ARTS

Art

Accentuate the positive

There are few things like a spot of unlooked-for illness to put the mind in more reflective vein. I am still unable to make my usual rounds of galleries, so have been thinking instead about some of art's apparent mysteries and paradoxes.

One of these which has puzzled me for a long time is why we are eager to salute so much that is morbid and introspective in contemporary art, often from artists whose personal circumstances leave little to be desired. If we believe that such morbidity reflects the events of human life more truly than does any degree of stoicism or opti- mism why, then, do we not seek the per- sonal company of self-pitying, depressive or intensely cynical folk much more actively? Imagine a whole dinner party of groaners: the truth is most of us avoid them like the plague. There is an anomaly here which might reward some investigating.

Most Western schools of thought see life as an arena in which our character and resolve are not just tested but developed. Clearly, without worries or reversals there is little need to learn fortitude: no battle, no heroes, it is tempting to say. Unlike many artistic people, I have a large mea- sure of respect for what might be described loosely as military virtues, perhaps because a number of my mother's family were sol- diers. Two who served with particular dis- tinction were gifted artists also and very `Anything else from Bloomsbury, sir, while I'm in the neighbourhood?' amusing company to boot i am suggesting here that any connection between sensitivi- ty and gloom is far from inevitable. Indeed, there is no reason to suppose that the char- acters of acutely sensitive people should not vary as much or more than those of the insensitive. How, then, can we best explain the widespread belief during this century that a violent or pessimistic vision in art is both more honest and significant than one which is life-affirming? Faced with such a taxing question, I looked to see what that most rational of art historians E.H. Gom- brich might have to say on the subject:

These notions are very much coloured by certain psychological assumptions about art and artists . .. There is an idea of self- expression that goes back to the Romantic era, and the profound impression made by the discoveries of Freud, which were taken to imply a more immediate connection between art and mental distress than Freud himself would have accepted. Combined with the increasing belief that art is the 'expression of the age' these convictions could lead to the conclusion that the artist has not only the right but the duty to abandon all self-control. If the resulting outbursts are not pretty to contemplate, this is because our age is not pretty either. What matters is to face these stark realities that help us to diagnose our predicament. The opposite view, that art alone might give us a glimpse of perfection in this very imperfect world, is generally dis- missed as 'escapism'.

Casting my mind back a few years, to February 1985, I cannot help thinking here of the major exhibition at the Hayward Gallery of works by Renoir, who created uniformly sunny and life-affirming paint- ings to the end of a difficult and latterly painful life. Did such images represent mere 'escapism'? Many critics expressed dismay or disdain at the time at what they saw as Renoir's tendency to prettify. From being regarded half a century ago as one of `the three masters of the Realist-Impres- sionist Movement' by no less an authority than R.H. Wilenski — Degas and Manet were the other two — Renoir has become increasingly unpopular since, not with col- lectors necessarily but certainly among art's would-be cognoscenti who regard his opti- mism as intellectually lightweight.

Renoir's younger colleague Maurice Denis made specific mention during his lifetime of the older artist's optimism. Yet as long as 30 years ago the French art his- torian Francois Fosca found it necessary to comment that such optimism was already 'a word, and a state of mind, which has nowa- days fallen into disrepute'. Yet as Fosca explained,

Recognition did not come to him [Renoir) till he was nearly in his fifties; his youth and middle age were a constant struggle with money difficulties. When he was 47 he began to suffer from attacks of rheumatism which grew steadily worse and finally reduced him to a state of helplessness. Yet neither in his letters nor in his conversation was there ever a cry of revolt; never did he act the martyr.

On the whole, such an outlook could not contrast more strongly with attitudes I have encountered among living artists of all ages. In days when I used to visit art schools regularly as a lecturer I was sur- prised at first and then irritated increasing- ly by the predominantly joyless attitudes of so many of the students. Work and out- looks were uniformly forlorn. A lugubrious lethargy hung over many fine art depart- ments as, with the active encouragement of staff, students scoured their subconscious minds for recollections of mishap and trau- ma, hoping to add interest or some impres- sion of depth, at least, to their art. Few students stopped to reflect on the possible advantages for a young artist of from four to seven years of supported student life conducted during a time of peace and a relatively prosperous art market. Those who could find no personal misery to dredge up often sought instead to instruct the community, on which they had been largely dependent so far, on its communal ills and shortcomings.

Did nothing ever occur in their young lives which might be reasonable cause for joy or celebration and might not this have been reflected in their art? Clearly we can all interpret the circumstances of our lives as being worse or better than they are; indeed, the interpretation is often of poten- tially greater importance than the circum- stances. Yet oddly the world of contem- porary art places no premium on joy or for- titude. On the contrary it actively encour- ages successful careers in public breast- beating and in imagery which reflects either a profound pessimism or a code of psychological or physical violence. Ger- many's most successful and revered con- temporary painters are Anselm Kiefer and Georg Baselitz. Both work almost exclu- sively in the darker end of the human spec- trum, as do Britain's leading duo Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud. Is their collective wisdom and significance that much greater in consequence? Not only such European masters as Matisse and Picasso but older-generation British artists of the stature of David Bomberg and Stanley Spencer seem to me to have shown much greater emotional range in their work. Many of Picasso's

paintings of the immediate post-war period were celebrations of physical life and the ancient pleasures of Mediterranean cul- ture. Matisse's vision, in turn, was more consistently life-affirming than that of Picasso. So, too, was that of Dufy and, to a lesser extent, Bonnard. The great Post- Impressionist trio of Cezanne, Gauguin and Van Gogh have left us likewise with myriad images of a compelling beauty in spite of the extent of their personal trials and of the critical neglect which charac- terised their lifetimes. Indeed, it is the involuntary desperation of Van Gogh working amid landscape of poignant beauty which charges his late works with such extraordinary force. Mercifully the artist did not set himself up as the misunderstood exile, hoping to titillate the palates of patrons guilt-ridden by the contrasting invincibility of their personal wealth, com- forts and security. In this respect, as in so many others, Van Gogh could not differ more greatly from the present-day creative careerist whose success is more likely to be built around marketable stratagem than strength of purpose. The current climate of art is founded much more extensively than many imagine merely on guilt and fear. Neither is hard to explain. Indeed, to quote once more from the appendix E.H. Gom- brich wrote to his admirable primer The Story of rt:

It thus becomes sufficient for any style or experiment to be proclaimed 'contemporary' for the critic to feel the obligation to under- stand and promote it. It is through this phi- losophy of change that critics have lost the courage to criticise and have become chroni- clers of events instead. They have justified this change of attitude by pointing to the notorious failures of earlier critics to recog- nise and accept the rise of new styles. It was in particular the hostile reception first accorded to the Impressionists, who later rose to such fame and commanded such high prices, that led to this loss of nerve.

We are unlikely to make the soundest of judgments when in the grip of loss of nerve, let alone of intellectual panic. It is a harsh indictment of contemporary standards of criticism that we should live in terror still of a 100-year-old stick.

But what do critics' opinions matter any- way? When I wrote from hospital recently about this year's Turner Prize short-list I was lacking my normal library to hand. In fact not just two but three of this year's short-listed artists were included in The British Art Show 1990. This exhibition attracted such fierce and widespread con- demnation from British critics that the rel- evant reviews, which are posted normally in the foyer of the Hayward Gallery during exhibitions, were removed regularly by interested parties during the show's run there last summer. The exhibition was the worst attended in memory.

The temporary fad for predominantly violent and pessimistic art, like that for the kind of empty modishness exemplified by the Turner Prize short-list, are products of a collective cowardice which has its origins in middle-class guilt and intellectual funk. If both remain incurable, I fear we are like- ly to get the art we deserve.

`Not your day, is it?'