ARTS
Exhibitions
Drawings by Bonnard (Courtauld Institute Galleries till 21 July) John Craxton (Christopher Hull till 6 July) Ceri Richards (Gillian Jason till 26 July)
Latter-day Arcadians
Giles Auty
Speaking to an elderly woman the other day, who told me she hated trees, I reflected that those who affect to despise the natural world generally know least about it. Incapable of distinguishing be- tween varieties of tree, wild flower, butter- fly, bird or beast, such urban sophisticates view the countryside with all the unanswer- able scorn of the ignorant.
Seeking an explanation for why recent critics in all the arts show so much more esteem for works rooted in unhappiness and introspection than for those showing the least glimmer of charm or exuberance, I now wonder whether, in the manner of the ageing tree-hater, these critics may not despise happiness simply because they know so little about it.
This week, relieved of any particular imperatives to review truly contemporary works laden with images of hypodermics, blood or sanitary appliances, it has been something of a quiet indulgence to wander the leafy squares of Bloomsbury and gaze at small scraps of paper embellished by the hand of someone I think of as a kind of `inner-Arcadian': Pierre Bonnard. The ex- hibition currently on show at the Courtauld Institute Galleries (Woburn Square, WC1) has already been seen in six fortunate provincial centres and will later tour three more: Southampton, Exeter and Ply- mouth.
The great pleasure of small, informal drawings is the feeling they give of intima- cy with the artist. Larger, more considered works to some extent destroy this sensation of almost tactile closeness. Many of Bon- nard's drawings retain an extraordinary feeling of 'presence'; although some were made 70 or 80 years ago, it is as though the artist's hand has lifted from the paper only moments before one sees them. On a quiet afternoon, an encounter with the artist himself in some otherwise deserted room seems almost possible and, in a sense, we do this through a series of delightful photographs of Bonnard taken by Cartier- Bresson. The subject matter of Bonnard's drawings, which he used largely as visual reminders, is similar to that of Renoir's Paintings: children, friends, baskets of fruit, flowers, fields and rivers plus a lifelong model, in this case, the artist's wife.
Today many apparently consider any such subject matter sentimental and escap- ist, unconcerned with 'real' contemporary Issues such as the fostering of unnecessary discord between men and women through propagandist nonsense. I do not know whether a quiet wander among Bonnard's drawings could help calm or educate such people. Perhaps the experience would be akin to a walk in the summertime woods for a tree-hater. However, for the rest of humanity, a trip to Woburn Square is strongly advocated.
For all those familiar with Bonnard's paintings while knowing little of his work in pencil, pen and crayon, this exhibition will provide a delightful revelation. While a less elegant draughtsman than Degas or Matisse, Bonnard nevertheless devised a form of notation with its own personal magic. His pencil study 'Nude in the bath', which is the first version of his famous series, in one respect exceeds its succes- sors. Using line alone, the artist conveys the lightness of limbs in water. Such drawings are proof, if any were needed, of the artist's conception of himself as a 'realist'. His work is also clear evidence that the camera has never supplanted nor ever will — the vital function of the artist.
The name of John Craxton is unknown to many younger critics, while some of their seniors had believed him to be dead. Such is the price paid for living abroad and for precocious artistic success. Craxton, in fact, visited Crete in 1948, when the barriers to travel imposed by the second world war had first been lifted, and has subsequently made his home on the island. Craxton grew up during the war years and numbered Dylan Thomas and Cyril Con- nolly as well as painters such as Freud, Sutherland and Minton among his immedi- ate circle. The world of wartime and post-war bohemia in Britain was one that encouraged a genuine spread of cultural interest; those intellectuals who had fought in the war probably imagined that cultural richness and enthusiasm were two of the major qualities of life for which they had been struggling. Their disappointment, if they have survived into this country's present age of Gradgrind materialism and cultural disenchantment, is easy to im- agine. Under current conditions it is perhaps less of a surprise that British artists should seek exile elsewhere than that any should voluntarily remain here.
Craxton's current exhibition at Chris- topher Hull Gallery (17 Motcomb Street, SW1) is his most important in this country since the Whitechapel retrospective of 1967. Like Bonnard, the artist relies on a combination of sketches and memories to form the autonomous structure of his paintings. When described by others as a neo-Romantic he has preferred to call himself 'a kind of Arcadian' but the arca- dianism to which he refers relates back to youthful discovery of Palmer rather than to his present domicile. The brilliant light of Greece has posed problems for many artists. Craxton's interiors, figure and still- life paintings cleverly take colour from the sunbaked countryside while the deep azure and underwater greens of the sea are likely to be borrowed for a table-top or sailor's uniform. By paraphrasing in this way, the artist infuses recognisably North European paintings with Mediterranean colour. Like Matisse, Craxton aims to enhance the lives of those who see his paintings. Most present-day art students could profit by his example.
The work of Ceri Richards at Gillian Jason's handsome gallery (42 Inverness Street, NW1), though fundamentally dis- similar, shares features with that of Crax- ton in which the strong influence of music, poetry and Mediterranean mythology are no less apparent than the artists' debts to the drawings of Picasso. In Richards's work there is greater awareness of darker and more mournful strains. Possibly these are simply a reaction to Britain's trough- ridden climate. Arcadia, after all, lies in the Peloponnese.
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