Dick French: On The Town – September 2017

I’ve just been to see an exhibition by an artist whose name for the moment escapes me.

neck of
the jar and place a tarpaulin /* xin2 */ over its head if


it snows. As the menu dangles from the neck, to read it people must lean down towards

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the creature’s head.

Edward Burra was a /* 9-970x90 */ great fan of Beckett and he thought it src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/show_ads.js"> would be rather nice to live in a jar with

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just his eyes poking out. He did a number of pictures on this theme. Being so disabled it was a bit like describing his own condition, although he always managed to get around.

An interesting feature of George Rowlett’s paintings is that they often contain fragments of the scene which inspired them. Flies, gnats, twigs, and in one of his recent pieces what looks like the tailfin of


a sardine is poking out of a src="//pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/show_ads.js"> rape field. It’s a bit like Goya google_ad_width = 970; writing “Yo Lo Vi”. I saw this. I was there.
Perhaps it’s just another way google_ad_slot = "7160667483"; of trapping the moment. I always
wonder about the insects etc. which must have been stuck in Van Gogh’s paintings. He always complained about them. Someone must have picked them out.

Rowlett’s painting of the Temple of Neptune at Paestum is a dynamic piece (see illustration). A

gigantic dark-haired figure seems to be bursting through the front columns (this is more noticeable in the reproduction than in
the actual painting). Such things happen when  improvising so loosely and do not detract from the grandeur of the painting. My favourite piece in the show is, oddly, not included
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in the catalogue: Rape Field near Ripple, grey sky in May. Over a sumptuously slathered on butter and lemon
rape field, a wide violet band containing flecks of viridian streaks along under a lowering sky. In the background of Lady’s Smock Lupin and Poppy Heads he seems to have slathered on a totally new colour. Pinky violet, peachy cream. Farrow
and Ball would go crazy. Keep it a secret George!

To Chichester with Dirty Harry to see the John Minton show at Pallant House. The air at Chichester is really most refreshing. You feel so close to the sea. The train takes ages and by the time we arrived my throat was as dry

as a nun’s gusset. Fortunately just over the level crossing is an excellent pub. On the way back to the station the barman let
us watch a stage of the Tour de France on an enormous screen.


style="font-weight: 400;">At
Pallant House as well as the Minton show there is a small gallery of William Coldstream’s paintings. I never realised before how bad he //--> was. The effort he puts in! All those measurements, angles and
so forth to
achieve such meagre results is astonishing. A kind of constipated sobriety in sharp contrast to Minton’s neo-romantic exuberance. Francis Bacon was
always rather dismissive of Minton’s obsession with fellating sailors and body builders: “Why can’t he take it up the bum like everyone else so he
can really enjoy it?”

400;">Poor old Minton, a star in the ’40s he rapidly became vieux chapeau as the neo-romantics were swamped by hard-core American influences. His early

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drawings and

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paintings were haunting and mysterious, rather like improvised Samuel Palmers. They had an intensity which is hard to sustain //--> for more than a few years. I can think of a number of artists who have had