Volume 1 — THE FINE ARTS

British Comic Drawing

I have before me the Christmas Number of Punch. After a conscientious perusal of its illustrated pages, I was led to think seriously about comic drawings. Punch has probably the largest circulation of comic papers, its position is undeniably established, it is, in fact, an institution in much the same way as the British Museum: we are accustomed to it, it exacts its quota of mirth from hundreds of thousands of people each week. It always contains some amusing things, but it is a pity that its drawings are not funnier. As comic drawings, most of them are quite valueless; they are not comic drawings but drawings of persons correctly portrayed in more or less amusing situations, the whole greatly helped by the wording beneath. Even the faces joined to the carefully-rendered bodies, with their carefully-drawn clothes (texture is felt here) and surroundings, are presented with the correct lines and expressions which a professor of physiognomy would connect with the various human emotions. The artist's personality behind these productions is rarely felt except as a stumbling-block to any progress of the absurd or whimsical. Mr. Max Beerbohm sums the matter up in his preface to a recent book of nonsense: "That a comic drawing should itself be comic seems to be a reasonable demand. Yet it is a demand which few comic draughtsmen meet. Comic drawings for the most part are but comic ideas seriously illustrated. We are shown an angry man who has just raised his stroke at golf; near him a caddie grinning behind his hand; and a view of the golf-links. Admirable! The man's stockings and knickerbockers, his cap, his collar, and tie are so rendered that a hosier would not blush to sign them. The drawing of the caddie's fingers would satisfy any drawing-master in any municipal art school. The treatment of the golf-links is faithful, sensitive, reverent. But—where does the fun come in? Through the text beneath maybe. But only for a moment. Out it goes, arrested, in the grip of the artist's firm and laborious hand."

Quite recently a friend of mine, whose drawings were more remarkable for their absurdity than for their strict draughtsmanship, attempted to obtain some work at the offices of one of our latest and most frivolous papers. The following conversation matured between him and the art editor:

Art Editor: These drawings are too queer for us, they won't go down over here.

Artist: How do you mean won't go down?

Art Editor: People don't understand them. They might do for France, but (mind you) they'd be queer even there.

Artist: Ah!

Art Editor: Now frankly (I hope you don't mind my being frank?)—(Artist: Not at all.)—You wouldn't say you could draw, would you?

Artist: I should not dare to be so presumptuous.

Art Editor: Well, these are the sort of drawings that children do in the suburbs of an evening.

Artist: Indeed!

Art Editor: Now, see here, in this drawing—you've only put three fingers on one hand. People notice that, you know. Now, if you could do us something like this (producing a third-rate imitation of Bateman figuring some gentleman of a pronounced Semitic type) we might be able to find you a job.

Artist: Well, I think I won't swell the ranks of people who are doing drawings of this kind.

Art Editor (surprised and suspicious): Ah, I'm sorry, I fear the drawings are no use to us, but I hope you don't mind my giving my opinion?

Artist: No, no, not at all. I shall value it. And now, please, how do I get out of this building?

Among the hosts of illustrators working for the comic papers there are very few comic artists and more artists than comedians. Punch would do well to relieve the monotony of its pages more often with the drawings of Mr. Bateman. There is a strength and subtlety in Mr. Bateman's line which places him far above other illustrators of this nature, while his knowledge and portrayal of types with the utmost economy of means is very stimulating: but then he can afford to be realistic also because he is above all a humorist. He possesses the faculty for letting himself go. Mr. George Morrow pleases us frequently by his gentle humour, and Mr. Haselden, a remarkable man, sustains our daily interest in the Daily Mirror. Mr. Heath Robinson is a master of whimsical invention, but I am not certain if he is not a very skilful engineer and mechanician in disguise—but certainly ingeniously disguised. Of the too regular contributors to Punch very little need be said, and of the illustrators of the cheaper comic publications still less: the best one can say of some of them is that they reproduce drawings from Continental papers. Between the extremes of academic respectability on the one hand and feeble vulgarity on the other there would seem to be no middle course. Our humorous papers are far below the level of such papers as the German Jugend or Simplicissimus, or the French Le Rire. One feels that their draughtsmanship is more simple and effective and their humour more spontaneous. This is not a plea for mere savagery of caricature, which appears foreign to our national temperament. But what a relief it would be if one fine week Punch went quite mad and appeared with its print upside down, or, better still, no print at all, and if all the artists gave free rein to whatever absurdity possessed them that week!

M. Henri Matisse

I suppose it is natural that the landscapes of M. Matisse should have a stronger appeal to me than his other works in the Leicester Galleries. Yet, apart from any purely egotistical considerations, I think many people will agree that his landscapes play a very important, if not the most important, part in the success of his exhibition. In many of them there seems to be no striving for the accomplishment of a unique or startling design, but there is a depth of feeling in their form and a mystery in their colour that alone accounts sufficiently for Matisse's reputation in modern art. I am extremely covetous of any one or all of these pictures. Matisse, in his landscapes, is a poet as well as a painter: his intense feeling for the quiet and rather awe-inspiring moments in Nature, his rendering of the vague profusion of growth, the cool grey horizontal clouds and subtle effects of light, make him a master in this branch of his art. I do not find this intensity of feeling in his other works, they are apt to cool one's ardour after the landscapes, and we are brought to think of design per se, and confronted with a flatness of handling that is not nearly so intriguing. His largest painting, Portrait de Femmes (trois sœurs), is very noble, and the drawings should not fail to satisfy the diminishing (I hope) body of people who will sniff at such an exhibition and utter those well-worn and unpardonable remarks on lack of draughtsmanship. Messrs. Brown and Phillips are to be congratulated on procuring for us such an interesting exhibition, and for giving us in the catalogue a photograph of M. Matisse. A glance at this likeness might still the outcries of Philistia more effectually than much argument.

Goupil Gallery Salon

Mr. William Marchant's salons, discontinued during the war, have come to life again, and the ninth of the series has been open during November and December. The Goupil Gallery has a large capacity, and Mr. Marchant seems to have gone out into all parts of the United Kingdom and gathered in a large crowd of artists, nor has he been able entirely to exclude some of the halt and the blind. A detailed criticism from picture to picture, or even from one man's group of work to another's, would be very tedious, for there are some 300 exhibits displayed in the series of rooms. The choice of work is very comprehensive, ranging from James Pryde to Pamela Bianco, from Mr. Lewis's portrait of Mr. Pound to the post-Millais backwash of Mr. Ranken.

In the Large Gallery are Mr. Augustus John and Mr. Sickert. The former exhibits two soldier portraits and No. 51, Birdie, all of which serve to remind us of his unequalled position in that branch of art. Mr. Sickert, the contemporary in age with most of the artists in this room, shines forth in his work with all the vigour and freshness of youth. His No. 49, Bridge at Bath, challenges the declining interest in the work of the more established artists in the room, while he runs level with, even sets the pace for, the younger generation.

In the First Gallery Mr. Lewis's portrait of Mr. Ezra Pound is apt to blunt our sensibilities to the other works therein. It is indeed a remarkable painting, standing like a ferro-concrete factory amidst a peaceful and rather decaying village. Of its faithfulness I am unable to judge, being acquainted with Mr. Pound solely in the pages of the Little Review, but its hard compelling colour and the solidity of its built-up design make it a thing difficult to forget. Mr. Robert Bevan's landscape, No. 100, has a reposeful design that is very telling. Mr. Ginner's sturdy realism is refreshing, and his painting in this room is, I think, more successful in design and colour than his other exhibit.

The Third Gallery.—Here, again, Mr. Sickert's two charming paintings attract our attention, and Mr. Mark Gertler's fine portrait is essentially a picture that leaves an impression in this maze of paintings. There are besides two fine wall paintings by Mr. William Rothenstein.

The Grey Room deserves its name indeed. It is difficult to say why the standard of water-colours is so low compared to the oils: with a very few exceptions, noticeably the drawings of Mr. Albert Rutherston, we seem to have touched bottom in this room, and a very muddy bottom too, so that coming at last to Mr. Shackleton's Peace Day one felt there remained nothing but to burst through the skylight into the air again. The absence of line in the water-colour drawings is very depressing.

ARTISTIC PERIODICALS

ILLUSTRATION

Foremost among the periodicals issued recently is Mr. Gerard Meynell's Illustration. This is a trade circular, and as such would naturally demonstrate within its covers the printer's aspirations in the reproduction of blocks and lettering. "Circular" is not an attractive word, but Mr. Meynell is no ordinary printer, and his circular is still less an ordinary affair. To those who are unacquainted with it, I would hasten to say that Illustration is more like a beautifully-coloured fairy-tale book than the accepted idea of a circular. This time Mr. Meynell has surpassed himself in his efforts not merely in the turn-out of his book, which to the professional and the amateur glance must be entirely admirable, but in giving us the added interest of a Supplement containing eight reproductions of modern art.

JOHN NASH