Monday, August 26, 2019

Philip Owens - Picture of Somebody?


In discussing Picture of Nobody, Philip Owens’ fantasy of Shakespeare transposed to the Nineteen Thirties, I explained that I could not find any trace of him after the end of the Second World War.

Indeed, it is also the case that there is very little other biographical information about him. The note at the head of his modernist poem ‘From “A Dream of Clouds”’ in The European Caravan, Part 1 (1931), edited by Samuel Putnam and others, gives no facts about him at all, other than to mention his previous writings. As well as those noticed in my earlier post, there is one other, “a play in verse, Marlowe”, which does not seem to be catalogued anywhere: it may have been published in a periodical.

His Hobohemians (1929) is dedicated to Peter Neagoe, a Romanian-born author who around this time was living in Paris and mingling with artistic circles there: this was presumably where Owens met him. The book is a detailed portrait of down-at-heel bohemian life in Berlin, Italy and Paris which suggests first-hand familiarity.

If the book is indeed autobiographical, there are sketchy comments about the protagonist that may suggest episodes in the author’s life. There is mention of rowing near Henley with a ‘backward’ pupil, suggesting a stint as a tutor or coach; a reference to marching with school cadets in Berkshire (presumably from Eton); and an allusion to sea-bathing near Rye. But of course these may be entirely fictional.

Picture of Nobody (1936) has no dedication and neither the dustwrapper nor L A G Strong’s foreword say a thing about the author, other than to describe or praise his work. The book’s depiction of struggling poets, literary coteries and artistic soirees are presumably also though drawn from the life.

As authors generally have some say over notes about them in their books, it is reasonable to surmise that this continued reticence was intentional on behalf of the author. As for why he published no more after 1945, there may be a sombre reason for that (as surmised by Michael Dirda in his comment on the previous post).

Author and Wormwood contributor Colin Insole has kindly shared his research into possible candidates for the author: “I thought there would be many of the same name - Owens being a common surname. But there were only nine Philip Owens born between 1890 and 1905 shown [online]. When I researched his name on the Commonwealth War Graves site, I came upon only one Philip Owens. He died on Sunday June 10th 1945, aged 44 and is buried at the Phaleron Cemetery in Greece. He was a sergeant in the intelligence corps. It could well be him - the age is right. How cruel though to die in action after the war had ended [VE Day was May 8th 1945] - perhaps caught up in intelligence matters during the Greek Civil War.”

The work that Philip Owens was able to publish is full of high spirits, confident handling and original imagination, and it seems a pity that it has largely disappeared from view: but perhaps the time has come for this "picture of nobody" to become a picture of somebody with a new set of readers.

MV

4 comments:

  1. Andrew Parry writes:

    The clues point towards a Philip Elias Owens, the son of Elias John Owens and Lucy Barton, born on the 16 November 1900 ( West Ham registry). His appearance on the 1939 register seems to clinch it, living in Headley Heath and giving his profession as ‘translator from the German’.

    This is the same Philip Owens noted above who died on war service on 10 June 1945. His will went to probate in Llandudno on the 18 January 1946.

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  2. Thank you, Andrew, that's very helpful information.

    Mark

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  3. Jack Lindsay, who published him in The London Aphrodite, says that he was in service during WWII so that makes it still more likely. I came upon "A Dream of Clouds" in college, when I took out European Caravan (for the Beckett in it) and just loved it. I've read Hobohemians as well as Bed and Sometimes Breakfast: An Anthology of Landladies.

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    1. Thanks, William. I do agree - Philip Owens was clearly talented and a sad loss to literature. Mark

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