Since I last posted I’ve managed to listen to two more of Julian Barnes’ essays on art, read on BBC Radio 4. I’m enjoying the experience very much. I have found Barnes sometimes appeals to me as a writer, and sometimes not. I enjoyed his History of the World in Ten and a Half Chapters, but then found his more recent novel Arthur and George to be rather off-putting. I’ve not managed to bring myself to finish it, although my experience of the TV adaptation was more positive. (I don’t know why.)
As a writer about art he is insightful, and is evidently widely familiar with the field. He challenges things that we have all come to take for granted, but usually not because he is pushing some sectarian critical theory, but because he has looked at his subject from several points of view, usually including at least one I’ve never thought of. His essay on Braque, for example, certainly has made me think again about the things I had taken for granted about the relationship between him and Picasso …. to the advantage of Braque. I like very much Barnes’ sense of humour. His remark that “Warhol is an artist like Fergie is royal” is wonderful, not only because (like much of the best wit) it’s unexpected, but also because it is so completely apposite.
So: one of the reasons I’m enjoying this book is that it challenges in interesting ways things I’ve taken for granted as true about art and the history of art. I really do have to look more closely at Braque’s work, who I’ve previously regarded rather as Robin to Picasso’s Batman. (Barnes might have thought of that one!) While my admiration for Cezanne is reinforced, it isn’t good enough to accept the widely circulated view of him as a kind of curmudgeonly painting peasant. There was a well-educated and thoughtful man behind the abrasive and reclusive exterior.
On the other hand it is always good to have at least some of one’s prejudices reinforced. Claes Oldenburg, Andy Warhol and Jeff Koons (in fact, the whole “pop” circus) will detain me in the future no longer than they have in the past …. with the additional advantage of my feeling authorised to avoid bothering with them. I will remain profoundly sceptical about the relevance to experiencing art of the wooly and obscuring verbiage that surrounds it these days. (Actually, when I come to think about it, a good deal of contemporary art criticism does rather resemble an Oldenburg creation. It’s floppy, and constructed from completely inappropriate materials.)
Otherwise, it’s been a rather frustrating day. My volunteering at South Square was cut short by the absence of a key to where I needed access. I made a start on a new picture (at last!) but had to quit because of a recurrence of my back ache. My efforts to hire a van for next Monday’s visit to Kendal (to reclaim my exhibition) are on hold until I receive the totally unnecessary official paperwork. The evening will be largely wasted because I need to go to a meeting at the church. Ah well! Tomorrow is another day.