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Time of India
4 days ago
- Business
- Time of India
Vitrum Studio's Legacy in Glass and Giving
In 1957, a writer in The Times of India made a fleeting remark: "In Kemps Corner, something quietly dignified has been attempted in glass and tile… One hopes it does not go unnoticed. " It didn't quite catch fire in its time, but today, that quiet dignity is finally receiving the recognition it deserves. At the Jehangir Nicholson Gallery at CSMVS, the exhibition 'A Glazed History: Badri Narayan and the Vitrum Studio' (on view till August 31) rekindles the memory of that modest yet radical design collective that once operated in the heart of south Bombay. Vitrum was born from displacement. Polish Jewish émigré Simon Lifschutz, a glassmaker who arrived in India during the Second World War, turned to glassmaking not only as livelihood but as expression. With his wife Hanna, he established Vitrum Studio in 1957 as a philanthropic offshoot of their industrial glass factory. Their aim? To marry craftsmanship with artistic vision—and to make art functional, beautiful, and within reach. You Can Also Check: Mumbai AQI | Weather in Mumbai | Bank Holidays in Mumbai | Public Holidays in Mumbai So strong was Simon's sense of belonging that he even took the effort to learn Urdu as a gesture of respect and connection to those around him. As his son, architect Alex Lifschutz, recalls: "He had experienced such a warm welcome in India after two years as an impoverished refugee moving from Poland through Russia, China and Burma. He felt so at home." Artists from Mumbai's modernist circles—Badri Narayan, Vijoo Sadwelkar, and others—were invited to paint on ceramic tiles, create mosaics and design objects like tabletops, lamps and trays. The aesthetic was tactile, vibrant, and quietly radical: neither elite nor mass-produced, it was art that could live in the everyday home. For Badri Narayan (1929–2013), Vitrum was more than a studio. As its first and eventual chief artist, Narayan brought with him an idealism shaped by Ruskin, William Morris, and the Arts and Crafts movement. Drawing inspiration from Diego Rivera and the US Federal Art Project, he advocated for murals and public installations across Indian cities. His most visible contribution remains the glass mosaic mural for Charles Correa's Gandhi Darshan pavilion in Delhi—a surviving testament to what Vitrum aimed for: art woven into architecture and into civic identity. In the 1960s and '70s, Narayan's handcrafted tiles sold for just 10–15, reflecting his belief that art should be accessible, democratic, and embedded in daily life. He envisioned a public art movement—ambitious, perhaps even idealistic, as the exhibition text acknowledges—but one that championed the social application of art. Curated by Puja Vaish, 'A Glazed History' is as much archaeology as it is an art show. It pieces together fragments—tiles from private collections, rare photographs, Films Division clips, architectural commissions—to reconstruct the life and legacy of a studio nearly lost to time. One of the richest sources was collector Haresh Mehta, who preserved dozens of original Vitrum pieces and shared long-forgotten anecdotes and materials. The exhibition places Vitrum within the wider context of post-independence cultural nation-building. Supported by the Central Cottage Industries under Kamaladevi Chattopadhyay, Vitrum's work stood at the confluence of craft revivalism and modernist aesthetics. For Narayan, this confluence also meant engaging with tradition while forging a contemporary voice—drawing on mythologies, folklore, and literature to create a symbolic vocabulary. Vitrum Studio was also, as Alex Lifschutz recalls, a deeply personal endeavour. "Art was very important to my mother and father," he says. "Both had a hand in the Studio although my father was much more responsible for the factory." Simon, an engineer trained in industrial glass, also saw art as a civic commitment. "He wanted to create value—not just economic, but cultural, social and aesthetic." That ethos extended to their charitable ventures, like teaching child beggars to make delicate glass animals. The studio's design itself embraced passive cooling, recycled materials, and thoughtful provisions for women workers—making Vitrum a forerunner of today's ethical design studios. "There isn't a single 'right time' for overlooked histories to surface," says Vaish. "But this one reminds us that art can be civic, democratic and collaborative." Vitrum's legacy, as Alex sees it, was always about creating value—not just economic, but social, cultural and aesthetic.
Daily Record
05-05-2025
- Business
- Daily Record
Tesco shoppers learn mind blowing meaning behind supermarket giant's name
Tesco is a staple of the British high street with its red and white logo a familiar sight for millions of people. But few know the true meaning behind the supermarket's name. Tesco has long been one of Britain's biggest retailers and is a common sight for the millions who visit its stores for their weekly grocery haul. The iconic logo, with its striking red lettering, is a fixture on our high streets, but not many have considered how the brand name came to be. Shoppers are now becoming curious about the history behind Tesco's name. The supermarket traces its roots back to its founder, Jack Cohen, who set up shop in 1919. Cohen, whose parents were Polish Jewish immigrants, started his business selling various goods from a stall in Hackney, London. He invested his demobilisation money from the Royal Flying Corp, where he served during The Great War, into his market stall on its opening day. The name 'TESCO' was conceived in 1923 when Cohen purchased a shipment of tea from a man named Thomas Edward Stockwell. He ingeniously combined the initials of the supplier with the first two letters of his own surname, reports the Express. Cohen opened his first physical store in Edgware, North London, in 1929. From these modest beginnings, the Tesco empire grew, and by 1939, Cohen had 100 shops under his control. The very first Tesco supermarket opened its doors in Essex in 1958. Tesco's official website recounts the evolution of the brand from small-scale stores to the large supermarkets we know today, saying: "The new format store included a counter service selling cheese, butter and meats weighed by sales assistants." Since 1973, Tesco has also brough options for motorists, introducing petrol station at some of its major locations. Since the founder's passing in 1979, his influence lives on, with Tesco's omnipresence across the UK, boasting over 4,000 outlets. Following Mr Cohen's death, the retail firm's brand name continued to grow, with Sir Dudley Moore appearing in TV adverts in the late 1980s. The Tesco Value range was then introduced in 1993 and later that same year Tesco introduced its iconic 'Every Little Helps' tagline. In 2000, Tesco launched its own website. In addition to it's UK stores, today Tesco has outlets in Czechia, Ireland, Slovakia, and Hungary.
The Guardian
26-03-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Britten Sinfonia/Berman review – haunting premiere about memories of the Holocaust
There is memory, but there is also 'post-memory'. Mingled with the recollection of our own life stories, we humans also carry those of others, told or sometimes concealed by those we once knew, or even never met. But what is passed down becomes ours too. This interwoven fabric of past, present and future is the rewarding inspiration behind Michael Zev Gordon's compelling and intelligent new concert piece, A Kind of Haunting. Gordon's substantial setting is for two narrators, baritone and string orchestra. Premiered by the Britten Sinfonia under Jonathan Berman, it proves true to its title. The score explores Gordon's search for his Polish Jewish ancestors, murdered in the Holocaust in 1941: an event of which Gordon's own father barely spoke, and which the composer and his own children now own too. The focus is on the haunting not just the horror. As Gordon says, the work explores the potency of the Holocaust's aftereffects – a gift and a curse, as Marianne Hirsch's narration has it. Gordon's music is deceptively fragmentary. It starts with a shard of lullaby which disappears and reappears without crystalising. Other patterns and phrases recur and rebuild. But the structure is always clear and controlled. There is a strong focus on text, suggesting Gordon does not want the music to become too overwhelming. Occasionally it feels a little too restrained for what is being described, but Gordon's artistic tact pays dividends in the final pages. One narrator, the excellent Allan Corduner, depicts the search. The second, Louisa Clein, reflects, equally convincingly, on the meaning of the interwoven memories. James Newby brings vocalism of great nuance and controlled solemnity to five reflective arias of mounting intensity to texts by the poet Jacqueline Saphra. The opening half of the concert brought two contrasting masterworks of the Holocaust era itself. Under Berman, the Sinfonia played Martinů's Concerto for double string orchestra, piano and timpani with full toned ferocity. One had to remind oneself that the concerto, with Huw Watkins a formidable piano soloist, was written in 1938, before the events it otherwise seems to embody so strongly. Strauss's Metamorphosen, premiered in 1946, is a work of an altogether different kind, with violinist Zoë Buyers leading the 23 string players in a performance whose intimacy captured the veteran composer's vast sense of loss. This concert will be broadcast on BBC Radio 3 on 9 April The Britten Sinfonia: 1945: A Kind of Haunting is at Elgar Concert Hall, Birmingham on 26 March and Saffron Hall, Saffron Walden on 28 March
Los Angeles Times
24-02-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
‘We Were the Lucky Ones' author revisits WWII Europe with less satisfying results
Georgia Hunter's 2017 debut novel, 'We Were the Lucky Ones,' recounted the seemingly miraculous survival of a Polish Jewish family during the Holocaust. Faithfully adapted into an excellent Hulu limited series, the panoramic tale hewed closely to the details of Hunter's own improbable family history, highlighting instances of fortitude, resourcefulness and luck. Despite occasionally pedestrian prose, the novel was a swift read that, like a memoir, drew power from its authenticity. In that respect, it was a hard act to follow. Hunter's second novel, 'One Good Thing,' shares similar settings and themes, along with a propulsive narrative. But it is a more conventional work of historical fiction, and less satisfying as a result. Its central story, about a young woman and toddler in flight through war-ravaged Italy, is an invention. Ancillary characters, such as Italian cycling champion and Resistance hero Gino Bartali, have real-life counterparts. In an author's note, Hunter suggests that Lili, her fictional protagonist,was partly inspired by her mother as well as the author herself, and that Lili's (too-good-to-be-true) love interest incorporates characteristics of Hunter's father and husband, 'two of the kindest, most loving men I know.' But the story's many twists and hair's-breadth escapes — its devolution into a Holocaust picaresque — lack the foundation of historical truth that undergirded the writer's debut effort. 'One Good Thing' arguably has one advantage over its predecessor: 'We Were the Lucky Ones' juxtaposed alternating narratives involving two parents, five siblings and various spouses and partners. The plethora of characters made for some confusion. In this new novel, the author focuses mainly on the challenges of one woman trying to find refuge in World War II Italy. The book begins as a testament to various forms of love, but especially to the bond between two Jewish best friends living in Italy: Lili and her more assertive Greek pal from university, Esti. It's December 1940, and Europe is already at war; Mussolini's government has enacted anti-Jewish racial laws, and Esti is giving birth. With her husband Niko away, only Lili is there to get her to a hospital. Theo is born at an inopportune time for Jews, whose rights are increasingly circumscribed in the country. A planned beach getaway by Lili and Esti implodes when a hotel clerk refuses to honor their reservation, a foreshadowing of far worse indignities to come. Both Niko and Esti connect with the Italian underground. Niko returns to Salonica, Greece, in an effort to help his parents, while Esti becomes a champion document forger, providing her family, Lili and others with false 'Aryan' papers that will prove crucial to their survival. In Niko's absence, she and Theo move in with Lili, and together they relocate to the town of Nonantola to help refugee children. They confront Allied bombs, German persecution, Italian collaboration and hunger. Priests and nuns are mostly helpful, but not always. Italy's allegiances — first to the Axis powers, then to the Allies — shift and fragment with the tides of war and politics. As one character notes, it's hard to keep up. As Italian Jews are being rounded up and deported by the Germans (with an assist from local fascists), the two friends find their way to Florence. Esti's skills are in demand. But when thugs invade the convent where they are hiding, Esti, trying to help another woman, suffers a near-fatal beating. Fearing another raid, she begs Lili to leave the convent — with Theo in tow. She promises to meet them in Assisi when she recovers. What is a best friend to do? A reluctant Lili assents. From the convent, she and Theo travel — by train, truck and bike, and too often on foot — from one hiding place to another, where they are helped by a series of good Samaritans, Resistance sympathizers and partisan fighters. The underground network holds. For a toddler, Theo behaves surprisingly well, and Lili eases nicely into the maternal role. After Lili and Theo reach Assisi, she receives bad news: the thugs have returned to the convent and taken her friend away. Each hardship and adventure that Lili faces bleeds into the next, with moments of respite and, occasionally, better food. Over time, she grows stronger, physically and psychologically. After a stint in the forest with partisans, Lili and Theo arrive in Rome, settling into a safe house apartment. There, Hunter, clearly a romantic at heart, provides her heroine with a potential partner: an American soldier, Thomas, whom Lili meets on the city's streets. Separated from his regiment in the fighting, Thomas was captured by the enemy but has tunneled his way out of prison. Now it is Lili's turn to provide a hiding place. The attraction simmers. 'She's never met anyone so helpful or so honest — with himself or with her,' Hunter writes. 'Someone so comfortable in his skin.' The three of them become an impromptu family. And family, as her readers know, is everything to Hunter. Even as the war tips in the Allies' favor and Rome is liberated, Lili and Theo's peregrinations aren't over. There are more reunions, including with Lili's long-absent father. There is also loss, or at least the likelihood of loss. And, finally, as for many in Hunter's own family, a rose-tinged American future. Klein is a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia.
