Sunday telegraph / guardian, Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Dear Fellows
Last Thursday, Marisa and I attended the Private view of Daughter Emily's young man's Exhibition, held at the Truman brewery in Brick Lane (yes, again. Little did I think when I visited Brick Lane as a salesman forty years ago that I would ever return. Of course, in those days: Little did I think).
One of his paintings is shown in the photo below. What is not mentioned is the sheer size. The dimensions of this one is: nine feet by fifteen feet. You couldn't take it home on the bus. This is only one of nine.
The effect is startling, to say the least.
I am no stranger to large canvasses. In 1960, or thereabouts, I visited the Tate where displayed in the front hall was a similar sized "painting" by some chap named Matisse. This consisted of coloured patches, about a foot square painted evenly (give him that) over the screen, something like ten rows of ten patches of colour "very deep" as the pseud was inclined to mutter in these days, knowing full well that their real thought was; "Load of b*******s.
The chap I was with, I think it was Michael Woodcock's younger brother. Just as tall, but rather less surly, attempted to explain how significant the positioning of each colour was. I remember replying: "Pull the other one".
Surreal paintings by Dali, Magritte and the like, I enjoy. Although many, I am sure are devised for fun which is part of their charm: Magritte's "This is not a pipe" springs to mind, most are well drawn, the subject easily recognisable.
Much of Modern Art; formless blobs could be regarded as "Wallpaper art" Nothing wrong with artistic wallpaper, just that it is not pretentious. Wallpaper masquerading as art is another matter.
This reminds me of another large painting in the news a few months ago as having been sold for a startlingly large amount. The painting consisted of coloured worms squiggling over the canvas. I immediately thought of the film in which the hero played by Tony Hancock wearing foul weather gear and riding a bicycle over his canvas muttering: "Every brush stroke torn from me" This film "The Rebel" seemed to have been quietly suppressed, perhaps it was a little too close to the knuckle. Actually, had the film company kept the Hancock canvas it would probably command an equally startling amount. Deservedly, in this case.
The other exponent of present day art: Damien Hurst is really working under false pretences, his work is in the field of Taxidermy,
Cartoon art such as "Wham" (you must have seen it) is refreshing and evocative. Brings to mind the excitement of opening "The Eagle" or "Hotspur" in the Good Old Days.
I do not know what to make of Stuart's style. There is no doubt he is an excellent draughtsman. Maybe he is starting his own school.
Were I an novelist, I am sure I could write a story for each painting to fit the illustration.
Really good art does remind me of an earlier universe where the viewer could enter the painting, taking on the part of one of the characters.
On the subject of characters, I have noticed that the little differences which set salesmen, dog, bird or art fanciers apart from the rest of us are magnified at conventions or exhibitions. not so obviously that noses at bird shows are sharp and pointed whilst at doggy events they are damp. Perhaps you, dear reader might suggest any ideas on this.
The reason for this digression is my noticing an exception to the art person at Stuart's exhibition, a fellow who walked past in a hurry with an expression on his face which rang a bell. I then noticed his velvet collar and the penny dropped; I was taken back fifty years to Tooting Broadway, birthplace of the actor George Cole. In those days the Broadway was heavily infested by chaps with velvet collars and similar expression, suppressed rage would be too strong a word, pissed off would not be strong enough. Admire them for a second too long: "Oi! Oo are you looking at?"
Did me good.
I am looking foreword to Stuart's next exhibition in Kensington.
Details are on his site and in the press, enclosed
Maybe meet you there
Neil