IN PRAISE OF WALLS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21278, 3 September 1932, Page 1 (Supplement)

IN PRAISE OF WALLS

AND THE WRITING ON MINE

BT GEOEFBET FOLLETT

Here where I sit by the little window the view is not beautiful. Not even what you might properly call spacious: I doubt even a house agent would dare to call it that! In fact, I look out on to nothing but a wall, a high stone wall. But if it is not the most entrancing of views, it certainly is not lacking in character, nor in its own peculiar charm: sometimes my fancy even clothes it with enchantment. Those times are sufficiently rare, it is true —but then is my fancy to blame ? The wall never changes; the wall is excellent, always; reliable, steadfast, perhaps a trifle superior in the cold, hard manner of walls. After all, is not that excusable, and more our own silly human fault than the wall's ? What do we know of walls in general ? We can build them up- and break them down; wo can occasionally, when necessity demands tho effort, climb them and, if we are young and carefree, sit on them with legs a-dangle. But that is all. Of their inwardness, their real character, their sterling worth, what do we know ? What do we ever try to know ? Is it any wonder, then, if they seem to look down at us a little coldly ? And yet, my wall (as I would have it known) is somewhat different from all others. Maybe it only seems so because we do enjoy some sort of " understanding." But are not all differences whatsoever dependent upon just this degree of understanding ?—appreciation, if you will. Let us leave it at that. My wall is different.

The sun has just risen (the laggard!) and is peering curiously at my wall through the leaves of a tall poplar. The mottled effect of early sunlight would seem to enhance the charm of my stolid friend, lighting with especial beauty those greenish patches that, in anything less than a stone wall, might betoken a partial decay, but which here denote mere landmarks, passages of time upon its enduring frame. Wonderful Pictures But that is not really what I had to say about walls, and my wall in particular. It was of the marvellous pictures that I find thereon—and I do not refer to the art of small boys armed with chalk and fired by an overmastering passion, which can only bo relieved by the drawing of a pierced heart, and the inspiring information that " Annie loves James " beneath. Rather, it is the work of an older, more experienced artist I have in mind. Some refer to her as Dame Nature; others as " this d d weather! " It all depends upon one's frame of mind; possibly, to some extent, upon one's breakfast.

Nature is the perfect craftsman: she is a superb artist, too. Though we shall not call her " perfect," since no artist can be that, if our understanding of art as ever striving toward the ideal is right. And my wall is her canvas. What a gallery of pictures! Some, ornate, finished and permanent; others, sketchy and impressionistic, which appear to be replaced from day to day, minute to minute, even as you watch. Which is my favourite writing on the waif? That is no easy question to resolve amid such charming profusion. Because it is one of " the permanents " —those which are ever in place, rain or fine, come winter, come summer—and thus affords me the 'keen pleasure of being able to show it off to all my visitors, possibly I would name the Grecian frieze as my favourite. It is done, appropriately, immediately beneath the cornice. It is executed in the traditional manner: plunging horses, helmeted warriors bearing shield and broad-sword, and beneath the hooves, 'the slajn. Some Portraits Here a foolish thought insists upon intruding: those fine, round, classical shields—how exactly like dustbin lids they are! One even recollects one's first fine enthusiasm for the military life, expressing itself in terms of the aforementioned lid, the kitchen poker, and a tea-cosy! How simple ware enthusiasms then—and how sincere! But some of the sketches, impermanent and beautiful as those other pictures seen in the dying fire, take my fancy almost equally. There is a fine picture hung this very morning, whose bold, striking outline suggests the best of our modern school. It is of a woman, elim-waisted, tightly corseted, obviously a Spanish type, and she is probably dancing a graceful saraband, while her skirts float out like a breezeheld banner. Yesterday, she was the Lady With a Powder-puff, another exquisite work in the manner of a Gainsboro'. 1 am sorry to lose that delicious creature—but I rejoice that she has not changed her sex! What may I not hope for to-morrow ? _ Intellectually stimulating are the impressionistic, cubist ■ and futuristic sketches which, like their prototypes in the galleries, are apt to appear first one thing, then another, according to our fancy, our humour, or the point from which we view them. There, in the very centre of my wall, stands the /deepest of arm-chairs, and, reposing in it, a very A. A. Milnish teddy bear—probably Master Pooh himself—his woolly legs cocked up toward a mantelpiece, which our artist has failed to depict. Very charming and delightful, only ... is it Winnie the Pooh ? Or is it, after all, only Queen Victoria in her I' postage stamp dress " ? Well, well, that is the worst of this modern stuff; it always disappoints in the end, and one is never quite certain . . . But stay! Why, however could we have been so stupid, so blind! Winnie the Pooh, Queen Victoria, indeed! Why, plain as a pikestaff, it is the Laughing Cavalier, and none other. Our sincere apologies, illustrious Franz Hals!

Problems And then there is the problem picture. I could ill spare that. For it has this advantage over more orthodox problem paintings—those of Collier, for example. Day by day, little by little, this picture is changing; imperceptibly as one watches, yet sufficiently marked after a period of disregard. My own theory is that this picture is steadily working out the solution to its problem. That there will come a day when I shall look out of this window and there upon my wall opposite see the answer. The problem picture that solved itself! That is what I hope for, what drags me a little less unwilling from my blankets these chilly, late mornings. A final word in praise of walls in general. Walls are fine, upstanding things, often beautiful, sometimes truly noble. Then why not treat them with becoming respect ? Lean against them if you will: to do such is a friendly act which they may likely appreciate. {After all, they are the, solo thing life has given many an unfortunate to lean upon.) But do not, please, strike your lucifer upon them; nor scribble over their surface. (There is no surer way to advertise a fool's act than to sign your name thus!) Above all, you who build walls, go about your honourable work in honourable fashion. Build honestly. Brick is brick, and stone, stone: so why conceal the former, which can as well be beautiful as any other material, in a vulgar imitation of the latter? The process of their building is not the same, so why pretend to give them the same face? Each has its robust character, eacli its own beauty. " Balbus built a wall . . ." It is not given to us all to do as did Balbus. But we all can admire and praise his handiwork. -• i