The Alloway paintings - Loving the art of the near past

Not so long ago, artists lived at the margins. From shabby studios, they produced work that was difficult and abrasive - even brutal. They shunned popularity. For to be popular, one had to conform; and to conform, one had to submit to the general will.

Questions about the nature and purpose of art seldom arose, because art was what they did, come what may. While pandering to the tastes of the mass consumer was unthinkable.

The Alloway paintings, acquired and lovingly restored by Cristus, ‘Nude with Cat’ (1969) and ‘Nude Circle’ (1971), are outstanding examples of this oppositional art. Knocked up on hardboard and skinny laths - themselves an expression of the artist’s condition - they have endured the pangs and scorn of time. Indeed, it is hard to imagine that they have ever been cared for, or displayed with pride. Yet, with the gentle easing of a spirit rag, four decades of filth make way for truths. We are struck by the artist’s thoughts, his fears, his time, his rebellion, and his unquestionable skill; but we also sense that the paintings are as vital as the moment of their conception, and that they are imbued with an integrity that is beyond question.

While other art arrives and is checked for dinks, like any other merchandise, the Alloways interfuse with the viewer. Even during restoration, they were taken from the workroom, hung on walls and examined, discussed and re-examined by us Cristusians.

In these, and in the one other painting we have seen, Alloway describes an urban, modern or near-futuristic vision. Spectral figures appear, writhing in a ring of despair in ‘Circle’, while encased in specimen jars in ‘Cat’. The nude is most present on the crimson sofa, but she too is obscured by the cat and her lower limbs are fading into pools of liquid light. Outside the glare radiates into the spaces and the figures await their fate. The resignation, alienation and loss of faith runs parallel to the themes of absurdist drama. These were the concerns of the artists of the time, and that’s why Alloway painted them. He is part of a rich tradition of British post-war avant-garde artists who have hitherto been much-undervalued. But who is this Dennis Alloway, whom, we are told, attended the Royal Academy School then disappeared from view? Please let us know.

Folkestone Collection at the Grand

The Folkestone Collection exhibition at the Grand Hotel, on the Leas, Folkestone, is an excellent and surprising example of the treasures held by many a provincial town’s art vaults.

We get Victor Pasmore, Peter Blake, Fred Cuming and Carel Weight. A mind altering, transcendental woodcut from Monica Poole, and an early 1970’s view of modern art that is all that modernism should be – hopeful for the future , vibrant, colourful and yet systematic and full of skill and craftsmanship.

The most significant thing we get though is a mighty blow for the print against the painting. Although there are some excellent paintings to be seen, it is the prints which really caught my attention.

Peter Blake’s prints – illustrations of scenes from Alice Through The Looking Glass - are like a distillation of everything good in 1970s England. I was transported into Blake’s world, which sat so beautifully with Lewis Carroll’s. I’m no Blake expert, but these seem his best works.

Weight’s massive painting of The Poet is a thing to behold. It is a game played with perspective, colour and juxtaposition of forms. I wouldn’t be surprised if it overtly refers to the poetry of its subject.

Victor Pasmore’s abstract print is a masterpiece. It has the sureness of composition and colour of his best work.

Everyone will have their favourites from this exhibition. To happen upon it is like rolling back a mossy boulder to reveal caverns of shimmering stalagmites. As someone who believes in the transformative power of art, I can say no more than that I came away inspired, resolving to apply the same levels of care, creativity and intelligence on show at the Grand to my own work.

The pieces might have been exhibited more accessibly. The tea rooms are a nice enough setting, but many of the prints are best appreciated at very close quarters, and not across a dining table.

This exhibition is highly recommended. Hurry, it runs until 5th May, 2009.

Folkestone Art Co-operative at The Grand

There could scarcely be a better place to view an exhibition of art than within the Palm Court of the genteel Grand Hotel, especially on a day when France revealed herself across the sparkling waters of the Channel. Such splendour, such gaiety, such temptation to take tea on the Leas, surely still the most elegant seaside promenade in the world.

Of Fontaine-Wolf’s paintings, ‘Tuscan Garden’ and ‘Sarah Reading’, the latter was the one that captivated. Until then, I confess that it was the architecture that held my attention, but the portrait of the young girl engrossed in fiction seemed both to stand out and belong. Yes, that’s it, it stood out because it belonged - stuck - defiantly - in that middle part of the twentieth century, between the Bloomsbury artists and Suez, or between the domestic servant and the hostess trolley. The world has changed, but The Grand, ‘Sarah Reading’ and Fontaine-Wolf it seems have not.

But despite this unease, I so admire the refinement of the painting. I am drawn into the intensity of the subject. Sarah is reading, and we are observing her. It is her space, all chintzy informality, beautifully observed in soft greys and apricots. Her cat elongates across the back of the chair, but she is rapt in concentration; and the immediate sense of calm repose is replaced by tension. It is the universal experience of the reader when the book takes hold. Yes, it’s been done many times before - and I especially recall Vanessa Bell’s ‘Interior with Artist’s Daughter’, but in The Grand’s imperial setting, I loved it.

The Old High Street

The depth of darkness is Dickensian on The Old High Street. Piss-yellow light seeps into Folkestone’s black night. I walk up the hill towards the source of the fast-food stench. The fugg rolls past, down to the sickly harbour. Old businesses are dead and dying, young ones are alive and trying to kick. Deserted laundromats and chic galleries, cheap arcades neon lit like a vision of hell, old curiosity shops, cafe bars and coffee houses, bric-a-brac and urbane cafes. The quick and the dead.

It’s like watching a dying animal give birth. Never mind the works of art in Folkestone, Folkestone is the work of art. See it now before it dies.

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The Old High Street is brown ale in your cappucino, it is mud in your eye and beautiful paintings, it’s a boutique hotel readying itself for a first visitor, sometime, any time, and a Christian bookshop teleported from Old Dublin, birth control models intact and graphic.

A drunk walks behind, muttering darkly. I wonder will he attack me. He remarks on the weather, I let him slip by, he mentions the cold again. This time I answer, because he isn’t a threat, or a photo opportunity, but just a genial young man in the cold, with a few too many drinks inside.

I walk back to the car through the super-real light. Tribal teens bored and posturing, a bag lady, a corporate coffee shop. I am not sure if this is the still-born future or the dawn of something real. I’ll keep on taking my photographs, and see what happens.