Art Critics At The Exhibition.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19036, 3 April 1930, Page 6

Art Critics At The Exhibition .

Pen Pictures

By Bernice Shackleton

\yHAT do you think of the exhibition of

pictures? It is a simple question yet one that may leave us in something of a quandary. For just what is the right thing to say? First, never admit a dilemma. One can always hedge fairly well with a few generalities. Not many of us really are art critics; but we like to think that we have a few ideas about pictures. One may play a strong hand and assume that one’s standards are so high that it is difficult to find any picture in this year’s exhibition that really satisfies. Criticism, if you get the knack of it, is the easiest thing in the world. Begin, this year, by saying: “There is a great deal of rubbish hung that should never have got past the selectors.” Anyone can see that, and in any case the men who are supposed to know have said it. But we may be even more emphatic ; we may be amazed how this one and that one (there are plenty of them, so we are fairly safe in drawing our bow at a venture) should have even been considered. We may even announce the proportion we would have discarded. You, being timid, may think about half, but your neighbour, gathering courage at your assertion, may estimate about two thirds, whereas I would advocate a thorough job and get rid of three-quarters. One disadvantage of such a clean sweep is that much of the humour would go with it, and from a purely humanitarian standpoint that would be rather a pity, for galleries are generally such deadly seriou3 places. They have an atmosphere almost religious—the shrine of art, naturally, and visitors realise it.

Getting back to this question of art criticism. It is a serious one. Just watch the slowly moving groups. Some of them you feel instinctively must know all the technicalities of composition. With a little move of the hand one speaker is adjudging each little point. You or I might envy them their knowledge. Such people give one rather an inferiority complex. But the dabbler in all the arts can bluff his way through. One can see in such a picture as the “New Forest Spring Scene” all “the lovely fickleness of an April day,” in England. Do not be afraid to give expression to one’s sensibilities. A group of rather restless young things are “doing” the gallery. They are new to the tricks of the game. They drift over to the “Queen of Sheba”—a fancy dress affair. “Oh, what a gorgeous thing! ” Then remembering, “Yes. . . . But what a modern face.”

One never knows what valuable hints one may pick up in an art gallery. Seeing two men, old in wisdom as in years, engrossed before a picture, I drifted over ostensibly to study its merits also. They were discussing town-planning- Thereat I lost interest and have even forgotten the name of the landscape. Landscape predominates so forgive me if my impressions have not persisted. The ordinary man in the street and woman in the home judges pictures by this standard. You will hear it frequently: “Now, could I live with that picture?” As a matter of fact there are plenty of pleasant wall decorations in the collection, pretty landscapes of here and there, and we could live with most of them comfortably enough. But one looks in vain for the picture that would fill one with little unaccountable longings, the picture with an idea. In the dim past I remember taking part in a children’s play, a little music, much dancing and enough dialogue to string it all together. The plot has gone from my memory, but one line remains: “A boy without imagination is like a ship without a rudder.” That is just by the way, but someone else may feel that our artists are passable copyists but not very good interpreters. On the whole you will find that the spirit cf the enthusiastic critic is willing, but the flesh is weak. That ache in the back of the legs persists in thrusting itself upon the consciousness; yet if you learn nothing else from the exhibition, take care lest in a v/eak moment you are persuaded to sit for your portrait.