Book Review: The Work of a Master Goldsmith by James Miller

In my capacity as Editor of the UKJC website I frequently review books relevant to the world of jewellery; sometimes the connection is, shall we say, tenuous - I don't need too many excuses to go out and buy a book.

I thought I might share some of the reviews here - after all, content is content and not everybody belongs to the UKJC...

Overview 

Beautifully illustrated throughout, this distinctive collection will give an insight into the work of an English, twentieth century master goldsmith. 

So says the ‘blurb’ on the fly-leaf of this beautiful book – and I couldn’t have put it better myself. 

Audience 

If you have any interest whatsoever in fine craftsmanship, beautiful objets d’art, and Faberge style Easter eggs; or if you would simply like to trace the journey of an old-style guild apprentice, you will find this book fascinating.  

Content 

This is a ‘crown royal’ (roughly A4) sized book printed on high-quality gloss paper. As such, it is one of those volumes that you can’t help but linger over – the pages actually ‘ask’ you to stroke them! 

The contents are divided into five sections as follows: 

• James Miller FIPG – An English Goldsmith’s Work History 
• Items made while James Miller was employed at Padget & Braham 1961-76 
• Items made by James Miller while employed at McCabe McCarty 1976-85 
• Items made by James Miller after forming his company James Miller Design in August 1985 
• Technical Terms and Notes 

There is just a small amount of text, mostly confined to Section 1, which details James’ progress from an unqualified school leaver to master goldsmith producing work for Middle Eastern royalty and Crown Jewellers, Garrard & Co. 

Illustrations 

The middle three sections of the book are devoted mainly to full-colour photographic images of Mr Miller’s work. There are a few black and white images of him at work in various workshops, together with some black and white detail images. The photographs, which I believe were taken by James himself, are of excellent quality. 

About the Book 

It would be very easy to dismiss this volume as a coffee-table book but the more I looked at it the more fascinating it became. 

The obviously interesting part is the story of James’ journey to the undoubtedly fine craftsman he is today. For me it brought home the value of ‘old-fashioned’ indentured apprenticeships. These are still offered by The Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths, more commonly known as the Goldsmiths' Company, one of the Twelve Great Livery Companies of the City of London, which received its first royal charter in 1327. 

I have no idea if other trades and professions still offer this type of training but I’m moved to say that, if the result is craftsmen and women of this incredible standard, they should. 

There were, however, other less apparent aspects of this book that intrigued me. For instance, I was completely unaware how many separate craftsmen or women could be involved in the production of one piece. I suppose I assumed that one person was responsible for the piece from beginning to end. Not a bit of it! 

I knew of enamellists of course, but I had never heard of metal spinners, had given little thought to engine turning (although I do possess a beautiful example of engine turning), and it simply hadn’t occurred to me that polishing of these pieces was a trade in itself! 

By the way, a metal spinner spins metal at high speed, I imagine on a lathe type machine, to produce a symmetrical object. 

So, I marvelled over the delicacy of the piercing, the beauty of the enamelling, and the sheer cost of materials. But there was something else to interest me too – as James progressed in his career, his work, as is to be expected, went through changes; some of them not so subtle. 

And it was by looking at these changes that I came to realise that James is not just a master goldsmith, he has other skills too, one of which is to understand his market. 

The phenomenal value of James’ later pieces meant that his market was limited – not many people can afford to spend £20,000 on a pair of table lamps! However, there is a group that not only has the necessary wealth but also likes to demonstrate that wealth. I’m thinking of Middle Eastern royalty and potentates. 

Much of James’ later work is very Eastern in influence; we see Byzantine arches and the repeating geometric forms that typify arabesque artistic motifs. Many of these pieces would look very out of place in the typical British semi but put them in a Moorish palace and they would be completely at home. That is understanding your market! 

My personal preference is for the shields and insignia of James’ early days at Padgett & Braham but I can’t help but be blown away by the craftsmanship of his later table centrepieces. 

Summary 

This is not a cheap book but then work of this quality would somehow be demeaned if printed on cheap paper and presented in a flimsy binding. The packaging suits the contents. 

I think that, whether you are interested in traditionally crafted objects of the highest quality, simply appreciate fine books, or have a burgeoning art collection, this book is a must. Even at its recommended retail price of £70 the book is probably more within your reach than one of James’ stunning pieces – and you can actually acquire it for a whisker under £39.00 at Amazon. A must for any self-respecting art collector.

Bah Bloody Humbug

My 3-year old daughter

So the day after tomorrow is Christmas Day and I've done nothing, zilch, bugger all towards the celebrations. I'm not sure if it's increasing age or increasing bah humbug syndrome that makes the season seem much less exciting than it use to be. Granted my boys are grown but haven't yet blessed me with grandchildren, so there are no squeals of 'he's been, he's been' and no three inch deep layers of wrapping paper across the carpet - maybe that's the problem?

I think though that my dissatisfaction with the festivities dates back to the mid-seventies when I 'gave up' my daughter. My marriage had disintegrated and I was left alone with my three-year old. We went to live with my parents but there were 'issues' and so I took my daughter to stay with her father for a while. He was living with his mum but he had a girlfriend (his secretary!).

I can clearly remember the day.

I took my daughter upstairs, dressed her in her favourite clothes and collected her belongings into a couple of carrier bags. Then, playing the silence game, putting my finger against my lips and miming for her to shush as if I were a pantomime dame, we crept back downstairs. 

“Ssh, don’t let nanny hear,” I whispered. 

The house we lived in

The buggy was by the front door, where I had left it in readiness and, still playing the silent game, I picked it up, took Jo by the hand, and left. It must have been about half-past-eleven, certainly no later than midday.

We had to run for the bus. If I missed the one I could see in the distance, there wouldn’t be another one for thirty-five minutes and I didn’t want to wait that long – to do so would give me a chance to change my mind. I didn't drive back then, so my daughter was used and this  sudden journey didn’t seem out of the ordinary to her. We sat on her favourite long seat at the front of the bus and made up stories about the other passengers; giving them far more exciting lives than the ones they probably lived.

My baby's father, my soon-to-be ex-husband, lived with his parents on the council estate next to ours and the journey took no more than fifteen minutes; no sooner had we sat down and made ourselves comfortable, than it was time to get off again.

Once off the bus, with my in-law’s house in sight at the top of the hill, my stomach did a sort of jig before contracting into a tight ball somewhere up in my throat. I put my daughter in her buggy as calmly as I could with shaking fingers and wobbly knees.  It took me ages to strap her in safely because my limbs seemed to have developed a life independent of me. 

Determined not to cry, and upset her, I talked to my daughter in that silly sing-songy voice we put on when speaking to children - they must hate it. I kept my eyes from spilling over though.

We walked up the hill towards the in-law’s house and down the path to the front door. I willed myself to ring the bell and I knew there was no turning back. 

My mother-in-law answered, looking down her nose at me as usual. There had never been much love lost between us; probably something to do with the fact that I had taken the last of her three sons away from her.  She was half-Italian and a true Italian mama.  

I had really put the kibosh on any friendliness between us during a row about maintenance. She had called me a whore; a flighty trollop who didn’t deserve any money, despite the fact that I had a baby daughter to care for. The row  ended when, in pure frustration, I hurled a bowl of oranges at her.  I might have just got away with that but I couldn't get away from the fact that my father-in-law took my side.  He ordered ma-in-law to make me a cup of tea because I was, in his words, upset.  That went down like a lead fart. 

Anyway, back to the morning in question.

“Is Pete there?”

“Why, watcha want him for?”

“I just need to speak to him. Can you get him please?”

I could hear the quaver in my voice and feel the blood draining from my face. The smile I was trying to paste on never made it to my lips, I'm sure of it. Despite my obvious need to speak to my still-husband, the old bitch made no move to get him.

“Please, get him.” 

Even to my own ears I sounded pathetic.  God, I was begging, I don't do begging. She looked down her hawkish nose at me before huffing loudly and disappearing into the house. She didn’t invite me in, I was definitely unwelcome around these parts.

My husband eventually came to the door and I clearly remember, even then, just feeling so full of despairing love for him. It was to be a long time before I stopped yearning for him. This man was my best and only friend, the person who had helped me to fight my demons since I was fifteen years old. He had always been on my side, we had confronted life together yet now, when I faced the most momentous decision I would ever make, he wasn’t there for me. He couldn’t be there for me; he was somebody else’s ally now.

He looked at me quizzically.

“I need you to have her,” I told him, “until I can sort us out somewhere to live.”

He didn’t argue, didn’t say he couldn’t, didn’t say he wouldn’t, didn’t ask why; just nodded his head and stood back to let Jo waddle past him into the house. As far as she was concerned, she was visiting her nanny; mummy would pick her up later as usual. Her pain and confusion when mummy didn’t come is too painful to think about, even now. I handed over the two small carrier bags that contained her clothes, turned quickly and walked back up the path and down the hill to the bus stop.

This must have happened around October time and that Christmas was bloody awful.  My daughter never did come back to live with me and we are estranged to this day.  We have the occasional rapprochement when we try to be the mum and daughter we long to be but it never lasts for long. 

And to this day I bloody hate Christmas.