ART
Dada's children
Evan Anthony
There was once a lousy Hitchcock film, Spellbound by name, in which the attempt to marry Freud to Dali resulted in some dallying with Freud. Even as a wee lad I sensed that neither of the two gentlemen came out of it terribly well. The visual cunning (or conning) of the ' dream ' sequences didn't fool precocious me for a moment; somehow I knew that all would go well for Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck by the time it was time to buy more Popcorn. I've mistrusted Dali (never mind Freud) ever since, and, along with him, Other exponents of the art of the surreal — the makers of dreams that money can buy.
At the Hamet Gallery, Cork Street, there iS a bit of nostalgia on view, called Britain's Contribution to Surrealism, and it reminds me of some of the film festivals they have at the NFT — you know the kind, a study of the work of a director Whose films were awful in the 'forties but, in the desperation for something to analyse in 1971, are dissected as though likely to reveal answers to the secrets of the universe. The analogy may be extreme — John Tunnard, F. E. McWilliam, Conroy Maddox et al showed a willingness and a talent for going along with the surrealist idea — but coincidentally, the same week has seen the opening of a new gallery claiming to be the surrealist art centre, the Acoris Gallery, 31 Brook Street, and its collection of Magrittes, Delveaux, Picabias, and Bellmers tends to emphasise how little the British contribution actually was.
As a school of image-making, surrealism has always struck me as being a bit of a Cheat, promising more than it delivers. Instead of a view of the subconscious, it more often offers a glimpse of the selfconscious. There is a ' cuteness ' that erupts when the dream world is supposedly being tapped; to balance that, the visual pun really must be superior to Sustain interest. I find myself comparing It with juggling: done by experts it comMands respect, when performed by lesser talents, anyone can see it's just balls
Also involved in a balancing act, Lithuanian sculptor Antanas Brazdys is exhibiting his work at the Annely Juda Fine Art Gallery, 11 Tottenham Mews. Br.azdys's work in polished stainless steel stirs up images of outsize futuristic bathroom fixtures. I find it cold and
difficult sculpture to appreciate within the confines of a gallery, but I doubt whether d be too much happier with it in wider and opener spaces. There is something worrying about the profusion of shapes and their proportions as they are combined to make up one large work. Brazdys seems to be tempting fate as he places the sections, sometimes precariously, one upon the other, forming a totem of pieces that don't relate comfortably to each other. The game of imbalance should be more exciting than it is; and the whole never seems the correct sum of the individual parts.
For something warmer I recommend a visit to the Heim Gallery, 59 Jermyn Street, to see Faces and Figures of the Baroque. Guardi, Tiepolo, Solimena, and Bernini are among the greats represented. For those who like fingers pointing and eyes cast upward, it should provide a treat. Altar pieces and beheadings abound, and there is a lovely Head of Youth (not severed), the work of Pierfrancesco Mola, that stands out as a refreshing example of a more personalised approach to painting in the seventeenth century.
I'm always amazed by this type of exhibition and moved to reflect upon the game of musical chairs of old masters it suggests — museum pieces passing from collection to collection. Some of the pictures are in remarkably good condition, while others have poor ladies in them badly in need of a shave. In a new book, Art Restoration (£3.50 David and Charles) by Francis Kelly, out next week, Sir George Beaumont, the nineteenth-century collector, is quoted as having commented: "A good picture, like a good fiddle, should be brown." It is an attitude that didn't necessarily die with the nineteenth century. Those struck by the idea that brown is beautiful ought to read Kelly's book — it will help them to differentiate between fiddles and paintings. Kelly, himself an artist, has crammed into 217 pages a wealth of information that should do much to tear away the shroud of Mystery surrounding the field of art restoration. Logically organised, it offers advice about the care and maintenance of pictures along with technical data that even an art reviewer can understand.
It wouldn't suit David Michie, any more than it would Matisse or Andy Warhol, to have his work covered with a patina of brown. Michie, whose paintings are on exhibition at the Mercury Gallery, Cork Street, is an uninhibited colourist whose preoccupation with water and beaches and summer should give a lift to the most jaded. He has a fine sense of design, displaying confidence with each brush stroke. His fellow-Scot, Donald McIntyre, at the Thackeray Gallery, 18 Thackeray Street, is also attracted to the water and beach for subjects. McIntyre uses a palette knife and the thick, broad strokes of paint are like slabs of colour building a scene. The browns and beige tones are used effectively, creating a calm and sometimes lonely mood. There is a repetitiousness that threatens to become trite, but every now and again he breaks out of his own mould and shows a passion and originality that is quite stirring.
And if you can use a good laugh, get. over to the Upper Grosvenor Galleries and see the original drawings-cartoons of Beryl Antonia Yeoman, known professionally as Anton. A book of her work has just been published by the New English Library, and this commemorative exhibition celebrates a very special talent. I can't understand the press release comment, that " people were sometimes wary in her presence, in case some unfortunate remark might suggest a new Anton cartoon. . . " Unfortunate remarks couldn't be put to better use.
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