Art
Martial obsession
Evan Anthony
Before you impetuously (and foolishly) decide to give away your last toy soldier, I suggest you visit the Wildenstein Gallery, New Bond Street, and have a long look at the way an octogenarian French artist has managed to come to terms with an obsession. Paul Maze and the Guards is not the banner headline from the News of the World, but the name given to Maze's exhibition of pictures of Guardsmen in all their glory while performing various duties — trooping the colour, on parade, changing the guard, coronation procession, state opening of Parliament, piping, drumming, etc. It is a show of showmanship, scenes to delight tourists, old soldiers, young boys, you and me. Some of it isn't at all bad as far as painting and drawing are concerned, but.the subject matter is very much the thing, and you would have to be the most humourless of pacifists not to find some amusement and entertainment in this homage to pageantry and ceremony.
Gerd Winner could also be considered slightly obsessed; but his obsession is a shade more sophisticated and knowing, perhaps. Despite this, his views of the London dockside and underground are now and again quite attractive. The series of screen prints based on single images reminded me of an old Antonioni film, The Red Desert, where the director had the streets and buildings painted to get the right colour, effect, as they do with coffee beans in the commercials. Winner's choice of colours could inspire interior decorators to squeals of delight. The screened canvases (screenprints on canvas) seem a bit extravagant and cold, but some bright manufacturer may well be tempted to produce a line of T-shirts with Winner pictures screened on them.
And that could also happen to William Pye, whose ' new sculpture' at the Redfern Gallery, Cork Street, contains at least one piece — the organ-harp-like Felindre — that could easily become all the rage in a table-size model (like the ' executive's tranquiliser ': four balls, on strings, that go ping), with the mobile suspended piping tempting you to try a -run with your fingers; but I'm afraid the large pieces aren't shown to advantage in the confines of the Redfern's main room.
At the Marlborough Fine Art, Lipchitz has a lot more room to breathe, and his tortured bronzes need much breathing space. The marble heads of Cocteau and Radiguet are exquisite and quite unrelated to the more baroque and cubistic sculptures. I confess to feeling lukewarm about Lipchitz and have heard his work described as bold if you like him, and clumsy if you don't. How about a compromise — boldly clumsy?
Boldly delicate are the paintings of Rosie Lee at the Piccadilly Gallery, Cork Street: eerie scenes of surrealist greenery serving as environment for oddly-scaled rocks and figures, and lost children here and there. Some figures float, and there is a hint of pain and anguish around the place. I wish I could believe a little more than I do in the truth of the image, but there is something too prettily contrived to allow total involvement in the ambiguity. They are beautifully painted, but if green isn't your favourite colour you may feel left out.
Paul Nash's photographs may also be contrived, but I believe them absolutely. They are simply beautiful, or beautifully simple — take your choice. At the Tate, it is an exhibition not to be missed. Regrettably I cannot say the same for his wishy-washy watercolours at the Hamet Gallery, Cork Street; but, then, nobody's perfect.
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