Dreaming of Devonshire

On 2 March, Sotheby’s auction house will sell a few hundred items from the collection of the late Deborah, Duchess of Devonshire, who died in 2014 aged 94.

I became acquainted with Debo, the youngest of the spectacular Mitford sisters, through a friend of my friend Dick. You may recall that for a couple of years I’ve acted as Dick’s Pony Express as he and his wife sojourned through many adventures in middle Europe (in 2014) and Italy (last year). It was through this function that I “met” Florence, who in turn introduced me to the traveler, war hero, writer and bon vivant Patrick Leigh Fermor.

Fermor deserves one or more posts all to himself, as does Debo. Surrounded by a family full of what might charitably be referred to as “eccentrics”, she had no inclination for politics like her sisters (Diana married Oswald Mosley, leader of the British Union of Fascists; Unity was a fervent acolyte of Hitler; and Jessica carried far more than a card as a Communist) and claimed to have no intellect at all. This is belied by both her correspondence (holding her own against the likes of Evelyn Waugh and Fermor) and the many books she wrote. But what she most loved was country pursuits—being surrounded by animals—which is reflected in a number of the items up for auction.

She adored chickens, and restored or stabilized several breeds of cattle or sheep on her various estates. Possibly both; I disremember at the moment. She was also a remarkably astute entrepreneur and is largely credited with saving Chatsworth, the ducal seat, from being sent to the metaphoric knackers’ yard and ultimately turned into weekend houses, or worse. Under her management Chatsworth became a self-sustaining Stately Home and working farm. She oversaw all the operations, inside and out.

But today’s post isn’t really about Debo, or even her things, directly. It’s about Sotheby’s. Because when I heard about the auction, I went online to see what the collection might comprise. Sure enough—plenty of chicken tschatschkes, but also some furniture (well worn, from the looks of it), jewelry and other things. (Including at least some of her Elvis Presley ephemera. Yes, she was a fan.) And while I can’t afford to bid on any of it, I conceived a desire for having the catalog—it’s as close as I’m getting to any of her things unless I can make a trip to Chatsworth, which is not on the cards in the foreseeable future.

Well, I went through their process of registering, hit Submit, and then got an error message. Like most web error messages, it didn’t really give me any useful information, just said that something had gone terribly wrong, and if I cared at all about correcting it, I might call a number in New York.

Well, I did, so I did. And a very smooth woman (presumably in the web tech support department) with a posh English accent walked me through the process of getting a Sotheby’s account (not specific to any particular auction), and then said that if I wanted a catalog, she could connect me with someone in that department, who could take my order over the phone.

Well, hurrah—that’s what she did, and I spoke to another woman with what Nancy Mitford would have described as a “U accent” (for upper class), who happily took my details and told me I should have my catalog in a couple of business days.

But here’s what I wonder: what’s with the posh-sounding birds at Sotheby’s? Does the 212 phone number run VoIP to a call centre in Surrey? Do they only hire U-speakers? Or are they all somewhere in the Bronx but they’ve undergone mandatory training in the proper language and accent for an establishment such as this?

I dunno, although I will say that the Sotheby’s website is one of the least intuitive I’ve come across in a while, and it throws way too many error messages in what should be seemless navigation. (What’s with not recognizing either “Devonshire” or “Duchess of Devonshire” in your search engine and making me go out to Google to get back in to the right page? Plus: I keep getting emails congratulating me on my successful registration. One would have been sufficient.)

But speculating on the auction house’s hiring practices is almost as amusing as pretending I’ll be bidding in the three or four figures (GBP) on one of Debo’s Elvis memorabilia, broaches shaped like insects or various pottery chickens.

That's no kale

I’m wondering if there’s anything sadder than an ornamental cabbage that’s been hit by a blizzard? I’ve seen a few around here since our Snowzilla of last months.

Here’s one from my Sunday sojourn:

Here be dragons

Here’s some more yard art from my walk around the neighborhood.

I love the whimsy of this piece, at both the head:

And the tail:

The householders obviously have eclectic tastes because here’s what was in the actual yard:

I would purely love to go to a cocktail party at this place. If I could remember precisely where it is.

Art in the 'hood

One of the Victorians in the neighborhood has an interesting bit of yard art:

I have no notion of what this represents, but the face and horns seem to indicate something fierce.

However, I was also quite intrigued by the messages at the base of it:

I couldn’t tell whether the chain around the leg is part of the artistic statement or an anti-theft measure. But it works either way.

Gratitude Monday: Not so mean streets

There was evidently some kind of inter-species animal sporting event on yesterday, but because I don’t much care about that sort of thing, I took myself off for a walk around the neighborhood of the Hill They Call Capitol.

Well—the greater neighborhood, away from the actual Capitol. As it turns out, it was Eastern Market to Barracks Row and back.

Eastern Market proper is a kind of food hall—boutique butchers, poulterers, fishmongers, fruiterers and bakers. I saw some very interesting things, although I wasn’t much impressed with the butcher I spoke with. I asked him what people do with the country ham skins they sell, and he had not a notion.

Still—I now know where to go if I need chicken feet.

On the weekends there’s also a flea market outside, with quite a few interesting food stalls. Let me say that I’m very glad I went there full, or I’d have started with the doughnuts and worked my way down from there.

After making a run past the stalls, I headed into a residential district. I love exploring neighborhoods with a history. By which I mean: years of lives intertwined with architecture and landscape. You can see it in any neighborhood older than about ten or 20 years.

Well, the Hill They Call Capitol certainly qualifies there. Here’s some of what I saw.

Most of the structures are either Federal or Victorian in style—whether original or relatively recent construction. So when I saw this one, on 9^th Street SE, I wondered how it ever got planning permission:

  

However, not only did it get planning permission, it won an award:

Then, there was this one, which is obviously a candidate for gentrification. Or replacement.

Here’s a political statement:

And here’s a use for those spiky iron fences you find all over here:

So on this Monday, I’m grateful for an exploration of this extremely interesting portion of the District.