One can so easily disengage from the unnatural habit of
blogging, and so it has been these last few weeks. Apologies to anyone who has
missed my rantings; sadly, HS2 hasn’t been abandoned – yet. Travel has been one
excuse for my inactivity, lack of inspiration the most honest one, a slow stage
in the production of “Tourist In Your Own Town” another. However, things are on
the move again.
Since the creative urge will out anyway, in the absence of
significant activity on “Tourist” I’ve been letting the muse follow her own
channels. She’s been trickling out in several media (that’s enough purple
pompous pretentiousness, thank you.-
Ed). Sorry. Musically, I’ve been attending to The Catford Tendency,
playing around with some explosive little tunes which, in their raw state, are
enjoying the working title of “The Dysfunctionals”. Tunes inspired by some
people I know quite well. Anger, despair, other negative emotions. No, you
don’t know who you are, do you, you don’t read blogs.
And I’m painting again. Though I’ve never consciously copied
anyone, given my appetite for visions of urban grot and aesthetic shabbiness
(I’m watching you – Ed), comparisons with the pet themes of Edward Hopper and
Algernon Newton are probably inevitable. Especially as I like oblique sunlight
and deserted city scenes, early morning stillness and such. Hopper of course is
regular fare for calendar producers and TV psychologists steeped in the imagery
of metropolitan alienation; Newton is much less well known, probably because
he’s British but without the need to boast or to shock as an alternative
to possessing talent. To be honest, much
of Newton’s output is naff, it’s flat and lifeless, amateurish and mediocre,
and with some of his later works one is left wondering “why ?” Nevertheless, at
his best - and that isn’t often - he’s gorgeous.
Relatively little has been written about Algernon Newton,
and therefore I decided to indulge myself by writing a little essay about him,
a brief biography, and some highly subjective comments on some of his
paintings. Anyone who would like a free copy of the essay is welcome, although
the accompanying illustrations are not copyright cleared. But it will give you
a potted account and some weblinks, if you’re interested.
Rather like Hopper and comments about alienation and
loneliness in the big city, Newton routinely attracts remarks about his works
portraying menace and ominous foreboding, sometimes regarded as psychological
portents of World War Two, or as delayed side effects of his First World War
experiences. There’s quite a consensus, apparently, but I’m not sure about
this; it seems to me that city scenes can be empty, quiet and still, without
necessarily portraying anything sinister. That would be the case as regards my
own paintings. Thundery skies can just be thundery skies. Visual or
topographical pleasure may need no further analysis.
The quiet city in question is (mostly) London between the
wars. Newton became known as the “Regent’s Canaletto”, a neat pun acknowledging
his admiration of the Italian maestro plus his frequent choice of the Regent’s
Canal for subject matter – mostly in shabby locations in Paddington and Camden
Town. Those sort of places are among my favourites too. His very best painting,
however, one that fills me with unfulfillable
yearnings, is of Camberwell, an idyllic canal scene now long since obliterated
by the banalities of Burgess Park, a location dead and buried along with the
age and the values it represented.
Thus stimulated by my brief study of Algernon Newton I have
returned to one of my favourite artistic locations, the area of west London
close to Trellick Tower, the former Great Western main line and the Grand Union
Canal known formally as Kensal Town, a broken off outpost of humanity that at
one time might have declared allegiance to Paddington or North Kensington. From
the early sixties onwards this area was seen
to good and proper by planners, social engineers, architects, you know the
sort, the same ilk as the begetters of Burgess Park, all hygiene and fresh air.
The best recollection of its ambience remains in the photographs of Roger
Mayne, taken in and around Southam Street in the heart of this district. There
isn’t much of it left now, hardly anything. The sky looks more or less the
same. So all I can paint is an idea, an atmosphere, a might have been, a could
have been but never was. Perhaps next time I’ll have something to show you, and
more news on “Tourist”, which also includes an account of the district I’m
referring to.
One paradox. In the
TV series “’Allo ‘Allo’, the character Edith, wife of café owner René, bears a
strong facial resemblance to Jo Hopper, the artist’s wife who modelled in many
of his paintings. The radio code name Edith and René use for communicating with
England is “Nighthawk”. “Nighthawks” is of course one of Hopper’s most famous
works. Strange.
