William Morris' Floral Revolution

Great artists are often thought of as revolutionary. They establish new (or revive old) styles, techniques, or genres. Some may be revolutionary in the political sense, challenging the status quo. Others even transcend history and their work remains firmly embedded in the canon of art rather than withering away into obscurity. The best embodiment of these qualities is perhaps the Victorian polymath William Morris. Undoubtedly one of the few who are revolutionary in all of these ways, his brilliantly unique works in both textile and print were great contributors to the popular emergence of two artistic movements — the neo-Gothic and the British Arts and Crafts movement. His focus on the handmade in an age of burgeoning industry and mass production is stark, while his attitude to domesticity fought against needless clutter: “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” Morris is clearly, then, a man out of his time, as if he had been plucked from the medieval period and thrown into an age that he could only disavow.

Therefore it’s not surprising to note that Morris held a great interest in medieval culture. Studying Classics at Oxford University, he was surrounded by the architectural remnants of the Middle Ages, and he often spent time perusing the Bodleian’s illuminated manuscripts. Such culture seeped into his artistic genius, and his establishment of the Kelmscott Press alongside his textile work makes this obvious. Medieval motifs, especially of nature, are fraught within his art. His most prolific work, Strawberry Thief, appears as if formed by a medieval monk’s hand, transgressing the typical time constraint of history. Now, it appears upon all sorts of merchandise, its cheeky bird peering out to observers amongst a floral backdrop, strawberry hanging from its beak. Over a hundred years later, Morris’ designs such as these are everywhere — but why this timeless appeal?

Perhaps it is precisely this medieval style that attracts us to his work. It is paradoxically modern and historical, a form of Victorian anachronism that elicits a sense of historical importance and beauty. As pioneering pieces of the British Arts and Crafts movement, they were all designed painstakingly by Morris’ own hand. Championing the virtues of handcrafted art, Morris serves as a welcome break in our current age of consumerism and art crafted not by tender, meaningful hands, but rather by the cold, emotionless hands of production line robots. “Romanticism was bred into his bones, and formed his early consciousness,” stated New Left historian E.P. Thompson. Indeed, the rejection of the industry of the Romantics can be found within Morris’ work, and this rejection of overbearing technology is precisely what so many people search for today.

Morris was also a committed socialist (hence Thompson’s extensive work on him), and he campaigned for better conditions in a time of notorious exploitation. It is rather fitting that the spectral hand of hauntology, associated as it is with leftist movements, has ensured that Morris’ art has never truly been laid to rest. Nature has been displaced in our modernised, digital world, leaving us alienated and longing for natural beauty: tulips, marigolds, and chrysanthemums. Morris’ works are not only a reminder of the intricacies of nature, but also an interesting testament to how neoliberalism and industry have left us longing for both the past and such intricacy.

There’s a lot one could say about Morris. His repeating textiles are hypnotic, yet not overwhelmingly vibrant or distracting. His work is temporally displaced, yet purposefully so. His politics were rebellious in a time of economic subjugation. We can identify with the titular Strawberry Thief: in observing Morris’ art, we are taking the beauty of nature and allowing it to sustain us, albeit mentally rather than physically. William Morris is not only revolutionary — he invites his audience to be revolutionary, too.

Image from Wikimedia Commons