Will Waspe

Reviews by art critics of exhibitions in which other art critics have had some sort of hand are invariably laudatory or, at worst, when praise is ludicrously out of the question, non-committal. This is, of course, a sensible form of self-protection in the palsy free-masonry of the craft. Surprise and falsetto shrieks all round, therefore, when that forthright upstart Tim Hilton (deputising for the Observer's Nigel Gosling the other week, and unfamiliar with the ground rules) led off with a thousand or so belting words on the ghastly show put together at the invitation of Tooth's by Financial Times critic Marina Vaizey: ". . A totally uncritical and, may one say, vulgar Critic's Choice exhibition," wrote Hilton, proceeding to take most of its pretensions deftly apart, and concluding: "It does not demonstrate a catholicity of taste . . . but the incoherence of the lower reaches of the middlebrow."

All who were pained to see a lady so roughly handled will surely applaud the Sunday Telegraph's man, Michael Shepherd, who stepped in briskly and chivalrously this week in an endeavour to make Marina feel better. "Such a downto-earth, human and popularising approach, which some critics feel is almost like cheating," wrote Shepherd gallantly, "should guarantee her a terrible Press."

Marina, by the way, looks after the Sunday Telegraph art column when Shepherd is on holiday. (Rumour has it, however, that she will shortly replace New Yorkbound John Russell at the Sunday Times.)

Absentee

I am intrigued to see that the list of dancers coming with the Bolshoi on their imminent controversial visit to the London Coliseum does not include prima ballerina Maya Plitseskaya, acknowledged to be the best they have. This might be because she is still licking the wounds sustained at the hands of local ballet critics on her last visit when the work in which she starred, Carmen Suite, was roundly panned.

A more likely explanation, however, is that Mme Plitseskaya is both Jewish and notably outspoken, and the Bolshoi — who can anticipate troubles enough with

force, exercising their hanging rights as members; there are the also-rans and the nouveau chic; and three jokes from the pencil of Mel Calman, the inevitable Bratbys, Weights and Kneales, plus a Frink or two, should give some idea of the range. The ones that 'grabbed' me particularly were Allan Sly's polychrome plaster 'Marjorie', sitting on a chair and dominating Gallery V, Hilary McCue's ambiguously troubled men, and James Butler's trendy nymphet (an amusing contrast to his lovely sentimental Kate with doll) attracting hordes of photographers, snapping away vicariously. It's a cattle market not to be missed.

free-the-Panovs demonstrators — may be justifiably uncertain about which way she would jump.

Deadline missed

The world premiere of a new work by composer Maxwell Davies on June 6 is happily advertised by the Royal Festival Hall in its latest leaflet, and the work was, indeed, commissioned by the New Philharmonia and the Arts Council. Alas, this is one D-Day that Davies will not meet — though presumably he forgot to mention, before going off to Australia with his "Fires of London," that he would not have time to write the expected piece.

Celebration

Peter Cotes, original director of The Mousetrap, is throwingparty this week to celebrate the transfer of the Agatha Christie recordbreaker from the Ambassadors to the St Martin's, and inviting those veteran critics (who still survive) who gave him such good notices twenty-one years ago. Cotes had something to celebrate, for he resisted manager Peter Saunders's efforts to buy out his interest for a flat sum years ago and takes his contractual run-of-the-play royalties. He has also, I hear, been asked to write a book about his "Mousetrap" experiences, which may well differ substantially from the Saunders' version in his The Mousetrap Man.

Social note

There is a change imminent, I hear, on the 'William Hickey' column at the Daily Express, from the editorship of which Richard Berens was smoothly retired recently. Though there is strong 'in-house' support for the idea of its being run unedited on the early 'Pendennis' model, Waspe regards it as a virtual certainty that the new 'Hickey' will be Beaverbrook stable-mate, dapper Jeremy Deedes, who runs the Londoner's Diary page at the Evening Standard (and whose dad was once a distinguished Daily Telegraph 'Peterborough').

On the move

Stringent new tax regulations relating to overseas earnings are likely to provoke a major exodus of affluent British show business personalities from these islands to the recognised havens. In the van, Waspe learns, is that ebullient hellraiser, Richard Harris, who has sold his Kensington home (the remarkable Tower House in Melbury Road) to move to the Bahamas.

While commercial opportunity knocks for those fortunate to win display space in the Academy show, an opportunity for recognition is offered by the Serpentine Gallery in its summer exhibition. Four young artists who have never exhibited before are given the run of the place, and without wishing to sound patronising, I can honestly say that this is a rare occasion when, even in the case of two whose work I don't feel drawn to, serious intentions can be appreciated as having passed beyond the art-college-exercise stage. Jennifer Durrant's and Julian Cooper's paintings, Mark Edwards's photographs and Terrence New's sculpture should provide the casual and the 'knowledgeable' viewer alike with something worth poring over.

Another young artist whom, on previous occasions, I have admired, gives me reason for concern in his current show at the Alwin Gallery, Grafton Street. John Doubleday has impressed as a talented young sculptor, and I prefer to consider his latest work as a temporary aberration. The pseudo-Bacon subject matter combined with a decorator's choice of pinkish-brown patination is something he ought to get over quickly. Those who may not know his work are warned against judging Doubleday on the basis of a superficial display which is not characteristic of this artist; at least I hope it isn't going to be.