Art
Tolly-ho
John McEwen
There are two regular and prestigious open competitions for artists in Britain — both of them broadly speaking for painters — the John Moore's in Liverpool and the Tolly Cobbold in East Anglia. The smartest of the two is the John Moore's, which does not deign to travel, but on present evidence it is beginning to be rivalled by the upstart Tolly Cobbold (only three competitions old), which does. Tolly Cobbold 3 — entrants were asked to submit objects under 20 feet square that could be hung on a wall (things other than pictures can be hung on walls these days) — is currently in London at the Institute of Contemporary Arts (till 13 September) before coming to rest at the Mappin Art Gallery, Sheffield (19 September to 11 October). The size restriction makes it less varied than the Moore's and, the contemporary art world being as small as it is, the same London-based figures tend to predominate, even to the duplication of some prizewinners, but this year's Tolly — the two competitions are organised biannually so as not to clash — is of a higher overall standard than last year's Liverpool exhibition. Preferable to any of the prizewinning selections are an abstract tondo carved in stone by Stephen Cox, a vintage sample of graphic wit from Barry Flanagan (in which snippets of the sort of nylon rope you find on yachts are set out to evoke the curling waves of a choppy sea), and various paintings: notably, a small and glutinous rendering of the Severn Estuary by Terry Setch; an enigmatic warehouse interior with schoolboy by Glen Baxter; a pencil drawing in two parts by Gerard Hemsworth, alive with metaphorical possibilities; one of Peter Greenham's excellent portraits and a swashbuckling piece of humour by Graham Crowley of someone trying to hang wall-paper (in a separate, less impressive venture, the same artist tries to jolly up the back-stairs with a gallimaufry of plastic). It all amounts to an excellent show and congratulations must be heaped on Richard Cobbold, brewer patron extraordinary, for making it possible. Nor should it be forgotten that works in such rather official-looking exhibitions are nevertheless for sale.
The nearest thing to the Moore's and Tolly Cobbold in London is the annual open submission for a place in one of the Arts Council's Serpentine Summer Shows — very much seen as a younger variation of THE summer exhibition at the Royal Academy. There were 500 applicants this year, whittled down by three selectors to 26, who accordingly win the 'prize' of having their work featured at the Serpentine Gallery. Summer Show 2 (till 6 September) was selected by the Liverpudlian poet and painter, Adrian Henri, and includes nine artists. Alexis Hunter is the best known, and deservedly so. Her photo-sequences on themes of self-laceration — much blood and blood-red nail varnish prominent — seem to have developed technically more than imaginatively, but they have a potent Symbolism that still serves. Most interesting from a debut point of view is Graham Ibbeson, who studied at the Royal College.but has not shown in London before. His painted fibre-glass sculptures, depicting the attempts of various comic-book characters to fly, are humorous in an oddly mediaeval way, both rustic and poignant, like choirstall misericords. They have the power of obsession, the rest of the contributions do not.
The Tate meanwhile does its bit for some senior British artists: prints by Cecil Collins (till 1 November), who is still teaching away at the City Literary Institute Centre for Adult Studies; and major memorials of the work of David Jones and Ceri Richards (till 6 September). 'Collins's Vision' is how Richard Morphet of the Tate entitles his catalogue introduction, and the artist has indeed produced one or two images over the Years of an arresting, dreamlike, nature, but is too often side-tracked by goings on in Paris, the work of Picasso in particular. It really is quite a revelation to have the reference of the great Picasso show at the Hayward so easily to hand; so many of our contemporary artists having cribbed him quite shamelessly.
The whole thing is perfectly symbolised by a story, whether apocryphal or not is im material, concerning Graham Sutherland.
Surprised one day in his studio, he hastily kicked an open book of Picasso's works under a sofa. Bryan Robertson does his sympathetic best in the catalogue to make us believe in Ceri Richards as an artist, but there is no gainsaying the evidence of the Pictures, which never rise above pastiche.
The most charitable conclusion is that avant-garde English artists till comparative ly recent times have, on the whole, been unable to resist the charms of small pond life. Unlike the rest of the world they did not, as a matter of course, brave the big Pool of Paris, but preferred to dodge across from time to time with their notebooks and then scamper back here to wow the yokels. Richards was an art-school artist. David Jones was at least not that, but his bent was literary — his imagination best expressed in writing, for which his pictures act as charming, but too often unhappily sentimentalised, illustrations. Cedric Morris, of the same generation, but of course still living, is more deserving of a Tate show than either of these artists.
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