Art
Royal reserves
Evan Anthony
If there is a sluggishness that generally informs reviews of such exhibition as The Age of Charles I it shouldn't really be all that surprising. There are unquestionably intimidating problems related to reviewing shows that claim to depict an age. Who am I to quarrel with collections of kings? Yet I suppose there should be in that some special challenge to excite the appetite of the potential visitor to the Tate, who may risk a jibe at a Van Dyck, if only to assert his independence of thought, perverse though it be. Or perhaps upon careful inspection there is a small section of a Rubens that can be faulted in support of a claim to connoisseurship. Should that approach bear no fruit, what about lesser artists in the exhibition who could be safer targets for critical nitpicking? As a last resort, there is always the positive approach, whereby the catalogue is seized upon as a work of unfailing scholarship and perception.
You are right about the defensively weary (or wary) note in all this: truth to .tell, the sight of near enough two hundred seventeenth-century jet-setters, all bugeyed and stiff-backed, not knowing quite what to do with their hands, gets to be a trifle overwhelming; even a mite boring. It's probably the attitude of the subjects that prompts this reaction: the royal rogues gallery is a conglomeration of mournful, smug-faced characters, peering and sneering at you from the corner of the eyes. It was the convention of the day (or age), but tiresome, nonetheless. However, for devotees of accomplished, painting of lace and voluminous folds of silk and satin there are many compensations, humour (even if unintended) being one of them. Paul Van Somer's portrait of the Countess of Kent reveals a lady with so formidable a bosom as to make you wonder whether her ruff collar hasn't something to do with the formation of her unique anatomy. Cornelius Johnson's painting of The Family of Arthur, Lord Cape/, shows the pop-eyed couple and their pop-eyed children soberly giving their all for posterity.
There are, of course, the Van Dyks, and it is a fine collection, the centrepiece of the exhibition. The portraits of the king would indicate that being king couldn't have been all that much fun. Charles looks sad-eyed, slightly pained, even on horseback. The drawings are superb, and the one of Inigo Jones is particularly good. Rubens is handsomely represented and his Portrait of the Artist is exceptionally fine and fullblooded, and perhaps the true masterpiece of the collection, although for me, the miniatures are the most satisfying part of the exhibition. On a smaller scale the subjects more successfully come to life, and these charming oval-framed watercolours and enamels are easy to warm to as portraits of people who look as though at one time they actually did draw breath. Samuel Cooper's Portrait of a Man confirms the catalogue note: ' A superb example of the sense of an actual physical presence, and of the richness of tone and atmosphere, which set Cooper on a higher plane of excellence than any other English miniaturist.'
It is easy enough to stand in awe of the established masters but I hope I shall never allow the dazzling talent of past centuries to blind me to the merits of contemporary talent. While I may be accused of having a ' vested interest' in the career of Patrick Woodroffe—his work being currently on show at the Covent Garden Gallery, in which I am a partner — it would be carrying neutrality to absurd lengths to neglect mentioning him in these pages, especially as, despite my willingness to share the discovery of an artist of genius with my colleagues, their reticence thus far suggests that the challenge of finding this little gallery tucked away in the Floral Hall is too much for most of them. Anyway, there are sixtyone etchings, drawings, and paintings on view, and included in the show is an extraordinary triptych that may well come to be recognised as a modern masterpiece. For Woodroffe's sake, I hope the recognition comes in his lifetime.
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