To Mutter Imprecations

Following on from my fleeting visit to Edinburgh the other week, it feels like it’s time to go and take a look at some more artworks from north of the border though, fortunately, this time around I only have to travel a wee bit north of the river to actually get to see them.  Hence, I’m off to Victoria and, more specifically, the annex to that big house where the most famous nonagenarian in the world lives when she’s in town.  Yes, happy birthday, ma’am, and thanks for taking time off from the celebratory preparations to have another rummage around down in the basement and up in the attic to pull out some more pictures from the collection and stick them up on the walls of your Gallery.  This time, as already indicated, the theme focuses on the northern bit of the queendom with Scottish Artists 1750-1900: from Caledonia to the Continent.

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Unfortunately, today is one of those hot, sunny days where the ozone from the air and the oxides of nitrogen from the car exhaust fumes mix poisonously together to pollute the local London atmosphere, in general, and clog up my eyes and lungs, in particular.  So I’m feeling hugely relieved when I finally get out of the unfresh air and in through the door to enjoy the entirely more pleasant ambience of the Queen’s Gallery.  Luckily, most people seem to like to do the exact opposite to me, so that when the sun comes out they desert the dark enclosed artworld spaces associated with galleries and museums and instead race outside to the parks and other open spaces.  It’s a win-win situation which suits me very well since the more people choosing to toast themselves under the dangerous rays of the sun’s ultra violet radiation, the fewer there are to fill up the galleries, and the better the view I get to look at the art.  And, sure enough, when I get into the Gallery there’s only a very short queue for the tickets.  But if that’s the good news, the bad news is that there’s a tourist at the front who appears to have decided to engage with the woman trying to sell the tickets and relate to her the entire story of War and Peace.  Since I’ve not read the work, naturally I’m a little concerned that I may inadvertently get to learn some of the important narrative twists, and so find myself unwittingly starting to mutter imprecations under my breath.  As time passes and I become increasingly irked at waiting for the queue to move, I find the volume of my irritable commentary inadvertently rising to a level which some might consider inappropriate for a regal setting.  Yet still it has no observable effect on the oriental lady causing the hold-up and, what’s worse, she seems to be deliberately ignoring my vulgar heckling.  Well, as the Queen herself acknowledged only the other day, some of her visitors can be really quite rude and one just has to suffer in…well, not exactly silence but…er…well, anyway finally all is resolved, Napoleon retreats from Moscow, the queue moves on and I get my ticket.  But then there’s another delay with the need to pass through the security barriers which involves having to empty my pockets of bits of metal, of which I tend to carry a lot, and then suffer the indignity of having my body patted down.  I really think they need to tweak their profiling procedures here and concentrate on the more likely looking candidates.  After all, surely they can tell by looking at me that I’m not a threat and that my small, neatly-clipped grey beard is the signature styling of a retired accountant and artworld sophisticate who wants to indicate a touch of post-hipster irony – not the symbolic facial embellishment of some fruitcake fanatic – and that it’s safe to wave me through unmolested..

 

Oh well, I finally get into the exhibition and after all the preliminary hassles I’m pleased to be able to report that it’s worth the effort.  Well, let’s say that half of it is worth it, as there’s a bit of a disjuncture in quality between the good stuff in the first room and then the less interesting leftovers put in the back.  So, the show starts with half a dozen large, rather grand, regal portraits from Allan Ramsay followed, by way of contrast, by some smaller, rather quaint genre paintings by David Wilkie.  I confess, even though I call in on the Queen to look at her pictures every so often, I’ve never been much of a monarchist and so have to read the labels to find out who the important looking people are that I’m staring at.  Even then, I’m still not entirely sure who exactly Princess Elizabeth Albertina, Duchess of Mecklenburg Strelitz (1713-1761) was or what part she played in the royal soap opera, but I can tell by Ramsay’s painting that she was certainly a bit of a toff and clearly didn’t go to Primark, or its 18th century equivalent, when she wanted to update her wardrobe.  And that’s all rather lucky for Ramsay for it allows him to show just what a skillful painter he was when it came to capturing that haughty but relaxed look of entitlement and also the sumptuousness of the apparel with which royalty chose to clothe and decorate itself.  The parade of royal relatives culminates in the very large – king-size, I suppose – official portraits of King George III and its pendant showing Queen Charlotte with the kids.  And, once again, Ramsay shows his mastery when it comes to capturing the magnificence of all the glistening threads of gold, folds of silk, soft pelts of ermine and especially the puffy pampered pink visages of our erstwhile rulers.

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While Ramsay was sycophantically swanning around, flattering those at the top, his countryman Wilkie was documenting the lifestyles of some of those residing at the other end of the social scale.  And, at least according to Wilkie’s paintings, which purport to show scenes from everyday life in the highlands, it looks like they were all having really a rather jolly time as well, which may just be a slightly rosy-coloured view of the true situation.  I’ve never been much of a fan of these so-called genre paintings, especially the ones that try to show deliberately comical views of the lives of those near the bottom of the pile.  But even I can’t help admiring the skilful way in which Wilkie composes his complicated scenes of revelry.  Whether it’s guests at The Penny Wedding (so called because all the guests were obliged to make a small contribution to the costs of the entertainment) or those taking part in the game of Blind-Man’s-Buff, Wilkie manages to arrange all the characters and props in a convincing way that also successfully emphasises the sense of movement and artistic rhythm.  Not surprisingly these paintings were favourably received, both critically and commercially, which apparently enabled the artist to go travelling to Italy and then on to Spain.  Here it seems that his art took a bit of a serious turn as he chose to record dramtic incidents of resistance and heroism from participants in the recent Spanish War of Independence.  The change in mood from parochial populism to punchy propaganda was accompanied by his painting style becoming looser and less detailed suggesting, at least to me, the influence of Goya, although I’m not sure the pair ever actually met.

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As for the rest of the show, this occupies a second, larger room and covers work from another dozen or so artists, all Scottish, but some more insistently so than others.  So there’s fair share of the usual clichés – a kilted Bonny Prince Charlie; a bunch of hairy highland cattle; and various heather coated glens and snow-capped mountains – but there are also a few less stereotyped scenes from abroad, notably from David Roberts in Cairo and, less successfully, John Phillip in Seville.  Finally, Alexander Nasmyth’s rather magnificent view of Edinburgh High Street filled with street vendors, horse-drawn carts and amazing rickety old buildings make the place look even more interesting than I remember it and make me think that I really must go back sometime.

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