Exhibitions
Matthew Smith 1879-1959 (Crane Kalman, till 21 July) British Painters 1910-1950 (Piccadilly Gallery, till 22 June)
Of fame and fortune
Giles Auty
Not being cynical by nature, I regret that at times in the past week I have wondered whether the levels of taste and judgment I like to attribute to others are always justified. A week ago, our Minister for the Arts was guest of honour at a ceremony to mark the unveiling in the City of a work of sculpture by a Georgian artist, Zurab Tsereteli, a People's Artist of the Soviet Union. Last summer the artist entertained a large party of international critics, of whom I was one, most generous- ly at one of his homes in the hills above Tbilisi. The Soviet artist is as rich as Croesus but many of my colleagues thought him rather less talented. The kindest description of his sculpture I heard was 'Hollywood baroque'. Apparently, re- ceptions at the artist's house in Moscow are even more stupendous than the one I experienced at the Georgian capital. Few who know me will need persuading that I am no great admirer of the political past in the Soviet Union; thus I cannot help pondering politely on how the sculptor acquired such extraordinary status there and to what extent we should honour him now officially. Tsereteli has spoken also with our Prime Minister, I believe. Here proponents of perestroika may argue that d'Offay's dauntless duo, the British artists Gilbert & George, have been similarly feted by officialdom on their recent expo- sure to the art- and fun-loving citizens of Moscow. But do such cultural exchanges really promote anything other than a rather odd view of our national proclivi- ties? For the interest of those who toil in those parts, Mr Tsereteli's sculpture was commissioned by Speyhawk plc and stands now at 108 Cannon Street, EC4.
The night following the unveiling of Mr Tsereteli's bronze, I made one of my rare appearances on television in an audience participation programme in Manchester. It would be pleasant to claim that the prog- ramme confirmed my confidence in the innate artistic taste and sense of common humanity. Here I should admit that my disillusionment may have been increased by a decision to read a biography of Warhol while travelling to that fine north- ern city. Nothing about Warhol's art has ever fired me previously with the wish to know anything more about him than neces- sary. Indeed, my newly increased aware- ness suggests only that Warhol was even more cynical and repellent than I had imagined. Yet could it be that it is these very qualities which explain his near- messianic status in modern museum cir- cles? I do worry at times for our collective sanity. In a week such as this it came as a most welcome relief to walk round two calming exhibitions of a kind for which London's commercial galleries are rightly renowned. Andras Kalman, founder of Crane Kalman (178 Brompton Road, SW3), and Godfrey Pilkington of the Piccadilly Gallery (16A Cork Street, W1) have been operating in London for just about as long as I can remember. Although Hungarian by birth, Kalman was one of the first to appreciate the talents of such archetypally English `Evening', 1923, by Vera M. de B. Barnewall, at the Piccadilly Gallery artists as Moore and Lowry. Kalman met Matthew Smith when the present gallery was opened in 1957. Thirty-three years later, Kalman pays a personal tribute to the reserved Englishman and voluptuous painter by putting on an ambitious show of 30 of his works. Smith's early nudes and still-lifes glow like jewels, the richest ruby- reds, emeralds and amethysts dominating their palettes. The artist's admiration for Matisse helps explain the exotic, un- English strand in his work but Smith was also a close professional colleague and admirer of Sicken and Augustus John.
Currently the Piccadilly Gallery is show- ing a fine selection of paintings and draw- ings by contemporaries of Matthew Smith. The careers of Ernest Proctor and Rudolph Ihlee are well known to me but I must admit I have seldom seen work by John Cosmo Clark, John Currie, Alan James, Sir Charles Holmes or Vera M. de B. Barnewall before. The latter's 'Evening', 1923, is of modest but genuine merit. This said, I doubt whether the artist was ever famous even for Warhol's statutory 15 minutes. Instead she, like scores of other unsung artists, has left works which give true pleasure to posterity. If any of these unsung artists went bald, I doubt whether they kitted themselves out with 400 wigs as Warhol reputedly did. It is hard not to believe their priorities were better judged and more rewarding.
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