• Art
Stretching the Eyes
No philosopher is needed to tell us that man is an artistic animal, that his most everyday actions are riddled with super- lluous elegances, that his tireless eye is always seeing beauties where there are only girls, and gardens where there are only allotments. We all do these things without thinking, We breathe too without thinking ; but not always. There are times for • filling even the lungs luxuriously, let alone the stomach ; and it is rather nice sometimes, and probably healthy, to stretch our eyes too. "Matilda," the nursery rhyme ruris, "told such dreadful lies, it Made one gasp and stretch one's eyes" ; and one enjoys that, or what is the Press for ? Why, unless they enjoy stretching their eyes, do people stand rapt in Litchfield Street, Charing Cross Road, gazing at Mr. Geoffrey Tibble's picture ? It will probably be gone next week, and Litchfield Street will be duller. A pity ; for thirty years hence, Mr. Tibble's pictures, not to mention those of some of his associates-Rodrigo Moynihan, Graham Bell, Victor Pasmore, Ivon Hitchens and Tom Carr-will be in Bond Street, which is rather too grand and busy a place to stretch anything in, even one's eyes. As for gasping, by that time it will probably be forbidden altogether.
At present I can promise a good gasp at the Mayor Gallery, Cork Street, and three, of different sorts, at the Leicester Galleries. For sheer sensation-value Mr. Underwood's show there is hard to beat. His wooden model for a concrete cathedral in human form is quite as good as anything at the French Colonial Exhibition was ; and the sights there included a life-sized model of the Temple of Angkor Vat. It will be a certain draw ; and though I admit that where drawing is concerned, I prefer things drawn mild, Mr. Underwood is perhaps right in avoiding mildness in his architecture, since in his drawing proper, and even in his sculpture, there is no lack of it. It is not that he is a feeble craftsman ; he is, on the contrary, a strong and versatile one-he is even a bit of an artist ; it is not that his pictures are ineffective, for several of them would make striking posters ; nor is it that their titles, such as At the Feet of the Gods, Spirit of the Flames, or Queen Moo, lack strength of appeal. It is rather that his work, like his writing-there is a booklet of his on sale entitled Art for Heaven's Sake-has the mildness which belongs to all things mixed, whether motives or flavours. (But as to what constitutes the unmixed in art, I must refer you to the writings of Mr. Roger Fry, who is always trying to find out, and to the catalogue of the exhibition at the Zwemmer Gallery.) At the Leicester, there is also a collection of French drawings-Cezannes, Picassos, Manets, and Dufresnes, and a good show of Mr. Anthony Slade's water-colours of Sussex and the downs. "They sound dull," you say ? If you think the water-colours of J. D. Innes, Steer, or Constable are dull, then these are.
I am afraid that visitors to the Mayor Gallery, though I have guaranteed them a gasp, may find as time goes on a certain lack of variety, almost a suggestion of drill, about the exercises in eye-stretching provided there. I like to feel that any gallery, besides being a parade-ground for exhibitions, is also a shop where a stock of objects is kept for sale. There is a feeling at the Mayor that the shop is a wholesale one ; "take it or leave it" seems to be the motto ; "we only cater here for large orders from up-to-date firms." There is something grim, too, about the businesslike way in which certain lines of goods are pushed to the exclusion of others. It is true that the headquarters of "Unit One cannot be expected to deal in drawing-room water-colours.
Great art," says Mr. Wadsworth, one of the exhibitors in the part of the manifesto edited by Mr. Herbert Read and sold at the Gallery, "has never been pretty." One might as well say great men have never been pretty. Naturally they won't admit it, but their mothers would tell you another story. There is something schoolboyish about the fear of prettiness. "As pretty as paint," the saying goes. Mr. Wadsworth's pictures certainly are not ; if you ask for some that are, I refer you again to those of Mr. Tibble and his friends and also to those of Mr. Ben Nicholson and Mr. John Armstrong. W. W. Wingwoam.
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