Hilton art
Our art critic, Mr Evan Anthony, who con- scientiously turns up at a great many more exhibitions than he can bring himself to write about, experienced an opening last week that seemed compounded of at least three old cinema cliches—the stage mother, the over-indulged little rioh girl, and the art show where the posh patrons loyally laud the obviously awful paintings: with a parody of a Jewish wedding reception thrown in for good measure.
The place was the art gallery of the Lon- don Hilton, which is showing the work of twenty-two year old Miss Sandra Kingsley, whose 'drawing ability,' to quote the cata- logue, 'became apparent at the age of four.' She was given her own studio in Hampstead as a nineteenth birthday present from her mother. 'In January 1970 she became a pupil of St John. [Who?] For the first time one medium, oil paint, sufficed as a form of expression.' Mr Evan Anthony was intrigued by the price of a collage entitled The Trap, and asked Miss Kingsley how so fancy a figure as 350 guineas was quoted for some pieces of old magazines pasted together (and described by the publicists as 'a striking work in a surrealistic mood, depicting a tiny, qf you didn't spend all day playing football you'd make a better waited'
human figure in the centre of a vortex symbolising the inside of an atomic rocket')?
'Well,' said Miss Kingsley, 'we couldn't decide how much to ask for it because my mother offered me quite a lot and she really wanted it—so we decided to set a price that no one would be likely to pay.'
Why not list the work as 'not for sale'?
'Oh, no, if someone wanted it and would pay that much for it, that would be won- derful.'
Cheer up, Sandra's mother. If you really want it, I'm sure Sandra will get it for you wholesale.
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