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Century at Jerwood, featuring Frink's Walking Madonna

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When I went to Hastings earlier this year I resolved to find a way to return there in an employed capacity. Lo and behold, I was asked to curate an exhibition at Jerwood Gallery, featuring work from the Ingram and Jerwood Collections of Modern British Art. The show, which begins in October 2016, is tentatively entitled 'Century', and it will feature (approximately) 100 works covering a period of (approximately!) 100 years.

There won't be 100 different artists, though. While the collections are fairly eclectic there are particular artists who feature prominently in one or both, so inevitably there will be a bias in their favour. I think we will end up with a vision of 20th century British painting and sculpture that might surprise some people, that is if I don't go crazy trying to whittle down my 'long list'.


One highlight will be Elizabeth Frink's 'Walking Madonna', which stands two metres tall but seems more imposing than that statistic suggests. Of only three cast, one stands at Chatsworth House and another at Salisbury Cathedral. The third is owned by the Ingram Collection.

I was passing through Salisbury last month and stopped to visit the Cathedral, a building I had seen from the ring road countless times but hadn't actually visited in years. My main aim was to look at the engraved prism made by Laurence Whistler to commemorate his brother Rex. I'd forgotten about the Walking Madonna and so came upon the sculpture unawares. Hard to imagine another work of art that would fit in that environment, but this one certainly does.

It has been in situ since 1981, when the Dean of Salisbury Cathedral wrote to his parishioners to warn them of its imminent arrival. He wrote:

This figure symbolises ... human dignity and creativity over militarism and totalitarian disregard for human dignity and rights.

Something similar could be said today.




Christmas at Camelot

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Christmas at Camelot by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, ed. 75, Penfold Press


All the joy and exuberance of Christmas at King Arthur’s court is expressed in this print, the first of a series of fourteen to be based on the medieval poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The author of this verse saga, the mysterious Pearl Poet, is unstinting in his praise as he introduces the courtiers, equating their finery with their moral worth. In his recent translation Simon Armitage describes the two-week-long midwinter feast as ‘a coming together of the gracious and the glad: the most chivalrous and courteous knights known in Christendom’. 

Elegant, innocent and noble, these lively young men and women spend the evenings carousing and the daylight hours on the jousting field. Here we see the best of the best, King Arthur and his queen Guinevere (a woman whose eyes outshine the brightest of her jewels), and beyond them Sir Gawain. The horses prance. The riders eye us coolly, not least the knight, who seems ready for any challenge.

Another artist might have chosen to introduce the series with a scene of Christmas feasting, but Clive Hicks-Jenkins’ depiction of the three riders suggests the lightheartedness and energy of the youthful court, while also emulating the airy elegance of the poem. Dan Bugg’s expert handling of colour pulls a complex, multi-layered print together, making it feel as taut and snappy as a heraldic banner unfurling in the breeze.

Christmas at Camelot is available now from the Penfold Press.




Ravilious / Shakespeare

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Twelfth Night, illustrated by Eric Ravilious, Golden Cockerel Press 1932

At the Royal College of Art, Enid Marx later recalled, she and Ravilious performed in a medieval Christmas play. ‘We wore medieval costumes, Ravilious in parti-coloured tights. I do remember he looked rather like a figure in his own engraving (Shakespeare for Golden Cockerel).' Perhaps he drew on the memory of college days when working on 'Twelfth Night', the last of Robert Gibbings' great Golden Cockerel productions.

Planned as a lavish successor to Gill's 'Canterbury Tales', the book was initially priced at five guineas, but as the recession deepened Gibbings wrote to Ravilious,'I do not think there is a dog's chance of selling more than 250 copies at three guineas...' Other publishers might have abandoned the project altogether, but Gibbings was made of stern stuff. Ravilious agreed to a reduced fee, and 'Twelfth Night' appeared in 1932.

In one scene Viola asks the Clown, 'Dost thou live by thy tabor?' Ravilious had a lot in common with the Clown, professing to Gibbings, 'I'm in pretty low waters myself financially...' but carrying on regardless.

This is an extract from 'Ravilious: Wood Engravings', published by The Mainstone Press.

Ravilious Talk Dates 2016

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Eric Ravilious, Cuckmere Haven, 1939, Towner
I've been doing a bit of planning for the year and can confirm some Ravilious lectures that I'll be giving over the next few months. If you haven't been to one of my talks before they tend to be fairly relaxed events, entertaining (I hope!) and illustrated with images as large and clear as I can make them.

In February I'll be giving a talk for the Art Fund in Bristol, followed by a hop across the Severn in early March to address the Welsh Contemporary Art Society. Just after Easter I'm heading to Wimborne (in Dorset) to give a lecture to the local NADFAS group, and then in May I'll be honing my navigation skills with talks at the Lexden Arts Festival in Suffolk and for NADFAS groups in Hereford and Appleby-in-Westmorland (Cumbria).

Last time I gave a talk to NADFAS in Hereford my train was stopped in its tracks by a landslide, although I did somehow arrive almost on time. I'm hoping nothing that dramatic happens this time around.

In June I'll be with NADFAS again, this time in North Yorkshire, the in early July I'm taking part in a symposium in Cambridge entitled 'Rural Moderns?' and devoted to the work of Ravilious, Bawden, Michael Rothenstein and other Bardfield artists.

You can find details in the sidebar, with links to the host organisation/venue where one is available.

'Don Quixote' in Pictures

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Beggarstaff Brothers (William Nicholson & James Pryde), Don Quixote, 1895
I love 'Don Quixote', though I've only read the book in translation (Edith Grossman's version is my current favourite). What makes it so extraordinary is, to my mind, the fact that we as readers admire the strange old would-be knight despite knowing that he is delusional. We inhabit his fantasies even as we simultaneously share his fellow characters' amusement.

This unlikely co-existence of different perspectives makes the illustrator's job particularly tricky. The book may abound in visually striking incidents - jousting at windmills being perhaps the most famous - but how do you communicate in a picture the layer of reading experience in which the old man's warped vision of reality is noble and true? In fact many artists have responded to the text by presenting Don Quixote as the knight he imagines himself to be; I had a picture of the Beggarstaffs poster when I was young and it gave me the (offputting) impression that this business of knights and windmills was rather solemn.

On the other hand, some of the 17th/18th century illustrations are too obviously comic. The old man's journey is one that takes him through physical hardship, many beatings, near starvation and humiliation. His refusal to give up his noble quest is noble, even though his actions are ridiculous.

Don Quixote reading, Adolf Schwedt, C19

Gustave Dore, Don Quixote Reading, 1868

Svetlin Vassilev, Don Quixote Reading, 2003


Honore Daumier, Don Quixote & Sancho Panza, 1870, Courtauld

Angelo Agostini, Don Quixote (magazine cover), 1880s


Pablo Picasso, Don Quixote, 1955

Edward Hopper, Don Quixote & Sancho Panza, 1899

Gustave Dore, Don Quixote & Sancho Panza, 1868

Svetlin Vassilev, Don Quixote & Sancho Panza, 2003


Charles-Antoine Coypel, Don Quixote Fighting the Wineskins, early C18


Roc Riera Rojas, Don Quixote Jousting Windmills, 1968

Gustave Dore, Don Quixote Jousting Windmills, 1868

Print after Coypel, Don Quixote at the Enchanted Inn, early C18

Roc Riera Rojas, Sancho Panza tossed in a blanket, 1968


Gustave Dore, Don Quixote charging sheep, 1868

In the end I think Gustave Dore remains the one to beat: his vision of 'Don Quixote' is deranged, serious, noble and absurd, all at the same time. I imagine his illustrations will be included in the British Library's exhibition devoted to the subject, which is scheduled to open soon.

Having said that, I really like the work of Svetlin Vassilev, who is Bulgarian and lives in Greece. More about him here



Eric Ravilious: 'Halstead Road in Snow'

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Eric Ravilious, Halstead Road in Snow, 1935 (private collection)


Tyre tracks disappear down a snow-covered lane, beside an elegant Georgian house, as if the people who made them were here just a moment ago. We are in Castle Hedingham, at the junction of Queen Street and Sheepcot Road – also known as Halstead Road – and snow is falling, large flakes covering the picture surface and pulling the eye this way and that. Ravilious was fascinated by winter, relishing the light and colours peculiar to the season, and on this occasion he hurried over breakfast so as not to miss a morning snow shower, starting a drawing outside and then finishing it in his studio.

‘Scratching the spots all over the drawing later with a penknife was a change,’ he wrote to Helen Binyon, ‘And I enjoyed it. I have in mind a series of drawings of houses in this village because in Winter they are such a lovely colour.’

He was fortunate to live in a village with many fine buildings, some dating back to the 15thcentury. Sheepcot House, which can be seen behind the tree in this painting, was built during Shakespeare’s lifetime, and was the birthplace in 1682 of naturalist Mark Catesby. He became later in life a distinguished painter, so much so that his painting 'A blue grosbeak (passerina caerulea) and sweet bay (Magnolia virginiana)' was included in Tate Britain’s 2011 exhibition Watercolour, in which ‘The Vale of the White Horse’ by Eric Ravilious also featured.

Today the horse chestnut tree still stands on Chapel Green, as the patch of grass at the junction is known, but the lanes are not so quiet. The tracks shown here – loose, flowing lines in contrast to the hard geometry of the buildings - were made by bicycles and prams, and they remind us that pre-war Castle Hedingham was a predominantly pedestrian settlement. Local shops catered to most needs, while coal, bread and milk were delivered. On one occasion Ravilious wrote,

‘The milkman made me laugh today. We write up any money owing on the side of the door, and I asked if we owed tenpence. He put his head in and said, “Yes, the writing’s on the wall.”’

And then there was the postman, on whom Ravilious relied almost totally for communication with the world outside the village. With telephones still comparatively rare and unreliable, all arrangements, commissions and payments were made by post, and waiting for the postman was a national pastime.

‘I woke up with a feeling that I wouldn’t sleep any more and might as well get up,’ Ravilious reported one winter morning, ‘And saw the aged postman down the street. He took his time of course – he has a zigzag course and a shuffle that has all time before it – and until each letter has been looked at carefully with a lamp you don’t get it.’

This is an excerpt from 'Ravilious in Pictures: A Country Life', published by The Mainstone Press

Fun at the Fair

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John Piper, Beach and Starfish, 1933/34, copyright artist's estate/DACS 2016

I was mildly astonished to see so many people coming into the London Art Fair yesterday evening, as Tim Mainstone and I were leaving. Most of the visitors seemed to be fairly young, and I wished I had a clipboard handy so I could pretend to be a market researcher and find out what they had all come to see. I could have taken notes on the show as well. As it is, I can only a remember a few of the things I really liked.

As museum partner, Jerwood Gallery set the tone with a mixture of interesting Modern British paintings and drawings with a coastal theme, offset by Marcus Harvey's startling bronze of Margaret Thatcher as a sort of hideous mermaid. A particular highlight was the John Piper collage, 'Beach and Starfish', which must rank near the top of the chart, Piper-wise. I hadn't really looked at it carefully before, and was struck by the reference to Nazis in the newspaper used for the cliffs, and by the shiny fabric flag.

Peter Clark, Handle with Care, collage, 2015, artist's copyright, Portland Gallery
Interesting to compare a Piper collage of Knowlton Church, Dorset, which was on the Portland Gallery stand; a sketch, almost, in cut paper, that captured nicely the geometry of Neolithic circle and Medieval church. This was set alongside contemporary collage by Peter Clark, whose work hovers intriguingly between the 1960s and the present.

It can be tricky when the old and the new hang side by side, as the former can seem rather drab and the former too shiny, by which I don't mean literally gleaming but untouched by time. If a painting from the 1930s has survived this long and is being exhibited with a five figure price tag then it must have some worth (reasons the art-overloaded visitor), whereas new work is much harder to evaluate. You just have to trust your instinct, I suppose.

Patrick Hughes, Paolozzi Robotski, oil on board, 2015, artist's copyright, Flowers
I was immediately drawn to Patrick Hughes trompe l'oeil painting 'Paolozzi Robotski' at Flowers, initially because it was fun and subsequently (on the second go-round) because it was beautifully crafted.

Colour and the smell of oil paint attracted me to the Long and Ryle stand, plus they were busily hanging a large painting. Nothing like a bit of bustle in a gallery to catch the attention. Chatting with the staff I learned that I've walked past the gallery in Pimlico a hundred times without noticing; I liked several of their artists, contemporary painters with a sense of history, an upbeat approach and lots of style.

Simon Casson, Eegrass, oil on canvas, 2015, artist's copyright, Long & Ryle
The award for most entertaining object probably goes to Pertwee, Anderson and Gold for 'Byron's Bong', which was pretty much what the title suggests. Apparently it had been sold for a price in the tens of millions, which is only right and proper for such an important historical artefact.

Finally, two very different galleries from Edinburgh made me want to take an art tour north of the border. While The Scottish Gallery had (among other things) a couple of lovely works on paper by JD Fergusson, who I would rate alongside any British artist of the 20th century, Arusha Gallery had possibly my favourite artwork of the night, 'Woman with flowers' by Romina Ressia - a photograph that looked like a painting, of a woman who might have stepped out of a Hammershoi interior.

Romana Ressia, Woman with flowers, photograph, 2015, artist's copyright, Arusha Gallery
The London Art Fair is at the Business Design Centre, Islington, until the weekend.





Saatchi Revisited

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Stephanie Quayle, Two Cows, 2013 (artist copyright)
I used to love going to the old Saatchi Gallery in St Johns Wood. There was something incongruous about heading out into the boonies (at least that's what it felt like) to see strange and wonderful artworks. Not everything was great, but there was always the possibility of seeing something good in the days when there were no YBAs, just artists who were getting started. I've always thought looking at art is the best way of whiling away a Saturday in London, particularly when skint, and in the late 1980s/early 90s you could find people like Sarah Lucas showing their work in funny little galleries that were basically empty shops.

Virgile Ittah, Echoue au seuil de la raison, 2014 (artist copyright)
Then came 'Sensation' at the RA and with all the hype and hooha I felt that the youthful fun went out of the revolution launched by Hirst and co. at Goldsmiths in the previous decade. Some of the artists went on to produce fascinating work worthy of Biennale halls, others didn't.

Fast forward a couple of decades and I found myself in London with my daughter, who is taking Art for A Level. When asked what she wanted to do she replied without hesitation: visit the Saatchi Gallery. By which she meant the new version on Kings Road.

Seung Ah Paik, Maitreya, 2012-13 (artist copyright)
I went with what I hoped was an open mind, but did suspect that the work would be idea-based and reliant on technology. Far from it. The best artworks on display in the current exhibition, 'Champagne Life' (other sparkling wines are available), involve the inventive use of traditional media. Technical skill and knowledge of art history are much in evidence, but there's emotional depth too, not to mention that hallmark of old-school Saatchi, humour.

Mequitta Ahuja, Rhyme Sequence Jingle Jangle, 2012 (artist copyright)
The work fit well in nicely-proportioned rooms, with almost no clutter (barriers, text panels, etc), and there seemed to be schoolkids everywhere, sketching, chatting and taking pictures with their phones. My daughter found lots to inspire her.


'Champagne Life' is at the Saatchi Gallery, Kings Road, until 9 March.




The Power of Simplicity: a Visit to the Whitworth

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Frank Auerbach, Head of EOW, 1960 - detail (artist copyright)
I visited the Whitworth Art Gallery the other day for the first time since its grand reopening. The main exhibition rooms were closed for a rehang but it was still a wonderful experience; the Whitworth is up there with the best art museums in the country, not because its collection is necessarily better than anyone else's, but because the whole experience of looking at the work is relaxed and interesting.

Auerbach, Head of EOW, 1960, charcoal on paper (artist copyright)

The highlight for me was a portrait in charcoal by Frank Auerbach, a similar piece to the drawing of the same sitter in the current Tate exhibition, but if anything more powerful. I don't know whether this is the case or not, but the German writer WG Sebald must have had Auerbach in mind when he created the character of Max Ferber in his novel 'The Emigrants', Ferber being an artist who keeps erasing and reworking his drawings until his studio is covered in a thick layer of dust.

I was peering at the specks of charcoal dust that had fallen onto the liner of the frame when a fellow visitor to the gallery said something about the power of the work, and we struck up a conversation. I pointed out the way the paper had been torn in places by the youthful Auerbach's fierce technique; she noted in turn the bold straight lines and angles which add to the energy and strangeness of the portrait. We chatted for ten minutes or so, and for that short time it was as if talking about pictures with a complete stranger was the most natural thing in the world.

Auerbach, Head of EOW - detail (artist copyright)
In this striking portrait, the sitter seems about to topple sideways out of the frame. I love the fact that the artist's every gesture remains visible, all the bold strokes and moments of indecision. They're still there, recorded in this simplest of media, although I'm sure museum conservators must wish Auerbach had used a less violent technique. How on earth do you preserve such woefully damaged paper for posterity?


The Auerbach piece is hanging in a vast display of portraits, which together form a sort of portrait of the museum and the people associated with it. All shapes, sizes, periods and media are represented in the most exuberant way, the pictures arranged visually - in patterns - rather than by date or type. There are no labels or text panels, but you can pick up a simple booklet with all the info, and carry it round with you.

Personally, I like this approach. It allows you to escape from your own preconceptions and prejudices and concentrate on looking. If something grabs you, then you can refer to the notes. A member of staff explained that the pictures were hung salon-style like this as a nod to 19th century customs, and isn't it better to have lots of work out on display, rather than stuck in a store room - even if you have to crane your neck a bit to see some of it?

Richard Forster, Three Verticals on consecutive but random time intervals, Saltburn-by-the Sea, 21 Jan 2009 (artist copyright)
The power of simplicity was also evident in Richard Forster's work. When I saw the triptych above I thought at first that it was made up of three photographs, but something wasn't quite right. On closer inspection they turned out to be pencil drawings, and in the next room were many more. Forster works in series, exploring particular places according to time sequences suggested by phenomena like the tides. His chosen medium is perfect for this kind of project, allowing him to create images that resemble the fuzzy black-and-white photos used by Sebald in his books, but with an added mystery and shimmer.

Richard Forster, installation view at Whitworth Art Gallery

Richard Forster, American Pastoral - Ostalgie Pattern with Tape, 2011 (artist copyright)

Richard Forster's exhibition continues at Whitworth Art Gallery until the end of February.

Modern Painters: Rose Wylie & Michael Simpson

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Rose Wylie, Girl in Lights (artist copyright)
On Saturday I gave a lecture to the Contemporary Art Society for Wales, an organisation founded in the 1930s and still going strong today. Its main activities include buying artworks for public collections in Wales and putting on lectures by contemporary artists and art historians of one kind and another. The members I met over lunch included an artist whose zest for life belied her 92 years; she gave me hope for the future!

Since I was more or less in Cardiff I thought I would pop over to the Chapter Arts Centre to have a look at Rose Wylie's paintings. I say 'pop', but in fact the journey took almost as long as the trip from Bristol, thanks to my foolish decision to trust the Sat Nav on my phone. At one point the machine took me past the same pub, bookies and nail bar THREE TIMES without even a hint of an apology. Never again.

Rose Wylie, Black Strap (Red Fly) & (Syracuse Lineup), 2014 (artist copyright)
The only Wylie painting I'd seen before this is 'Silent Light (Film Notes)', which I first saw hanging in the Jerwood Gallery a couple of years ago. I loved it immediately, but without knowing quite why, and I hoped that my detour to Chapter would help me understand the attraction.

Founded in the early 1970s in a Victorian school building, Chapter is a wonderful place, multi-faceted and welcoming; I like the fact that the art gallery is right next to the bustling cafe/bar, so that you can wander in on a whim and see what's going on, in this case 'Tilt the Horizontal into a Slant', an exhibition of Rose Wylie's large, exuberant canvases. Once again my first reaction was one of pleasure, and once again I couldn't immediately tell what it was I liked about the work.

Rose Wylie, Sack Barrow: Factory Pin-up, 2014 (artist copyright)
The style is what they used to call Neo-Expressionist, which doesn't tell you much. It reminds me of early David Hockney pictures, although Wylie herself acknowledges Philip Guston as an important influence. She trained in the dark days of the 1950s, when teachers derided would-be figurative painters - Paula Rego was studying around the same time, and was encouraged by her future husband Victor Willing to keep a Secret Sketchbook for her drawings. Guston, meanwhile, had dug his way out of the mire of Abstract Expressionism and Wylie found inspiration in his example.

Rose Wylie, Girl in Lights (detail)
In interviews Wylie comes across as straightforward, pleasantly opinionated and free of artworld nonsense. Her paintings are clever and witty. My uncertainty about them, I now realise, is related to the fact that many allude to films, and often I don't know or haven't seen the movie - walking around the Chapter show I felt at first that there was a joke I didn't get. Then I stopped trying to read the work and instead looked at the lines, the shapes and the chunks of thick paint that look as delicious as cake icing. People miss the point when they describe her work as cartoonish or child-like; these are carefully considered paintings that reflect the experience and hard work of a lifetime. But the spirit behind them is defiantly youthful.

Michael Simpson, Bench Painting 78, 2009 (artist copyright)
On the face of it the paintings of Michael Simpson, currently on show at Spike Island in Bristol, are quite different: minimal, geometric, austere. However both artists work on a large scale, both seem to take great pleasure in the business of painting, and both have a sense of humour. Like Wylie, Simpson explores external references in his work, but whereas she is inspired by contemporary film and everyday life, he delves into the work of 16th century philosopher Giordano Bruno or medieval church architecture.

Michael Simpson, Unnamed (Confessional), 2015 & Minbar (Pulpit), 2015 (artist copyright)
I was particularly struck by a series which explores the phenomenon of the leper squint, not a terrible affliction of the already-afflicted, but a hole in the church wall through which lepers and other undesirables could take part not just in services, but in the everyday social life of a community from which they were otherwise excluded. The four paintings of long ladders are both monumental and poetic; when you understand what the little black square at the top represents, they become much more...

Michael Simpson, Leper Squint 16, 4-part painting, 2014 (artist copyright)

Michael Simpson, Leper Squint 16 (detail)

Rose Wylie is at Chapter until 29 May.
Michael Simpson is at Spike Island until 27 March.

Hooray for Giorgione the Unknowable

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Giorgione, The Tempest, c1506-8
Historians explain the past in terms of cause and effect, art historians in terms of innovation and influence. Work your way through one of the enormous books on the subject (billed as the definitive guide or THE story) and you come out the other end with the feeling that human culture is a sort of long distance railway journey from a remote and primitive region to the bustling metropolis. One thing follows logically on from the next: Giotto... Titian... Rembrandt... Manet... Warhol... It makes sense. It's reassuring, in the same way that knowing the English kings is reassuring.

But of course there are other ways of looking at this. When Peggy Angus visited Soviet Russia in the early 1930s she was struck by the way artworks were arranged at the Hermitage, not by movement but by patron. The artistic identity of different ages was moulded not by the artists but by the people and organisations who paid them - the Christian church in 15th century Italy, or the wealthy burghers of Vermeer's Holland, or the rich men who paid Thomas Gainsborough to paint their women.

This is a bit reductive, but it does make you think. Why, I sometimes wonder, is there such an obsession with progress in art? At any one time the vast majority of artists (and their patrons) are conservative. Techniques evolve, but the wealthy still like to have their portraits painted and London galleries are filled with attractive pictures of landscapes and picturesque places. Meanwhile, the unique expression embodied in a really good painting is likely to be missed, as we pin it to our art history map.

Titian, Pastoral Concert, c1509
Rather than exemplifying the fashion of their age, exceptional artists tend to transcend it. Frank Auerbach made the point in an interview last year that Giotto and Cezanne have more in common than Cezanne and Pissarro, because the former both painted pictures that 'work'. In the same way it makes more sense to think of Manet in relation to Goya than as an Impressionist. Better still, look at Manet next to Giorgione.

In strict art historical terms the relationship between these two wonderful artists is debatable. When
he first decided to paint a naked woman, Manet did go off to consult Giorgione, but the painting he studied - 'Pastoral Concert' - has since been attributed to Titian. So he may have tried to be influenced by Giorgione but wasn't, except sort of second-hand, via Titian. 

But I think there's a more important connection between these two painters, though divided by the centuries: they both painted pictures that resist being pinned down. In Manet's case I'm talking particularly about 'A Bar at the Folies-Bergere', which I never tire of visiting at the Courtauld Gallery, and in Giorgione's 'The Tempest', aka 'The Soldier and the Gipsy', which I was hoping would be featured in the current RA show, but isn't.

Manet, Dejeuner Sur L'Herbe, c1862
I don't know what either artist intended, but both works play with our ideas of art history. In Manet's case, the painting seems at first sight to be pretty straightforward. The young barmaid belongs to the 19th century tradition of French realist painting. She's from a humble background and so anonymous that she's not even mentioned in the title of the painting, which is more conventional than, say, 'Dejeuner sur L'Herbe'. At first sight, that is. Look more closely and we realise that there is a mirror behind her, and that her reflection is not where it ought to be, ie behind her, but off to the right. And then there is a sinister-looking cove in a hat who appears to be standing where we stand, in front of the picture.

It's hard not to feel that there's a story here, but what is it? Is the girl being propositioned? Is she suffering existential ennui? Or is the sinister cove a reference to mortality, Manet himself being close to death? The distorted reflection demands an explanation we can't give, while the young woman's expression is unreadable.

Manet, A Bar at the Folies-Bergere, 1874
In fact it's not unlike the expression of the young mother in 'The Tempest', a painting which must hold some sort of record for the number of different interpretations it has inspired. To the non-art historian this must seem puzzling. After all, there's nothing immediately odd about the painting. In fact the scene is rather ordinary. There are no mythical beings or monsters or people wandering around with severed heads, just a woman breastfeeding a baby while a man stands nearby. There's a town in the background, over which a storm is breaking, but not very dramatically.

So what makes art historians tear their hair out over this charming but innocuous little picture? The absence of a story. Convention tells us that Italian artists of Giorgione's time did not paint anonymous figures in fields - as 19th century French artists did. They painted scenes, mostly from the Bible and sometimes from Classical mythology. A man in a painting other than a portrait was a saint or a Greek god or a hero; a woman was Mary or Venus or a nymph. Yes, there were other, more obscure characters, and some fairly recondite Biblical scenes, but the idea of placing a random person in a landscape was unthinkable.

The business of interpreting this painting has kept generations of scholars busy. One version sees the baby as Dionysos, who is being cared for by his aunt Ino after Zeus killed his mother Semele with a thunderbolt, while Hermes stands by. There's one potential problem with this interpretation, since X-rays show that the male figure was painted over the figure of a second woman, but a classically educated person might well have seen lightning and thought, aha, Zeus. Others see a Christian story here, such as the rest on the flight into Egypt, although the late addition of the male figure is problematic again.

What I love about all this is the fact that so many people have spent so much time looking at this little painting. To my mind, the main reason for studying art history in the broad sense is to get more pleasure out of individual works of art. It's fun to pick out influences and guess at relationships, but in the end it's the looking that counts. And the pleasure of looking.

In the Age of Giorgione is at the RA until June.










Eric Ravilious and a Boat Race Landmark

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Eric Ravilious, River Thames at Hammersmith, 1933 (Towner)


Although he was born in London and lived there on and off through his twenties, Ravilious painted few watercolours of the capital. Fans of the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race may recognise the scene, however, as the island lies about halfway along the course, just around the Surrey Bend from Hammersmith Bridge. We are looking from Chiswick Mall over the western end of Chiswick Eyot towards the low-lying land of Barnes.

By 1933, Ravilious and Tirzah were dividing their time between Great Bardfield in Essex, where they shared a house with Edward and Charlotte Bawden, and a flat on Weltje Road, Hammersmith, which overlooked the river a short way downstream of this vantage point. Here the couple held Boat Race parties every spring, particularly enjoying the moment of drama when the thin, pointed prows of the boats first appeared out from under Hammersmith Bridge, with the spreading swarm of little steamers and motor-boats following behind. In 1938 Ravilious designed for Wedgwood a magnificent Boat Race bowl.

Further upstream, Tirzah later recalled, ‘was a barge made into a boat house... and even further along was our landlady Mrs Austin and then Mr Nigel Playfair’s house with its large semi-circle of window... opposite these houses was a little island called the ‘Ey’ or Ait’ which you could visit at low tide’

It was perhaps from the landlady’s window that Ravilious painted a scene that is full of interest. In the foreground a workman gazes upriver, ignoring for the moment the piles of bricks and sand that he is about to build into the slipway one can see today. Beyond him lies the island, one of those low, cigar-shaped accumulations of mud that belong uniquely to the tidal Thames. From it protrude curious tufts of vegetation. They could be rushes, except that the plants on the far left, which are uncut, seem more substantial. Something is certainly being cultivated here, but what?

The Eyot floods at high tide with brackish water, making it useless for most crops but ideal for growing willows such as the shrubby, multi-stemmed osier (Salix viminalis). This fast-growing plant was once vital to fruit growers and market gardeners, who relied on its stems, known as withies, for basket-making. In earlier centuries Chiswick was renowned for its market gardens and, from around 1800, the Eyot was used to cultivate osiers, a practice that continued until the last grower went out of business two years after this painting was made.

Osiers still grow on the island, now a nature reserve. Nearby another longstanding local industry remains very much in business – an industry in which the artist had a considerable interest. Fuller’s Griffin Brewery occupies the same extensive site just behind the artist’s vantage point on Chiswick Mall, as it did in 1933 and has indeed since 1845. Perhaps, as he worked, Ravilious smelled the fragrant hops and looked forward to a pint of London Pride.


This is an excerpt from 'Ravilious in Pictures: A Travelling Artist', published by The Mainstone Press.

'Sir Gawain & The Green Knight' in Pictures

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Christmas at Camelot, screenprint by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, Penfold Press 2015
I'm eagerly awaiting the second print in Clive Hicks-Jenkins's series of fourteen devoted to the adventures of Sir Gawain and his nemesis, the Green Knight. I've seen various preparatory drawings and proofs, and the finished print of 'The Green Knight Arrives' promises to be stunning. Watch this space.

The story has inspired numerous illustrators over the centuries, from the anonymous artist whose work adorns the original manuscript to Diana Sudyka, whose illustrations accompany Simon Armitage's translation of the text in a 2008 Folio Society edition.

Illustration of Green Knight's arrival by Anning Bell, 1913
The big difference between most of the pictures shown here and Clive's project is that these are book illustrations, whereas Clive is producing a series of free-standing prints inspired by, but not directly connected to the text. Not that there is anything wrong with the book illustrations, some of which are dazzling.

Green Knight's arrival, by Juan Wijngaard, 1981
The very first (extant) edition of the poem, which is held in manuscript form in the British Library, was illustrated by an unknown artist in the 14th century. The grisly scene of the Green Knight speaking via his decapitated head is particularly striking - note the expressions of (medieval) bewilderment on the faces of Arthur and his retinue - OMG! #headisoff!

Green Knight continues speaking, despite losing head, Illustration from original manuscript, C14


The same scene illustrated by Diana Sudyka for the Folio Society, 2008

Gawain approaches Sir Bertilak's castle, Cyril Satorsky, Ltd Editions Club, 1971

Watch out Gawain! Sir Bertilak's wife, by Diana Sudyka

Gawain at the Green Chapel, Lego-style, by Josh Wedin 2007

Yikes! The Green Knight by Des Hanley, 2000s

The moment of truth for Gawain, Dorothea Braby, Golden Cockerel Press 1952

There's a whole world of other Gawain-related imagery out there - if anyone wants to share any please comment below. I'll post an image of Clive's new piece as soon as it's published. Meanwhile, for an interesting take on Gawain style, check this out.



Straight Outta Compton Verney

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Look at them paws! View courtesy Capability Brown
If you've never been to Compton Verney, the art museum housed in a Georgian mansion near Stratford on Avon, then you should go. It is the kind of place that haunts you, a grand old house on a human scale, with beautiful grounds and a fascinating art collection. I came away with the feeling that I'd spent most of the day wandering the interior of a (mostly) benevolent dream.

The first house on the site was built in the 15th century by Richard Verney, a knight. Various extensions and alterations followed, culminating in a major redesign in the modish Classical style, circa 1715, making the present house a contemporary of Blenheim Palace down the road - but much easier to take in if your home is a terraced house in Bristol! Stunning it may be, but it's the kind of place you can imagine being inhabited by actual people rather than giants.

This being said, there must have been some serious money around in the later 18th century, when two of the period's biggest names, Robert Adam and Capability Brown, were hired to remodel the house and lay out the grounds. The effect of the landscaping in particular is theatrical, in that you walk up one side of a long, narrow pond, glimpsing the house only occasionally through the trees, then cross the pond on a bridge that offers the first proper view. By the time you actually reach the building you've seen it in glimpses, at a distance and up close, all from different angles.

Lucus Cranach the Elder, Venus and Cupid, c1525 (photo copyright Compton Verney)
Having driven all the way across the open expanse of the Cotswolds I found the interior slightly bewildering and immensely stimulating - a warren of staircases, corridors and rooms - though this was I think exacerbated by the staging of the current Shakespeare exhibition with its uneven wooden flooring and paintings lit in unusual ways and surrounded by deep shadows. These rooms were all enclosed, but then came another with wide windows looking out over the parkland. The contrast between dark and light, enclosure and space was startling.

Pierre-Jacques Volaire, Vesuvius Erupting at Night, C18 (photo copyright Compton Verney)
Like many country houses, Compton Verney enjoyed prosperity until the latter part of the 19th century, when an agricultural recession (a product of globalisation and cheap imports - plus ca change) cut estate revenues. In the early 20th century, then, increasingly heavy death duties added a crushing burden. The house was sold out of the family, and eventually requisitioned by the military during World War II, before being more or less abandoned for almost fifty years. It was the enterprising former Littlewoods chairman Peter Moores who began restoration work at Compton Verney in 1993, and in 1998 it opened as an art museum.

Queen Elizabeth I, British School, c1590 (photo copyright Compton Verney)
The unusual collection is worth seeing irrespective of the exhibition schedule, with an array of paintings from Naples 1600-1800, then late medieval art - notably paintings by Cranach - from northern Europe, and a fairly small but marvellous group of British portraits. These are on the ground floor, then come the exhibition spaces and rooms showing a world class collection of ancient Chinese artefacts, and then a mezzanine and attic that house Compton Verney's folk art collection.

Folk art!
This, the largest collection of its kind in Britain, is as mixed a bag as you'd imagine, given the limitless nature of 'folk art'. There are painted signs and carved symbols for shops and businesses, hunting decoys, bird scarers in the form of toy soldiers with spinning arms, hand-made chairs, and numerous amateur or naive paintings of boxers, shops, dentists at work, etc, etc, etc. Personally, I love the curiosities best - the oversized top hat that must have advertised a shop, a giant padlock, a carved weathervane in the shape of a hand.

Village Fete, British School, c1790 (photo copyright Compton Verney)

Girl with Cherries, British School, c1820 (photo Compton Verney)
Such things were admired and collected by Ravilious, Bawden, Angus et al, and the connection between folk art and professional 20th century artists and designers is made explicit in the Marx-Lambert Collection, which occupies one end of the attic. Alongside examples of Enid Marx's design work are ceramics and other folk art objects collected by Marx and her friend Margaret Lambert, with whom she wrote 'English Popular Art'. First published soon after the war, it is in print today, while the subject of folk art continues to inspire contemporary artists like Jeremy Deller.

Alarming carved wooden pig's head
Pop Art?


You could argue, I suppose, that folk art itself was a phenomenon that evolved out of the tastes and collecting habits of 20th century artists and designers. Like Picasso or Klee, or any number of European artists, they were looking outside the mainstream for inspiration, delighting in strange objects and naive paintings as things of originality in an increasingly uniform world. This is certainly the case with Ravilious in his book 'High Street', which is a compendium of oddities, and it's interesting then to look at the visual echoes of folk art that you see in pop art. I can imagine that Joe Tilson, for one, would have enjoyed carving some of those lovely old shop symbols...

Find out more about Compton Verney here.









Breaking News! Great Bardfield Symposium Coming Soon!

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Apologies for the poor reproduction if this rather fine brochure, but it's the best I could do with my limited technical know-how. If you want a proper one, please contact the Fry...








Modernism on Sea

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By a typical quirk of scheduling I'll be heading straight from the Great Bardfield Symposium to Bournemouth, where I'm talking about Paul Nash, Eric Ravilious and Edward Bawden at a weekend art/lit festival, 'Modernism on Sea'.

It sounds like an entertaining weekend is in store, with workshops devoted to esoteric subjects like 1930s millinery, a stall run by Paul Rennie, and an array of speakers: Kate Williams, Lara Feigel, Simon Beeson, Priya Parmar, Catherine Wallace and Suzanne Joinson.

'Modernism on Sea' takes place at Talbot Heath School, Bournemouth, on 2/3 July,

Barbara Rae in London

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Barbara Rae, Camino de la Noche, mixed media on canvas (artist copyright)
A rather dreary Bristol afternoon has just been livened up by news of a forthcoming Barbara Rae exhibition at Portland Gallery (near Green Park). If the catalogue is anything to go by, this show will repel anything the summer can throw at us.

Barbara Rae, Sanctuary, mixed media on canvas (artist copyright)
Rae is one of those fascinating painters whose work hovers between abstraction and representation. Is it a peculiarly British thing, this tendency to create abstract paintings in which a clear sense of place or reality remains? I'm thinking of Joan Eardley, Patrick Heron, Peter Lanyon...

Barbara Rae, Shoreline, mixed media on canvas (artist copyright)

The exhibition starts on 2nd June.

The works shown are part of the exhibition and are reproduced here in the spirit of 'spreading the word'. They of course remain Barbara Rae's copyright.

An Unseen Ravilious

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Eric Ravilious, HMS Actaeon, 1942
People often ask me if there are any more Ravilious watercolours to be discovered, to which the short answer is 'yes'. For instance, quite a few pictures from his first solo exhibition at Zwemmer Gallery in 1933 are unaccounted for. They exist only as titles in a catalogue, and not particularly descriptive titles at that. Other pictures have gone AWOL since his second and third exhibitions, but not many, likewise few known paintings from his years as a war artist are missing.

But not all his work was exhibited in his lifetime or handed over to the War Artists' Advisory Committee. Now and again he painted a watercolour for somebody, either (one would imagine) as a private commission or as a gift. Which is why a lovely painting like 'HMS Actaeon' can suddenly materialise in a London exhibition, almost seventy-five years after it was painted.

This watercolour goes on view at the Fine Art Society in June, as part of an exhibition to celebrate the gallery's 140th anniversary. According to the catalogue, Ravilious gave the painting to Lieutenant West, a mine disposal officer stationed aboard this curious looking vessel.

HMS Actaeon was a floating training and research facility housing the Royal Navy torpedo school, and part of a larger shore establishment at Portsmouth named HMS Vernon. Actaeon itself was a 50-gun ‘fourth rate’ launched in 1832 and attached to the torpedo school in 1876. She had been commissioned originally as HMS Vernon but was renamed in 1886 to avoid confusion and the torpedo school took over her name. 

In the Second World War, and following on from the increasing use of mines, Vernon took on responsibility for mine disposal and developing mine countermeasures. The staff were able to capture a number of enemy mines and develop successful countermeasures. A number of officers working with Vernon were awarded Distinguished Service Orders for their successes in capturing new types of mine. Some of these were the first Royal Naval decorations of the war.

So what had Ravilious to do with West? On-the-ball Rav fans may remember the naval officer as one of the figures in a trio shown in the 1940 painting 'Dangerous Work at Low Tide'. They are en route to defuse a mine, which appears small but sinister in the distance. You can see a close-up of the group in the video below, about a minute in, and in the title image.



It seems that Ravilious gave Lieutenant West the painting of 'HMS Actaeon' as a thankyou, presumably for allowing him to come along that morning and making all the necessary - and no doubt irritating - arrangements. One curious thing, though. According to the catalogue this painting is dated 1942. Ravilious watched the mine defusing operation early in 1940, and was then in Portsmouth that summer; by 1942 he had left the Royal Navy and was working with the RAF. So either there's been a mix-up with the dates, or Ravilious promised the picture but took a while to paint it, or he and Lieutenant West ran into each other at some point long after that dangerous dawn.

The Fine Art Society 1876-2016: A Celebration opens on 6th June.

The Green Knight Arrives

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Clive Hicks-Jenkins, The Green Knight Arrives, Penfold Press (artist copyright)



Arthurian legend is full of warriors, but the Green Knight is unique – unearthly, even monstrous, yet still a knight. His unexpected arrival during the Christmas feast is one of the most famous entrances in the canon of British literature, accompanied in the poem by what Clive calls a ‘forensic’ description of his outlandish appearance.

Clive looks beyond the poetry to explore the character and cultural implications of Gawain’s nemesis, in an intense portrait of mingled power and vulnerability. The upper body of the Green Knight fills the frame, his statuesque head and massive arm suggesting the might of an ancient god – but in a sensitive pose reminiscent of Rodin. That flowing beard hints at the graphic gravitas of a playing card king; look again and it is a river flowing through a tattooed forest. Our 21st century Green Knight is a modern primitive, whose identity is etched into his skin.

A fascination for the decorated body has long been a feature of Clive’s work, and here there is a powerful pictorial contrast between the blood-red towers and battlements of Camelot and the organic forms inked into the Green Knight’s skin. As he prepares to bang on the door of King Arthur’s great hall, we can’t help but notice the lopped oak tree on his raised arm. Is this a record of violence done to nature? Nothing is explicit, but much is implied in this luminous vision of contrasting cultures: medieval Christian civilisation on the one hand, and, on the other, the timeless wild.


The Green Knight Arrives is available as a screenprint, in an edition of 75, from Penfold Press.

Coming Soon! The Lost Watercolours of Edward Bawden

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Edward Bawden, My heart, untravel'd, fondly turns to thee (aka Derelict Cab), 1933, Kettering Museum & Art Gallery (© artist estate)

Widely admired today as an illustrator and printmaker, Edward Bawden (1903-89) is hardly a ‘forgotten artist’. Yet one aspect of his career has been neglected until now: his role in the 1930s as a critically-acclaimed modern painter.

The purpose of The Lost Watercolours of Edward Bawden is to set the record straight by bringing together the largest collection of the artist’s pre-war watercolours ever assembled. Most were originally exhibited at one or other of Bawden’s major solo shows – at the Zwemmer Gallery in 1933 and the Leicester Galleries five years later – exhibitions that impressed critics and delighted collectors.

It has taken three years to assemble this remarkable collection of pictures, many of which were, as the title of the book suggests, lost. Privately-owned artworks can be hard to find after eighty years, but in this case even paintings in public collections were sometimes hidden thanks to Bawden’s choice of obscure fragments of verse or concise descriptions of time and place as titles for his work. These were often replaced by descriptive names. Thus (for example) ‘My heart, untravel’d, fondly turns to thee’ became ‘Derelict Cab’, making the researcher’s task rather tricky.

The remarkable quest to find and identify Bawden’s pre-war watercolours is described by publisher Tim Mainstone in an amusing, informative essay, which forms the third part of this richly illustrated volume. The Mainstone Press has once again teamed up with James Russell, author of the popular series ‘Ravilious in Pictures’ (and curator of the 2015 blockbuster ‘Ravilious’), who sets the ball rolling with an introductory essay exploring Bawden’s life and career in the 1930s. Scholarship is leavened with humour here, as it is in the wide-ranging captions accompanying the most important element of the book: the watercolours themselves.

These are grouped by exhibition, with additional sections of works from the mid-30s and from the decade’s end. Having photographed many of the watercolours in high resolution specifically for the book, we have chosen a format that allows us to maximise the size of the images. There’s a good reason for this. As one critic observed in the 1930s, these are paintings that deserve more than to be looked at. They deserve to be looked into.


The Lost Watercolours of Edward Bawden will be available soon from The Mainstone Press. For further information, please contact the publisher.
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