The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood are not,
in general, top of my personal favourites list though I do freely
acknowledge their power and art historical importance.
I have, in general, decided to avoid
big spectacular block buster set piece art shows where there are so
many people that I can't see very much, in favour of smaller events
or long term collections where I can sit contemplatively[1]
and take in the work itself.
The PRB are, on the
other hand high in my partner's pantheon . Whilst we have been to
permanent collections where they can be found in limited numbers,
there will never be a better opportunity to see the spread of any
aspect, or even some particular examples, than in a curated one off.
So it was that (
the
end of year 'flu more or less shaken off) we spent a day in
London jostling with hundreds of other visitors to Tate Britain's
seven room extravaganza which ends in a week's time.
There
is (with the possible
exception of some graphic arts artefacts designed for mass
dissemination) never any comparison[2]
between a reproduction of an art work and the original. If I have
only seen a reproduction of (for example) an oil painting or
sculpture, however good a reproduction it may be, then I no more know
that painting or sculpture than I “know” a person whose portrait
photograph (however skilfully and insightfully made) I have seen.
In this temporary
collection of the Pre-Raphaelites and their extended circle of
influence, there were some works that I had previously seen “in the
flesh” and some that I had not. To see just one new original which
transcends its reproduction is ample reward for the time, effort and
cost involved in getting to see it, and I got that reward in spades
from what is almost the first exhibit.
William
Shakespeare Burton's The wounded cavalier is one of those paintings which I have know in reproduction for long
enough not to be able to place when I first encountered it (my best
guess would be the early nineteen seventies, when I was about
twenty), but of which I have never had a particularly high opinion.
This was the first time, however, that I've seen the original, and I
fell immediately head over heels in love with it. Reproduction shows
the obvious symbolist themes well enough (and even their
ambiguities), but not the visual and tactile quality of their
execution.
I
could gush embarrassingly, and at inordinate length, over any section
or aspect you cared to choose. That woodland behind the wall, into
whose infinite range of luscious grey green shadows you could slip
away and lose yourself (for they extend infinitely far into a world
beyond the painting itself). Any one of those lovingly painted ferns,
leaves, stones (the stones which look so very dull and uninteresting
in reproduction, but become luminous worlds when examined directly in
very paint). The marvellously explored lichen patched bark of that
tree at the centre of the image, behind which the dark coated male Puritan figure partially stands – or, for that matter, any individual patch of
lichen on that bark. Pick any detail you like, any square centimetre of canvas,
and I'll happily bore you till dawn with an account of how wonderful
it is.
As it is ... I'll
just choose a section for you, then expend only a few words before
letting you scurry away in relief.
The cavalier's
sword has been broken, snapped in two, in whatever action has just
finished and left him wounded. You can see the haft and the first few
centimetres of blade lying on the ground close to his hand at the
bottom of the picture, just left of centre, between his hand and the
base of the tree.
The rest of the
blade has sliced through the bark of the tree and remains stuck
there, just below image centre. I won't waste your time or patience
by rhapsodising over what you can't see in reproduction (like the
liquid metallic quality of the way the metal blade has been painted).
I'll instead show you two details which may have missed your previous
attention but quiver breathtakingly from the paint surface, a pale
shadow of which can even be seen in a digital snapshot.
This sectional
detail from the painting (click either image
in this post for a larger view) shows just the half length of the sword blade
towards its tip (in the painting that's the lower left section of the
blade, after it emerges from the tree).
At the centre
of my extracted detail, you'll see that a butterfly (almost certainly
symbolising the soul … though of which character in the melodrama
is open to discussion) has alighted on the blade.
At the bottom left,
Hunt has not been content to paint the blade itself superbly well
(you'll have to take my word for that bit, unless you make a trip to
the London Guildhall[3] art gallery); he has gone on to
painstakingly show damage on the cutting edge.
I'll
never understand how anyone can “do” one show or gallery in the
morning, break for lunch, and “do” another in the afternoon.
Given the opportunity, I'll willingly spend hours in front of one
piece.
Of
course (though it's seldom mentioned) that can work both ways: the
original is usually much more than the reproduction but it can also
turn out to be disappointingly less. Less dramatically, it can also
happen that an expected revelation of additionality fails to
materialise, and the original (while not the same) is not at
radically more or less than what one already knows.
The
Guildhall is the permanent home to which this painting will
return after 13th
January 2013 … which makes me kick myself for never having made
the effort to see this painting before.
