Art
Print shop
Evan Anthony
Having been so lavishly ginned and hors d'oeuvred the other evening, compliments of Christie's 'private view,' I naturally feel a twinge of social (I mean, sociable) conscience about reacting negatively to Christie's entry into a more common market than that to which they have become accustomed — that is to say, the mail-order selling of prints — but there it is, I do.
Why should I resent this enterprise? After all, isn't bringing art to the masses — or anyway, such masses as can afford prints ranging from £30 to £100 a throw — a good thing? It may be an emotional reaction, perhaps even somewhat irrational, but it occurs to me that if there are any artists who don't need the Christie's push (or pull), Piper, Hepworth and Topolski, who are initially •featured in the scheme, could be considered among them. However, perhaps these big guns of St James's will blast away at the sitting-room walls of those who succumb to the supplications of the Sunday supplements so successfully that they may afford to become adventurous and offer the work of new talent too, in this competition for the patronage of art lovers on the Heal's and Liberty's circuit. Lawrence Preece, aged thirty-two, is relatively new, currently teaching at Hornsey College of Art and showing a fascinating body of work at the Redfern in Cork Street. Preece goes in for parody and/or pastiche: works " based on styles, concepts or actual pieces of other artists past and present, which I admire, am amused by or feel moved to comment on visually." His comments are witty and well-made, altogether ingeniously intellectual solutions to the problems of his own eclecticism; and, until the real Lawrence Preece decides to stand up, • these pictures will do very nicely.
Alfred Klosowski's won't. Lufthansa, with an office-showroom in Piccadilly, have hit upon the sensible and admirable idea of using their posh quarters and ample space to show works of art. It isn't too surprising that they should show 'executive suite' art, but then, with some thought, the premises could also serve as an art gallery. Klosowski's work is noticeably old hat, which is not in itself a cardinal sin (even the déjà vu can be worth seeing again), but these are repetitious paintings using subor pseudosub-Picasso techniques with a touch of Leger. The real disappointment is that the claim that his figures are "playing the eternal game of Adam and Eve" isn't substantiated; whatever game is being played, it doesn't look like much fun.
John Picking's people aren't enjoying life much either. At the Mercury, Cork Street, the life and people of Sicily are the subject, and a huddled, faceless, cubicled lot they are. This is the kind of painting that shows the skill of the artist in handling paint, but is unhappily devoid of anything really worth chewing over in the content department. You may be luckier than I in figuring out what the natives are doing, or what is being done to them. I suspect their theatricality, and my heartstrings resist being plucked at.
Sorry to be sounding so world-weary, but disappointment continues with Keith Vaughan's "new paintings" at the Waddington. They are ' painterly ' and professional and everything else that should make them interesting, but they seem predictable, reminiscent of Cezanne and Hitchens at one and the same time. Just one of those weeks.
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