ART AND ARTISTS

New Zealand Times, Volume LII, Issue 12251, 24 September 1925, Page 4

ART AND ARTISTS

THE WORK OF THE YEAR (Written for the “N.Z. Times.”) Behind the yellow stone and red brick of that extraordinary little building that is New Zealand’s Academy of Fine Arts is a very full morning’s enjoyment for those who seek to create beauty in any shape or form. The portraits, as a whole, are not remarkable. Perhaps the most interesting is “Mrs Jas. Hannah,” by M. E R. Tripe. It is undoubtedly a portrait, and its careful design and colour ar-

rangement make it also a picture. The portrait of Miss Earle is so much less than Mrs Tripe’s best that it suggests hurried work. But her big picture, ‘ ‘The Two Models,” is the natural result of care and time, and patience. There is an evenness and restraint that is refreshing to see in the treatment of the nude figure : there is deisgn in the colour arrangement, in the dull bronze head and in the yellow transparency of the heavy silken drape. An ambitious and smoothly successful example of Mr Bowring’s work is a large portrait of the Rev. Rabbi Van Staveren in the vesture of his creed.

In Mina Arndt’s study of Dr. M one feels that it is a likeness as well as extremely clever work. Representative of the work of Elizabeth Wallwork, but falling disappoint ingly short as a portrait, is “PeTcy b Crisp, Esq.,” but. an altogether higher attainment is “Charles,” son of Dr Mbrkane.” Vivian Smith’s simplicity of treatment becomes severity in “The Favourite” . . . the flat colour, the rigid attitude, of the little sweet-faced child, makes her seem scarcely less china than the doll. But if it aims to be in any way a portrait one feels sure it is more than successful. '

Sunshine falls brightly on the green of English trees in “Canterbury Summer,” and then Mr Nicoll assures of his versatility when he gives us among liis landscapes such work as “Portrait of Mrs Howard Tripp.” “The Itinerant Musician” (H. Horridge) is remarkable for the sympathetic understanding of the subject as well as a superior technique. That vaguely wistful restlessness in the eyes, in the very attitude, of the homeless man would appear not an unknown thing to the artist himself. * * * *

Marcus King, in “Summer Afternoon,” has again given us light . . . .

the dazzling shimmer of summer air pierced by a setting sun. It streams, white, across the water from low sunwashed hills, between strong rocks softened and halqed at the edges, into a little stony bay. Grace Butler has done excellent work in “Summer Afternoon, Otira Gorge.” The hills drop steeply, shadowing the unseen river, and the ridge stretches away in a haze of blue under the white clouds. There is vigorous treatment as well as imagination in “Along the Skyline,” by Ethel Richardson. A blowing white sky and the rugged manukas bending stoically over the cliff-edge. Mr Wallwork’s work is always imaginative. He is truer to fiction than some people are to fact, and, fiction being, what it is, there can be no argument. But Romance is always lovable, and he paints her well. A small thing in burnished colours is “Souk at Hammamet, Tunesia,” by Sydney L. Thompson. As usual, warmth floods the picture .... a

tunnel of gold, where the hot sun burns along the arches and on the standing figures with their brilliant garments. 1 There are flower studies. . . . “Falling Flowers,” delightful, by D. K. Richmond. . . “Ranunculas,” by E. L. Prince, who finds them a happier subject than “The Model,” which is more undressed than nude.

Miss Munro contributes small gems. . . . glowing little pictures painted and embroidered on silk. One, embroidered in hair of varying shades on silk the texture of fine art paper, gives the appearance of a delicate etching. Apart from its careful drawing, perhaps for its untiring patience and fidelity, it is a lovely impression.

Upstairs there are landscapes in water-colour, of more, and less, merit, but always interesting. Ronald McKenzie gives us coloui . . yellow, orange, and red trees stand grouped, in lilac sand, about a cottage whose low thatch is intense bine to vie with the shadows. It is a picture that proclaims itself loudly, but withal, somewhat incoherently. One cannot help thinking, for instance, that the roof is a little unlikely in that broad sunlight . . . .but tho effect completes the design. Even the average individual sees colour occasionally in the greyest dav. It seems so. much a matter of mood, of temperament, and even of health, that to judge an artist is almost impossible, certainly to accuse him. That he sees what he has represented is simply his fortune or his misfortune. And we can only trust him to remain true to his vision: Exaggeration is no crime unless truth be the object. How Nugent Welch loves spaces! Calm, yet colourful the high sky rises in Lis “Tranquil Evening.” It rises, rosy, from behind far grey peaks all shadow, paling across to the three ■mall motionless clouds that hang lost, bewildered, over an opal sea. . . a sea which all the colours of the pawa sliel' combine to make an evening grey. Involuntarily the eye lifts. One feels the height, the peace. . . and this is rare. And a smaller one, “The Limpid Bay.” where the coastline lies and the sea stretches as it would to a bird in the high air. Down this time. . . down from the hills to the tiny bay in its heavenly calm, the water greenly transparent in the shallows, a ribbon of white where it touches the shore. A little joy forever it is. . . a captured hour of summer. One cannot help but wonder at the art that spends itself on grotesques or still life. So many ex cellent efforts give nothing but tho vague appreciation of the fact that they are, one supposes, excellent efforts.

And there are Linley Richardson’s delicious child studies in which he is always happy One does not quarrel with the drawing when the workmanship is what jt is. , . extreme delicacy, extreme refinement of line and colour. One feels everywhere, in every tender line of them, the sensitive fingers of the artist in love with his work.

Artists are, after all, the people who work out their dreams or die in the attempt, and for this fact alone they are better than we who are content merely to live. They give a great deal, and for very little, so that our gratitude must necessarily go to them, even though our understanding cannot always follow.