I’ve just been to see an exhibition by an artist whose name for the moment escapes me. He is having an exhibition of his furniture-friendly Pop-Art style abstractions. They’re copies of book covers – title above, abstraction below. A few years ago there was someone, perhaps it was the same bloke, doing large pictures of penguin book covers. Scrape that barrel.
The only unusual aspect is that the hard-edge compositional passages are superimposed on sloppy bits that he lets dribble at the lower edge. It’s a formula he could pursue for the rest of his life.
Some would say “’Twas ever thus!” And thus ’twas, I suppose. But the art world has never been such a joke as it is at present. And it behoves us all to treat it accordingly. You can go along and have a laugh at White Cube Gallery in Mason’s Yard.
“Sir!”, as Dr Johnson didn’t say, “The man who is tired of the 24 bus route is tired of life. From the bosky glades of Hampstead Heath it glides gently through Camden Town and down to the West End. At the bottom of Gower Street you can turn left for the British Museum or right to Bradley’s Spanish Bar and Soho. Further on past the guitar shops of Denmark Street, now destined for demolition by the megalomaniac town and railway planners. The 12 Bar Club is already closed down and before that went the wonderful Black Gardenia at the top of Dean Street – all victims of Crossrail. Stay on to Leicester Square and turn left for the Salisbury or a bit further for Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery. Thence to Whitehall where I often alight at the Cock and Bottle for a morning draught. Thus refreshed I might continue on foot along Millbank to the Tate Gallery.
The other night I deviated from my usual habits and took a bus up to Islington to see the new exhibition by George Rowlett, who has been painting in Italy for a while, taking in the temples at Paestum along with a few land and seacapes. While waiting for Mrs Cravat in the Island Queen I noticed a tall earthenware jar by the window. Its neck was decorated with fairy lights. It reminded me of Samuel Beckett’s great novel The Unnameable, and although some call it The Unreadable I have always found it most absorbing. In it a creature lives in a jar by a restaurant, just a stump with its head poking out. There’s some sawdust in the bottom and from time to time it gets mucked out and spread on the roses. At Christmas they string fairy lights around the neck of the jar and place a tarpaulin over its head if it snows. As the menu dangles from the neck, to read it people must lean down towards the creature’s head.
Edward Burra was a great fan of Beckett and he thought it would be rather nice to live in a jar with just his eyes poking out. He did a number of pictures on this theme. Being so disabled it was a bit like describing his own condition, although he always managed to get around.
An interesting feature of George Rowlett’s paintings is that they often contain fragments of the scene which inspired them. Flies, gnats, twigs, and in one of his recent pieces what looks like the tailfin of a sardine is poking out of a rape field. It’s a bit like Goya writing “Yo Lo Vi”. I saw this. I was there. Perhaps it’s just another way of trapping the moment. I always wonder about the insects etc. which must have been stuck in Van Gogh’s paintings. He always complained about them. Someone must have picked them out.
Rowlett’s painting of the Temple of Neptune at Paestum is a dynamic piece (see illustration). A gigantic dark-haired figure seems to be bursting through the front columns (this is more noticeable in the reproduction than in the actual painting). Such things happen when improvising so loosely and do not detract from the grandeur of the painting. My favourite piece in the show is, oddly, not included in the catalogue: Rape Field near Ripple, grey sky in May. Over a sumptuously slathered on butter and lemon rape field, a wide violet band containing flecks of viridian streaks along under a lowering sky. In the background of Lady’s Smock Lupin and Poppy Heads he seems to have slathered on a totally new colour. Pinky violet, peachy cream. Farrow and Ball would go crazy. Keep it a secret George!
To Chichester with Dirty Harry to see the John Minton show at Pallant House. The air at Chichester is really most refreshing. You feel so close to the sea. The train takes ages and by the time we arrived my throat was as dry as a nun’s gusset. Fortunately just over the level crossing is an excellent pub. On the way back to the station the barman let us watch a stage of the Tour de France on an enormous screen.
At Pallant House as well as the Minton show there is a small gallery of William Coldstream’s paintings. I never realised before how bad he was. The effort he puts in! All those measurements, angles and so forth to achieve such meagre results is astonishing. A kind of constipated sobriety in sharp contrast to Minton’s neo-romantic exuberance. Francis Bacon was always rather dismissive of Minton’s obsession with fellating sailors and body builders: “Why can’t he take it up the bum like everyone else so he can really enjoy it?”
Poor old Minton, a star in the ’40s he rapidly became vieux chapeau as the neo-romantics were swamped by hard-core American influences. His early drawings and paintings were haunting and mysterious, rather like improvised Samuel Palmers. They had an intensity which is hard to sustain for more than a few years. I can think of a number of artists who have had the same problem of youthful ingenuity followed by floundering attempts to come to terms with Modernismo. And the pressure to do so is enormous.
Minton resorted to curious stylistic habits; for instance, portraying heads as horizontal rugby balls with sharp ends – the bigger they got the worse they became.
He did however retain the ability to paint in a straightforward manner and after his early romantic pieces his portraits are some of his best work.
Minton was renowned for his massive mood swings and was often described as mercurial. He was a great friend and admirer of an artistic duo called ‘the two Roberts’, Colquhoun and MacBryde, who wore kilts for God’s sake. They took advantage of his wealth and generosity but looked down on him as a ‘mere’ illustrator. They were much admired in their day but are now almost forgotten. Bacon and Freud are the only artists of this period to survive the American invasion.
Minton became so sozzled that he gave up his teaching post at the Royal College. It must be the first and only time an art school teacher has done that.
Pictures I thought worth looking at were The Desolate Stage of 1939, The Road to Valencia of 1949 and English Landscape of 43. There’s an amusing section called ‘Exotic Fruits’ of half-naked black men picking bananas.
News from the Grotto… The sage is confined to headquarters for the duration of the Appleby Horse Fair. Pikeys arrive from far and wide seeking ‘business opportunities’; some in the manner of Augustus John, and others with lorries towing large chrome-plated caravans. It’s best to be at home.
Dick French
The Jackdaw Sep/Oct 2017
Dick French: On The Town – September 2017
I’ve just been to see an exhibition by an artist whose name for the moment escapes me. He is having an exhibition of his furniture-friendly Pop-Art style abstractions. They’re copies of book covers – title above, abstraction below. A few years ago there was someone, perhaps it was the same bloke, doing large pictures of penguin book covers. Scrape that barrel.
The only unusual aspect is that the hard-edge compositional passages are superimposed on sloppy bits that he lets dribble at the lower edge. It’s a formula he could pursue for the rest of his life.
Some would say “’Twas ever thus!” And thus ’twas, I suppose. But the art world has never been such a joke as it is at present. And it behoves us all to treat it accordingly. You can go along and have a laugh at White Cube Gallery in Mason’s Yard.
“Sir!”, as Dr Johnson didn’t say, “The man who is tired of the 24 bus route is tired of life. From the bosky glades of Hampstead Heath it glides gently through Camden Town and down to the West End. At the bottom of Gower Street you can turn left for the British Museum or right to Bradley’s Spanish Bar and Soho. Further on past the guitar shops of Denmark Street, now destined for demolition by the megalomaniac town and railway planners. The 12 Bar Club is already closed down and before that went the wonderful Black Gardenia at the top of Dean Street – all victims of Crossrail. Stay on to Leicester Square and turn left for the Salisbury or a bit further for Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery. Thence to Whitehall where I often alight at the Cock and Bottle for a morning draught. Thus refreshed I might continue on foot along Millbank to the Tate Gallery.
The other night I deviated from my usual habits and took a bus up to Islington to see the new exhibition by George Rowlett, who has been painting in Italy for a while, taking in the temples at Paestum along with a few land and seacapes. While waiting for Mrs Cravat in the Island Queen I noticed a tall earthenware jar by the window. Its neck was decorated with fairy lights. It reminded me of Samuel Beckett’s great novel The Unnameable, and although some call it The Unreadable I have always found it most absorbing. In it a creature lives in a jar by a restaurant, just a stump with its head poking out. There’s some sawdust in the bottom and from time to time it gets mucked out and spread on the roses. At Christmas they string fairy lights around the neck of the jar and place a tarpaulin over its head if it snows. As the menu dangles from the neck, to read it people must lean down towards the creature’s head.
Edward Burra was a great fan of Beckett and he thought it would be rather nice to live in a jar with just his eyes poking out. He did a number of pictures on this theme. Being so disabled it was a bit like describing his own condition, although he always managed to get around.
An interesting feature of George Rowlett’s paintings is that they often contain fragments of the scene which inspired them. Flies, gnats, twigs, and in one of his recent pieces what looks like the tailfin of a sardine is poking out of a rape field. It’s a bit like Goya writing “Yo Lo Vi”. I saw this. I was there. Perhaps it’s just another way of trapping the moment. I always wonder about the insects etc. which must have been stuck in Van Gogh’s paintings. He always complained about them. Someone must have picked them out.
Rowlett’s painting of the Temple of Neptune at Paestum is a dynamic piece (see illustration). A gigantic dark-haired figure seems to be bursting through the front columns (this is more noticeable in the reproduction than in the actual painting). Such things happen when improvising so loosely and do not detract from the grandeur of the painting. My favourite piece in the show is, oddly, not included in the catalogue: Rape Field near Ripple, grey sky in May. Over a sumptuously slathered on butter and lemon rape field, a wide violet band containing flecks of viridian streaks along under a lowering sky. In the background of Lady’s Smock Lupin and Poppy Heads he seems to have slathered on a totally new colour. Pinky violet, peachy cream. Farrow and Ball would go crazy. Keep it a secret George!
To Chichester with Dirty Harry to see the John Minton show at Pallant House. The air at Chichester is really most refreshing. You feel so close to the sea. The train takes ages and by the time we arrived my throat was as dry as a nun’s gusset. Fortunately just over the level crossing is an excellent pub. On the way back to the station the barman let us watch a stage of the Tour de France on an enormous screen.
At Pallant House as well as the Minton show there is a small gallery of William Coldstream’s paintings. I never realised before how bad he was. The effort he puts in! All those measurements, angles and so forth to achieve such meagre results is astonishing. A kind of constipated sobriety in sharp contrast to Minton’s neo-romantic exuberance. Francis Bacon was always rather dismissive of Minton’s obsession with fellating sailors and body builders: “Why can’t he take it up the bum like everyone else so he can really enjoy it?”
Poor old Minton, a star in the ’40s he rapidly became vieux chapeau as the neo-romantics were swamped by hard-core American influences. His early drawings and paintings were haunting and mysterious, rather like improvised Samuel Palmers. They had an intensity which is hard to sustain for more than a few years. I can think of a number of artists who have had the same problem of youthful ingenuity followed by floundering attempts to come to terms with Modernismo. And the pressure to do so is enormous.
Minton resorted to curious stylistic habits; for instance, portraying heads as horizontal rugby balls with sharp ends – the bigger they got the worse they became.
He did however retain the ability to paint in a straightforward manner and after his early romantic pieces his portraits are some of his best work.
Minton was renowned for his massive mood swings and was often described as mercurial. He was a great friend and admirer of an artistic duo called ‘the two Roberts’, Colquhoun and MacBryde, who wore kilts for God’s sake. They took advantage of his wealth and generosity but looked down on him as a ‘mere’ illustrator. They were much admired in their day but are now almost forgotten. Bacon and Freud are the only artists of this period to survive the American invasion.
Minton became so sozzled that he gave up his teaching post at the Royal College. It must be the first and only time an art school teacher has done that.
Pictures I thought worth looking at were The Desolate Stage of 1939, The Road to Valencia of 1949 and English Landscape of 43. There’s an amusing section called ‘Exotic Fruits’ of half-naked black men picking bananas.
News from the Grotto… The sage is confined to headquarters for the duration of the Appleby Horse Fair. Pikeys arrive from far and wide seeking ‘business opportunities’; some in the manner of Augustus John, and others with lorries towing large chrome-plated caravans. It’s best to be at home.
Dick French
The Jackdaw Sep/Oct 2017
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