The Parade [or promenade]. I do not know when it was taken, but it must have been after October, 1891, the year in which St Leonards pier was opened (visible in the far distance).

The first thing to notice is that it was almost certainly elaborately planned and posed, and that even the horse–drawn vehicle was stationary for the purpose – given that long exposure would have been needed. Even the two boys on the extreme right are standing still and looking towards the camera. However, for all the artifice, much is revealed. For example, most of the adults in the middle foreground are dressed for display, and are keeping up appearances – rather than enjoying themselves in an unselfconscious way (and most elaborate are the lady and her two children in white, centre stage: ‘trophy children’, as might be said, a century before the phrase was coined). It is perhaps surprising that the poorer children, grouped around the fountain, have been included; and it would seem as if the photographer wanted a ‘picturesque’ contrast to the gentry. And to this extent, the photo is misleading, given that we have no sight of the conditions under which these children were living. And what are we to make of this ‘seaside promenading for display’ of the well–healed? It is a very curious phenomenon: an expensive charade that seems to bring pleasure to no one. It is like treading the boards without the least necessity to act or learn lines; but it requires a relatively clear stage. It is difficult to maintain your dignity while being jostled by crowds. I imagine that the Second World War put an abrupt end to promenading of this kind, and pre–war the crowds at the resorts must, I imagine, have driven the rich to places like Menton and Nice where some semblance of superiority could still be maintained.  

Architecturally the photograph includes much of interest. The blinds and canopies are wonderful, and suggest that St Leonards was in its hey–day at this period. The shelter is a delight. So too, the fountain and the street lamp. The promenade railings, as far as I remember, were the same when I was a child. And the benches, with their trenchant cast iron legs and wooden seats and backrests, are very familiar.    

St Leonards pier was partially demolished during the Second World War, for fear of its use in an invasion. The remaining piles and ironwork were removed in 1951, and a gem of Victoriana lost forever (though it is doubtful it would have survived the periodic storm surges in the English Channel). I was seven in 1951, and must have seen the remains of the pier, but have no remembrance of them.

The sea wall, angled at the top to deflect the waves, is a quite massive construction. The shingle is very low in this photograph, but over the years the longshore drift builds the pebbles into a vast bank that reaches almost to the promenade level. A storm surge can scour this away in a matter of several hours, and last occurred in 1990. My mother, who lives in Hastings Old Town, said that she could hear a terrific roar, and was utterly astonished at what she saw the next morning. The zigzag iron staircase was left several feet short of the beach. A fisherman – from the small Hastings fleet – told me that the pattern of the shingle is never the same from day to day. (I talk to the fishermen from the small fishing fleet whenever I can. They are extraordinarily interesting, and have craft and tacit knowledge in abundance. The fisherman I talked to when I was last in Hastings was painting the hull of his boat, and I got down on my hunkers to talk to him. His conversation was peppered with the present participle of The F Word. None of this was directed at me, and clearly he had no thought at all that I would be offended by it. It was as natural to his speech as his mannerisms, and when our conversation had come to a natural end and I stood up to leave, he said “Good to talk to you.”!)

Hastings beach c 1933–39. 'Aunt' Jess and 'Uncle' Headley, husband of Jess' sister Flo. The sea wall angled at the top to deflect the waves, is a quite massive construction. The shingle is very low in this photograph, but over the years the longshore drift builds the pebbles into a vast bank that reaches almost to the promenade level. A channel storm surge can scour this away in a matter of several hours, and last occurred in 1990. My mother, who lived in the Old Town, heard a 'terrific roar' during the night, and was utterly astonished at what she saw next morning. The cast iron staircase was left proud of the beach by several feet – something we had never seen before. A fisherman – from the small Hastings fleet – told me that the pattern of the shingle is never the same from day to day. 

What I have said above is to a certain degree speculative. However, as can be seen from the above photograph, conditions for promenading in finery were hardly encouraging. The alternative here adopted by Headley and Jess is essentially one of finding a suitable vantage point to look down on hoi polloi. There seems to be little pleasure in it!

In the photo below, the men are still in suits, and Aunt Jess looks something like an older and larger–boned version of Giles’ hypochondriacal Vera: closed in  on herself as if it were the depth   of winter . . . 

St Leonards beach, c 1952. From right to left, Jess'
nephew–in–law, Jess, Jess' cousin, and unknown man.
The family was from Sheffield. (In 1995, families from
the north were still taking this kind of holiday in places
like St Ives, Cornwall.)

The contrast between Aunt Jess at this age and that of her as an old woman on St Leonards beach could hardly be more striking. She never married, and whether this was a consequence of the shortage of men post the Great War I have no idea. She took lodgers, and my mother tells me that one of them fled the house 'under fire' from pots and pans. We do not have to be a paid up Freudian to have some idea of what might have motivated this ejection of a man from the house . . .

Hastings beach. Date unknown (pre–WW1?). Aunt Jess, left, and the matriarchal 'Gran' centre. Others unknown. The confection of hats is extraordinary; but for whom were they worn?

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Hastings beach. Date unknown

Have we not lost a wonderful graphic quality since colour photography became widely available? You may keep a trillion colour snaps for the photo here reproduced. The nippers venturing towards the waves are wonderful. Their body language speaks volumes: curiosity, wonder, timidity, and a sense that they are entirely lost in the moment. They are almost certainly locals, but perhaps from a village close to Hastings. It may have been the first time they had ever been that close to the sea.