three exhibitions

I went to London today, to meet an old friend for an exhibition and some lunch.  The process of arranging this jaunt began back in September, but my friend, who was an early adopter of the iPhone, has since taken to responding to texts at a glacial pace, though he says he does it with everybody, and not just me.  The general effect is similar to that of trying to play postal chess with somebody ensconced in the rain forests of Papua New Guinea.  However, in a sudden flurry of messages earlier this week we finally settled on an exhibition, having fixed the date about three weeks ago, and at the appointed time he appeared behind me in the National Gallery ticket queue, looking as relaxed as if we'd last seen each other a week ago and not in March.

We were there for Facing the Modern: the portrait in Vienna 1900.  Quite a few of the portraits on display were painted well before then, and many others were later, and the newspaper critics have been pretty harsh about the way the exhibition is curated.  As an aesthetic experience, if you don't worry about any of that but just go and look at the paintings, it is very enjoyable.  Klimt, associated in my mind (and probably lots of other people's) with the mannered gold extravagance of The Kiss, initially painted highly detailed, polished portraits of almost photographic quality.  I never knew that.  There were quite a few pictures that I liked, and some that I found interesting without wishing I could take them home, and I see why patrons wanting a nice family group to decorate their house while demonstrating their wealth and good taste, might have been a tad nervous of some of the younger and more modern experimental painters.  I can't think that the two sisters staring glumly out of eyes like piss holes in snow were too thrilled with their image, unless they had progressive tastes.

After lunch we parted, and I set off to Tate Britain, to see Painting Now: Five Contemporary Artists. The critics liked this one, more than the public seem to, since it was very empty.  Artist number one has standardised on one size of fairly small canvas, always used portrait fashion, and abstract arrangements of lines that reminded me of the Vorticists (Oh dear, Grayson Perry said artists hate that).  There were some interesting shadows, playing with the idea of whether the paintings were decorative surfaces in two dimensions, or representations of three.  The palette was not to my taste, but that's entirely subjective.  I wouldn't have been rushing to steal one in the confusion, if there'd been an emergency of some sort, but I thought they deserved respect.  Artist two paints mainly decaying buildings, and some abstracts, using thick oils and eschewing frames.  Again I found they inspired respect, but not affection, which was odd, since I am normally a sucker for ruins.  Artist three offered some mood boards, and an installation of painted 3-D rectilinear forms painted with green squiggles.  I moved swiftly on, but didn't find artist four any more comprehensible.  The final artist did largish oils of staircases, some with cats, and buildings, working mostly in monochrome shades of black and grey.  There was a grey tree that nodded vaguely in the direction of Mondrian (Oh dear, again).  The staircases were interesting, but sombre.  I left with the impression that painting in Britain now was rather dour.

I stopped on the way back at Somerset House, not to visit The Courtauld Gallery this time, but the exhibition of war art by Stanley Spencer.  These are normally hung in the purpose built 1920s Sandham Memorial Chapel near Newbury, now in the care of the National Trust, but can currently be seen free of charge in the Strand.  Spencer did military service in the Great War in the medical corps, and afterwards drew on his memories to paint a series of murals, thanks to the patronage of a couple who admired his work and wanted to help him in his career.  They ended up commissioning a chapel in memory of their son, for Spencer's panels to hang in.  I found them extraordinary and wonderful.  I know he is not everybody's cup of tea, some finding his work annoying, whimsical, or vaguely embarrassing, but I like it, while being able to detect its subsequent influence in some magazine illustrations and greetings cards which are indeed all of those things.  Spencer himself is sublime, full of colour and movement and gleeful observation of every day events and objects. Most of the murals depict hospital life, not actual hostilities, and the texture of the towels and gleam of light on the metal tea urns is done as wonderfully as in any interior of the Dutch Golden Age.  The great British public like Stanley Spencer too, and there were more people crammed into the three small rooms in Somerset House than there had been in the five large ones at Tate Britain.