Art
Royal and ancient
Evan Anthony
Just when familiarity was threatening to breed contempt and/or indifference, what (or who) should turn up but the Lon-. don Transport Authority (and all who ride in her) as well as that super sport, the half-naked Mrs Green, in time to give the 205th Royal Academy summer exhibition a badly needed little extra something to make it seem an almost contemporary event. Who could have foreseen the day that an RA poster would be censored?
Now, a lot of people have learned to live with the idea of this annual treat (the exhibition, not the censoring), me among them. It is perfectly true that the dear friends (for such they seem by now) who crop up each year with their impressions of Impressionism and other tried and true movements make it almost unnecessary to see the show in order to write about it, but it is an event I enjoy and I am quite prepared to name names and describe pictures to prove that I have been.
There is something reassuring in this age of swift change to have with us an occasion that has become virtually ritualised, right down to the complaints. The 'burning issues' — the selection and organisation and, indeed, the fact of the exhibition itself — still burn; and thank God for people like Henry Moore who, never having succumbed to the temptation to become an RA, remain avail able to be trotted out each year as a symbol of protest against the show and against the RA itself.
The reaction against this ' reactionary ' exercise, you may agree, has become fairly predictable.
Even Omnibus got into the act last Sunday, showing behind-thescenes scenes of last year's spec tacle, confirming the impression that many have cherished (without any really first-hand know ledge) that the people involved in selecting and celebrating are a collection of doddering, albeit en dearing eccentrics. The television did nothing to dispel this Alice-inWonderlandish view of the folk involved, any more than do the wonderful photographs in the illustrated catalogue.
While it may be perfectly true that there is an art establishment as represented by the RA (all right, it is true), surely one can find comfort, if necessary, in the knowledge that an alternative society does exist — go to a private view at, let's say, the Serpentine, or Angela Flowers, or the Felicity Samuels gallery. See if that cheers you up.
This year's show is a return to the days when the work looked crowded together. It isn't as attractively hung as it has been the last two years. There are approximately 1,200 pieces — sculpture„ paintings, architectural exhibits, prints. It was a surprise to see Patrick Procktor popping up with a large nude of Hayley Mills — a disappointing picture, in which the hand of Procktor and the figure of Miss Mills are equally hard to recognise. The ubiquitous John Bratby, artist-cum-PR-man dazzles again, more with nerve than merit, and his hodge-podge of a painting of the Royal family (with Bratby doing a Hitchcock, hiding amid the royals) takes up more space than it deserves.
The best picture for my money (or Colnaghi's) is a self-portrait by Allan Gwynne-Jones, circa 1922, really superb. As for the most entertaining exhibit, Anthony Green, the poster man himself, wins hands down with an octagonal portrait of Mr and Mrs Ben Levene at home, Mrs Levene looking very American Gothic, and Ben like someone involved in the Moors murder case.
On the whole, the small pictures make the most inviting section, and will probably be sold out by the time the exhibition closes. It is a show that can be recommended to those whose taste goes beyond the Bayswater Road school, and with E100,000 of work sold last year it is obvious that we have here a very hardy perennial.
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