Graphic Journey Blog

Commercial and fine art: Never the twain shall meet.

1950's commercial art studio.

Here in the UK, it wasn’t until the early 1960s that the term ‘commercial artist’ began transitioning into ‘graphic designer’, even though the Royal College of Art had named one of its courses ‘graphic design’ in the early 1950s. It still took years for it to filter through those many dusty commercial art studios dotted around London. I know because I worked in two of them near Fleet Street in the early sixties, where everyone referred to themselves as ‘commercial artists’. But I think the change of name occurred because the ‘commercial’ aspect of the original description was deemed rather downmarket – certainly less refined than the more continental description, where the graphic designer was not only more respected but also seen in a more serious and cerebral light.

Eventually, we all happily became ‘graphic designers’, leaving behind the old description. But, actually, on reflection, the former title is far more honest.

The commercial artist’s proposition is very straightforward: they address a client’s requirements and get paid for the service. That’s the ‘commercial’ bit. Our intelligence, imagination and artistry are the other bit.

Conversely, ‘fine’ artists grapple with their own inner issues: they are the client, so they do the rejecting. Ultimately, their work is for sale, often through an intermediary like a gallery or, increasingly these days, on the web. Unless you are fortunate, it is, for many, a precarious way to make a living, being self-employed, with overheads and no holiday pay, maternity leave or pension etc, but nevertheless, an intellectually rewarding way to live a life.

Lucian Freud in his studio.

In the 50 odd years that I have been in this business of graphic design, I have known many designers who dreamt of turning their backs on the ‘commercial world’, opting to dedicate their lives to pursuing a personal furrow, leaving behind all that frustration, hassle and compromise of dealing with clients. The difficult ones. The frighten ones. The ones who take forever to pay. Few actually ever achieve this, of course, apart from a little painting, pottery, photography, writing or any other creative pursuit at the weekend or whenever it can be squeezed in. I know because I have delved deeply into many of these areas over various periods of my life. And those of us who have sold a little of our work in galleries know that, in our heart of hearts, it’s not the real deal being part-time artists.

Jenny Saville in her studio.

In the late 1990s, illness forced me to take several months off work. Over the weeks convalescing, I started to paint again, after a ten-year gap. Each day I would work away in my studio, free from the distractions of running a company, with all its complications of money, rent, staff and clients. As the months slipped away, I became more confident, less hesitant and more intuitive in my painting. I was excited and creatively challenged – it was wonderful and, importantly, I was elated by the results of my endeavour. But, eventually, I had to return to my day job. Very quickly, all of the pressures, distractions and problems returned, and that short-lived delightful freedom, confidence and excitement ebbed away, along with my brushes, like the evening tide.

Judy Buxton in her studio.

Heart of the country: an illustration from David Gentleman’s In the Country

To my mind, you can’t ever be a free artist while keeping that commercial hat firmly on. It corrupts and saps creative energy and diminishes pure, unsullied thought. The only British designer I know who has straddled both worlds successfully is David Gentleman. But, actually, I have never viewed him as a commercial animal – clients are drawn to his work and want him, particularly his wonderful drawing and painting ability. I have often imagined that he was born holding a pencil and brush. His brilliant graphic work is not that plentiful when compared to his wealth of paintings, illustrations and engraved prints. So, if anything, David came from the other direction: as an illustrator/painter/engraver to the occasional graphic designer.

Eric Ravilious, Interior at Furlongs, 1939.

Eric Ravilious is another, but because of his close association with ‘commercial’ commissions, he is rather looked down upon by the art ‘establishment’ as being rather ‘decorative’ and lightweight (that was the view of critics on the BBC’s arts programme Front Row when reviewing last year’s retrospective at Dulwich Picture Gallery) – an absolute insult to his beautiful work. Consequently, his work sells at the modest end of the art establishment scale.

Above Bryan Illsley in his studio and examples of his work.

We now live in an age where the individual can self-promote globally 24/7, at the click of a button. Superb indigo and giclée printing have made the idea of limited-edition prints far easier to produce, but we all know that this method of printing is not really ‘limited’ in the true sense of fine art printing, where plates are used and then destroyed at the end of the run. But, no matter: there are now thousands of graphic designers and illustrators from around the world selling their ‘works’, ‘editions’ and ‘series’, whatever, online and yes, I am occasionally one of them.

Sandra Blow in her studio.

But to view this work as serious ‘art’ is, well, wishful thinking. At best, they are graphic designers producing graphic-design-like work but void of a client’s brief. Why do I say this? Well, when you talk to or read about a ‘fine artist’, one begins to understand the importance and necessity of being completely divorced from the ‘commercial world’. The artists I have known, and still do obsessively agonise in their search for personal expression. This is often solitary and stressful, involving living frugally with an inner self-belief when others might doubt. The journey can be very long and arduous. Often, fine artists intentionally remove themselves from our world, living in isolated places, cutting themselves off from the noise and distraction of social media.

Keith Cunningham 1955 in his studio.

You may recall last year that I helped stage a show of the work of artist Keith Cunningham. He had died in 2014 leaving behind a treasure trove of unseen paintings, spanning the mid-1950s to his death. With financial support from many of my Facebook and Blog friends (thank you all again) we were able to show his work at the Hoxton Gallery in Clerkenwell, it attracted a lot of great press, and included a visit from Frank Auerbach, a fellow student of Keith's while they were students at the RCA in the early 1950's. Happily, paintings sold during the week-long show, and Keith's widow, Bobby, had fulfilled her ambition to let people finally see her late husband work.

An example of Keith Cunningham's work from the mid-1950's

Since that show in 2016, all the remaining work was acquired, including sketches, notebooks and in fact anything that Keith put his hand too and is now safely in the archives of an art institution.

Keith Cunningham was a quiet, unassuming and highly secretive man dedicated to painting, something he did every day for decades, rarely exhibiting publicly. He funded his passion by teaching 2 days a week at London College of Printing (now LCC) and taking on the occasional book jacket. He died leaving a studio packed to the ceiling with paintings, slowly gathering dust. He would have been amazed that his work now resides in a private Foundation.

Tony Kaye still at it, now living in LA, I Am A Lemon 2011

Another eccentric character is the highly acclaimed award-winning commercials director Tony Kaye. He wanted to move into the world of conceptual art. He came up with ‘hype art’ and apparently tried to hijack the opening of a Damien Hirst exhibition featuring his medical installations at the White Cube gallery. Kaye hired some siren wailing ambulances to cruise around the block to ‘hype’ the show. Another Kaye stunt was paying a homeless man to travel with him into art galleries around the world in an attempt to exhibit the chap as ‘Roger, by Tony Kaye’. Kaye said in a subsequent interview: “I was part of the BritArt, Damien Hirst thing... I got left behind.” The art establishment would have no truck with him.

Bob Crossley in his studio.

The art establishment infrastructure is fiercely protective, filled with knowledgeable curators, art historians and experts acting as keepers of the gate, along with the many West End galleries and international auction houses. The curators from this world seek out talent from the major art schools like Slade, CSM, RCA or the many artists working out of collective studio spaces. They follow, nurture and encourage their prodigies in the hope that they will blossom. Fine artists have to prove themselves in order to get that special key for access to this rarefied world of the major museums and galleries, and it requires a totally immersive, single-minded dedication to their art in order to get a look in.

Rose Wylie in her studio.

As we all know, the finished product, the artwork itself, is ultimately a ‘commercial’ proposition to be sold, often as no more than a financial investment. The major art auction houses in Britain have had some bumper sales in recent years. Just strolling around the recent Frieze London show, one could see first-hand the sheer wealth being flaunted; Louis Vuitton, Rolex, Manolo Blahnik and Issey Miyake are all there in a catwalk of opulence, not on models but punters. Most are there to find a piece of art with ‘good potential for capital growth’ on their investment. And the West End galleries are there to lure them into their bespoke lairs, furnished and designed like top-end minimalist spaces, with sartorially immaculate salesmen and women, who have no difficulty in saying “that one is £350,000” while offering you a glass of chilled Dom Perignon and a canapé. So far removed from the lives of the many thousands of solitary fine artists beavering away in their little garrets, or shared workspaces, unless you happen to be Damian, Tracey or Anish.

Above Andy Warhol the 'commercial artist' in 1944

Interestingly, Andy Warhol started out as a commercial illustrator and a very successful one at that. As Art Director Tina Fredericks of Glamour magazine noted, “He was fast, and that, in combination with intelligent, adaptable, and really good, made him an art director’s dream come true.” But he gave that up, donned a blond wig, black leather jacket, blue jeans and shades and created a new persona. He moved into the world of pop art, ironically turning a throwaway piece of commercial packaging for Brillo into an icon of 20th-century art.

Above Andy as superstar

Peter Blake working at his studio desk.

Peter Blake has always been a darling of the graphic design world ever since he produced the album cover for ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’. Before that, he was a Royal College of Art-trained fine artist. But today, he is even a Royal Designer for Industry, such was his illustrious brush with the design world. But I suspect with Blake, and any other fine artist, when commissioned, you don't get “I don’t like the colour”, “can you make this bigger?”, “can we have a bit of this one and that one?” or “you haven’t fulfilled the brief”. You get what you’re given. That’s how it should be if you want to remain true to yourself.

Tracey Emin, True Love Always Wins (2016).

Eddie Peake, Sweat (2016). 

David Shrigley, Life Is Fantastic (2016). All three were examples of the 2016 Rio Olympics posters by fine artists.

But here's a thing that's always bugged me. When fine artists have been shoehorned into the graphics arena via the establishment (e.g. the 2012 Olympic posters and those for the more-recent 2016 Rio Olympics), the results have been highly embarrassing, with cries and protests from the graphic fraternity. These works are often presented by the art establishment, and in the case of the Rio Olympics, poster collection was unveiled at the Tate by various dignitaries, elevating the results to ‘high art’, but looking like an extremely amateurish piece of graphic design. But of course no mention of that from the protective art establishment. Indeed they praise these efforts up to the hilt and the press go along with it too.

So, it would seem that few graphic designers ever get through the quagmire of the art establishment. But for the fine artist, it’s no problem to gatecrash our world and get high praise for their work to boot.

William Nicholson: The magnificent master

William Nicholson

Back in 1968, I joined William Heinemann publishers as their art director, and the first thing the struck me was this.

Known as a ‘colophon’, it graced the spines and title pages of all of Heinemann’s books. What I didn’t know at the time was that it was an engraving by the artist William Nicholson. He became synonymous with Heinemann in the 1890s when he produced a series of woodcuts for An Alphabet and London Types. He also illustrated Margery Williams’ wonderful children’s book The Velveteen Rabbit.

The Velveteen Rabbit 1922

It was only then that I looked further and discovered his beautiful, sumptuous paintings. Even today, they seem to just get better, especially the portraits. They have a delightful stillness and richness about them, and the composition tends to be very graphic – probably why I like them so much. 

Portrait of Diamond Hardinge 1915

Mrs Stafford of Paradise Row 1906

Boy with the Caroline Mug 1899

The Yellow Lady

 Nicholson was born in Newark-on-Trent in 1872 to a reasonably well-heeled family. His father, also William, was a prominent Newark businessman running a major agricultural engineering company.

As is often the way, a teacher recognised the young Nicholson’s talent. He took lessons from the painter William Cubley, who had been a pupil of Sir William Beechey, who in turn had been a pupil of Sir Joshua Reynolds. In 1891, he attended the Académie Julian in Paris but returned to Newark after just six months, probably missing his girlfriend Mabel Pryde, who he’d met at art school. 

The pair eloped in 1893 and settled in a one-time pub in Denham, Buckinghamshire. They had four children, the most notable being Ben, who went on to become a renowned modernist painter and married Barbara Hepworth. There was also Anthony, who died of wounds during the First World War; Annie Mary (Nancy), who was yet another artist and who married the poet Robert Graves; and lastly, Christopher (Kit), who found his path in architecture and design. 

An Alphabet published in 1897

In the late 1890s, he turned his hand to engraving and printmaking, teaming up with his brother-in-law James Pryde. They became known as the Beggarstaff Brothers, producing simple, bold images and gaining much popularity; many leading magazines and periodicals were giving away coloured, stone-lithographed, frameable reproductions at the time, mostly sponsored by advertisers to promote products, Pear’s Soap being the most famous for adapting John Everett Millais’ popular painting Bubbles to help to flog its soap. 

Nicholson’s woodcuts led to a series for William Heinemann, including the classics An Alphabet Book and London Types. Nicholson adapted brilliantly to the medium, creating wonderfully stark graphic images in both book and portfolio form – still sought after today.

In 1918, Nicholson’s wife Mabel died during the Spanish flu epidemic, to be followed soon after by their son Anthony. Following Mabel’s death, he married his housekeeper Marie Laquelle in 1919: she had been his mistress for some time, and he had painted a notable nude of her as ‘Carlina’ in 1909. Following that, he married Edith Stuart-Wortley, also an artist and the widow of Sir John Stuart-Wortley. The relationship eventually petered out, and they separated. 

Carlina 1909 

In the summer of 1935, he took up with novelist Marguerite Steen; they had met in Andalucía, and they lived together at Nicholson’s mews studio in Apple Tree Yard, off Jermyn Street.Nicholson’s success had brought him money, a knighthood and a retrospective at the Tate Gallery. But by the early 20th century, he was out of step with the rapidly changing art scene and its plethora of new movements: the fauvists, cubists, surrealists and constructivists. Compared to these, Nicholson’s work was seen as rather old hat.

Still Life 1911

On the Downs (Wiltshire Landscape) 1924

The Windmill, Brighton Downs (Brighton Downs, Rottingdean) 1910

Judd's Farm 1912

William Nicholson

In 1939, he suffered a stroke, from which he recovered, but he had given up painting by 1942. He died at his home in Blewbury, Berkshire, in 1949 aged 77, living long enough to see the success of his son Ben.

Miss Wish Wynne (1882–1931), Actress, in the Character of Janet Cannot for the Play 'The Great Adventure'

Sir Max Beerbohm 1905

Unfinished portrait of Ben Nicholson

The Chinese Vase 1911

The Silver Casket 1919

Portrait of the Children of General John A Logan

Looking back at the breadth of his work today, one can appreciate the magnificent beauty and skill he imbued in every piece, be it painting, engraving, illustrating or designing for the theatre. 

Richard Chopping: Bohemian rhapsody

There have been very few graphic innovations in book jacket design over the years – more a progression and reassessment of what has gone before. 

Richard Chopping 

But one clear innovation came by chance via the wife of the James Bond creator, Ian Fleming. Ann Fleming had visited an exhibition in 1956 of trompe l'oeil paintings by Richard Chopping, whose works were being shown alongside those of Francis Bacon. 

Ian Fleming was unhappy with his Bond covers and decided to take control of his jackets. He was on the lookout for something new for his forthcoming book From Russia with Love. Ann felt that Chopping seemed like the perfect answer. When Fleming saw Chopping’s work, he commissioned him immediately. So began a lucrative relationship that spanned from 1957 to 1966. 

Above: just two of the many James Bond covers designed and illustrated by Chopping.

Originally, Richard Chopping was destined to be a fine artist, with hopes of making a living as a painter after leaving the East Anglian School of Painting and Drawing in the 1930s. During his time as a student, he dreamed of joining the London bohemian set that he’d read so much about, with its diverse range of artists, writers, poets and dancers, often involving complex love triangles. On leaving the art school, he lived a very frugal life and at the same time was struggling with self-confidence and his sexuality. He longed to experience what he hadn’t yet achieved: a relationship with a man. This eventually came in the shape of the landscape painter Denis Wirth-Miller, a couple of years his senior and bursting with self-confidence, sophistication and many connections. 

 Chopping with Wirth-Miller at the Storehouse, their home in Wivenhoe, Essex

Chopping and Wirth-Miller soon became an item, and shortly after the Second World War, they moved in together, living an impoverished hand-to-mouth existence, firstly in shoddy London flats. When that became too expensive, they opted to move to the Essex countryside and found an inexpensive cottage to rent. It was damp and, in the winter months, extremely cold. But they organised their respective studio spaces and got to work. Wirth-Miller had connections with the rarefied world of Bloomsbury’s Bohemia of artists, writers and socialites. These influential connections spawned gallery exhibitions, benefactors and friendships with the likes of Lucian Freud, Francis Bacon, Graham Sutherland and John Minton.

An early commission from Penguin Books published in 1943.

But it was a slow process, and they would often go hungry through lack of interest in their work. But Chopping did come to the attention of Penguin Books. They had seen some of Chopping's forensically detailed trompe l'oeil paintings and commissioned him to undertake some natural history projects and a mammoth project involving a series of 22 illustrated books on the complete British flora and fauna. This would bring in much-needed income, keeping the wolf from the door. For Chopping, this commission would take him away from fine art into the world of commercial illustration, but needs must. In the event, the commission was halted after two years by Penguin’s Allen Lane, who decided that the project was uneconomical.

Living with Denis Wirth-Miller was a challenge, with petty jealousies and violent outbursts, often fuelled by alcohol. This was exasperated by the increasing presence of Wirth-Miller's  close friend Francis Bacon, with his own brand of cruel, cutting sarcasm. Chopping remained a rather reserved, considered individual and was overwhelmed by the more flamboyant personality of Wirth-Miller, especially when in league with the master of manipulation Francis Bacon. Life then became painful, and Chopping walked a tightrope between the two, often being a target of Wirth-Miller's aggression following a put-down by Bacon.

As homosexuals, they lived during a period when the act was still a crime and punishable by a prison sentence. And indeed, Wirth-Miller served 18 months in jail in 1944 after being arrested for gross indecency. It wouldn’t be until 1967 that the law on homosexuality would be repealed. Prior to that, clandestine meetings took place in lavatories, bushes or back alleys, always with a fear of arrest, violence or blackmail.

Wirth-Miller, Francis Bacon and Chopping on one of their many overseas trips.

Chopping and Wirth-Miller were frequent visitors to the seedy Soho Colony Club, or the French pub around the corner, where Bacon, Freud and other inflated egotists would hold court in a drunken haze, raising their voices over the hubbub and shelling out £50 notes like confetti. And over the post war period, an alarming number of suicides seemed to be the norm among this tight-knit community 

Both Chopping and Wirth-Miller began to gain some success, enabling them to leave the damp cottage and move into a rundown waterside home in Wivenhoe, Essex. They named it the Storehouse and as they earned money, they would renovate the house, eventually having a young Terence Conran design their kitchen. Both the house and Wivenhoe itself became an artist community. Their home became a social hub, with many notable people visiting, including John Minton, Keith Vaughan and Francis Bacon. The latter even bought a house there himself but never managed to paint or live there. 

The interior of The Storehouse. the kitchen was designed by Terence Conran.

Chopping and Wirth-Miller lived together through thick and thin for almost 70 years, and they were the first couple to register a civil partnership in Colchester. They lived into their 90s, by which time, through illness and old age, they had degenerated into appalling squalor. All of their contemporaries were long dead and history had forgotten them until a wonderful and fascinating publication, The Visitors’ Book by John Lys Turner, was published in 2016 – a fascinating read.

An example of Chopping's trompe l'oeil  painting style that brought him to the attention of Ian Fleming.

The above is the cover for Ricards Chopping's only novel, The Fly 1965. Notable for its lack of any type of the front cover.

 Raymond Hawkey's iconic book cover for The Ipcress File designed in 1962 and below from 1964

 

Chopping’s detailed watercolours of inanimate groupings to entice Bond readers to pick up Ian Fleming’s books were later dramatically moved forward in the hands of ex-RCA graduate Raymond Hawkey, who produced the stark black-and-white photographic cover design for Len Deighton’s The Ipcress File – a book that transformed the spy thriller genre from the excesses of James Bond to the gritty, down-to-earth character of Harry Palmer. The Smith & Wesson pistol that appeared on From Russia with Love was replicated on The Ipcress File but with a sharp new modernist approach from Hawkey, making Chopping’s Bond covers look rather sedate and old-fashioned. But Chopping’s influence on the evolution of the humble book jacket should not be forgotten.

For more on Raymond Hawkey click here.

 

Things I like...

I came upon this delightful painting from the late 1960's. It is by Ray Mead. He was born in Watford, England in 1921.

He studied at the Watford School of Art, and with Gilbert Spencer at the Slade in London. He moved to Toronto, Ontario in 1946. Working in oil, watercolour, acrylic, ink, monotypes and collage.

I can find little of his work but this one is a real treat. He died in 1998.  

I kind reader sent this link for more info on Ray's work.

 

Things I like...

This delightful little 150mm square format series was published in 1983 by the Arts Council of Great Britain and was designed by Trilokesh Mukherjee and Eiichi Kono. 

There were 3 in the series: 1 Light. 2 Movement. 3 Image. They were followed by three little books on sculpture: 1 Flesh and Stone. 2 Sculpture's Dance. 3 Mind over Matter.

 

The Switch House: Depressing the spirits

The Switch House

I have put off visiting the Switch House, Tate Modern's new extension, until now. Actually, I should have put it off longer as the experience was deeply underwhelming for me.

The perfect place to sit and contemplate suicide.

Above the Switch House basement space, looking more like a design by Ken Adam for a Bond movie.

Once again the Tate chose Herzog and de Meuron to design this new building and internal galleries from scratch. It sits on the footprint of the old Bankside power station oil tank space. And that is where Herzog and de Meuron have clearly taken their inspiration for the internal areas of the upper floors of the new building. One needs to understand that the original tanks were housed in a harsh reinforced concrete underground space, with little in the way of the comfort or aesthetic quality.

Just a small sampling of the many depressing stairways.

Architects have fallen in love with concrete all over again and lust after the many disastrous buildings of the 1960's. All of the internal spaces at Switch House are built in raw moulded concrete reminiscent of wartime German bunkers and gun emplacements. Perfect for those uses but not to bring joy and to lift the spirits of the many visitors that pass through this building.

Above mean, claustrophobic stairways all clinically lit with bright white LED tubes, making everyone look like they are going down with the flu.

The grim widows and horrid detailing. 

The light through the windows is reduced by 50% by the outer airbrick style arrangement coating the exterior of the building, making the common flow areas really gloomy. I would have thought a prerequisite of a gallery space is to create excitement not to depress it, something that Herzog and de Meuron has effortlessly managed to achieve. And then there were lifts. The slowest and erratic ever. In the end, I opted to climb the 10 floors.

Those bloody lifts.

I was in Venice earlier this year and visited the Punta della  Dogana design by Tadao Ando it was an absolutely uplifting and beautiful architectural experience.

He also works extensively with concrete but he handles is with such confidence and elegance plus his detailing down to the smallest item. Something greatly lacking in the Switch House.

Tadao Ando's concrete is beautiful and sparing.

Tadao Ando can really lift the spirits as here at the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth in Texas

An amusing side issue is the problems caused by the Switch House's 10th-floor external viewing terrace. This looks onto the surrounding London cityscape. But on one side it looks directly into block Neo Bankside, where the luxury flats go for £4.5m a pop.

How the other half live.

But viewing across to these immaculately furnished apartments I was unaware of any sign of life. Apparently many are just London flats for the international jet set. On the street, 12 floors below there were people sleeping in doorways inside cardboard boxes.

Don't miss this...

"Outstanding talent."

FRANK AUERBACH on KEITH CUNNINGHAM Aug 2016

Keith Cunningham: Out from the dark

Keith Cunningham in his Battersea studio 1956. And the finished painting below.

Last night saw the opening of the late Keith Cunningham's show at Hoxton Gallery. After 5 decades his unseen paintings have seen the light of day. And the reaction has been terrific. I am personally delight having written about him 15 years ago about his contribution to the graphic world. In the process, I managed to get this deeply private man to talk about his never seen paintings. 

 

Born in Sydney in 1929, Cunningham arrived in post-war London in 1949, where he attended Central School of Art. Following on, he was offered a place at the Royal College of Art along with a bursary and, at the suggestion of tutor Abram Games, he went to see Rodrigo Moynihan, then the head of painting. Moynihan offered him a place on the fine art course. Here, he worked alongside fellow students and new friends Joe Tilson, Frank Auerbach, Leon Kossoff and David Methuen-Campbell. He worked furiously in this heady atmosphere of creativity at the RCA.

The results impressed a clutch of Royal Academicians, including Sir Roger de Grey, Carel Weight and John Minton, with the latter stating that Cunningham was “one of the most gifted painters to have been at the Royal College”. Cunningham left the RCA with an impressive First, along with a travelling and continuation scholarship. He opted to explore Spain, after which he returned to London to complete his scholarship. During his RCA period, he exhibited at the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition, the Beaux Arts Gallery and, for two consecutive years, the prestigious London Group show; this culminated in Cunningham being asked to submit work for full membership to the group –he declined.

"... he was always a bit quiet and mysterious,

but I was very interested in him

and had a respect for his outstanding talent."

Frank Auerbach on Keith Cunningham, August 2016

He then made the extraordinary decision to withdraw completely from any further public exhibition of his paintings. Instead, he worked in the solitary atmosphere of his studio in Battersea, where he would travel each day to work on his canvases. It was here, with eternal smoking Gauloises in hand, that he would pour out his emotions, striking, stabbing and scraping the canvases into life.

The sheer physicality of his work is very evident in the layers of manipulated paint and texture, creating a visceral, brooding intensity that vibrates the longer you gaze. Whatever was going through Cunningham’s mind in that lonely studio, it is encapsulated in this small selection of paintings from the impressive body of work that he has left behind.

Keith Cunningham: Unseen paintings 1954 - 1960 continues until 13th October. 11am to 6 pm Monday to Saturday

Hoxton Gallery 59 Old Street London EC1V 9HX

 

Graphic generosity...

I have been touched by the number of graphic designers, many I know and a lot  I don’t, who have helped me with a very special personal project. But I still need help and I hope you will read this and chip in, no matter how small. Grab a coffee and read on.

Dear Graphic friends

This is very unusual for me so, I apologise in advance.

In 2001, I wrote an article about a graphic designer called Keith Cunningham. Link here, should you wish to read it.

He died in 2014 and spent a large part of his life teaching at the London College of Printing. Michael Peters, Dave King, John Hegarty, Fernando Gutiérrez and many others passed through his hands.

But he had an alternative life as a painter. He worked alongside his contemporaries and friends, Joe Tilson, Frank Auerbach and Leon Kossoff as a student at the RCA in the early 1950’s. He received a First and a travelling scholarship.

During his RCA period, he exhibited at the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition, the Beaux Arts Gallery and, for two consecutive years, the prestigious London Group show; this culminated in Cunningham being asked to submit work for full membership to the group – he declined.

He then made the extraordinary decision to withdraw completely from any further public exhibition of his paintings. He continued to paint until 1960 and then locked away some 200 paintings in a warehouse where they remained unseen for 50 years.

Why am I telling you all this?

Well, Cunningham’s wife Bobby Hillson (she ran the MA fashion course at St Martins shepherding John Galliano, Rifat Özbek and Alexander McQueen to success) now 89 she wants to exhibit a selection of Keith’s paintings.

She made contact with me, and to cut a long story short, I am donating my time and supporting her in helping to make things happen.

Unlike many of their talented students, they never earned very much but always privately celebrated in the success of their students. But staging this show is eating into Bobby’s meagre savings but she is determined to do it because she believed in Keith.

It occurred to me that many of us in the design world owe a debt to those who have encouraged, guided and inspired us. As it happens, I never went to art school But, I was very affected by this book cover designed by Keith Cunningham..

I first saw it in 1963 at my local library. I stole it. (Keep that to yourself).

Sometimes it just takes a little thing to make a big change, the cover did it for me. But I feel sure that many of you did attend art school and maybe never said thank you to those unsung heroes, the tutors.

I have always tried to view everything as a creative opportunity, and if you have read this far, I’m now going to get to the point. Would you consider donating £50 or £100 to help with the considerable expense of this show?

See it as a thank you to those who helped you along the way, but you didn’t get the chance to thank. You will be invited to the private view and have your name printed in the catalogue. Not a lot I know but you will make an 89-year-old very proud.

So, if you are in mood please contact me as soon as possible and I will explain where you can send your contribution, no matter how small.

[email protected]

And if you got all the way to the end thank you.

Regards Mike                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

Preposterous posters

I wrote back in 2012 about my view of the then range of posters produced for the London Olympics by 'Fine artists' rather than any British graphic designers, illustrators or photographers. The result was dismal.

Now in 2016 we have another 'fine art' collection of posters, this time for the Rio Olympics. Headed as before by Tracy Emin with the most inept and juvenile piece of work attempting to pass itself off as a poster.

Tracey Emin

Eddie Peake

David Shrigley

Anne Hardy

Sam Taylor-Johnson

                                                                           

I find it extraordinary that whoever commissioned the above stuff actually believes that it is great work?

You have to go back to 1972 Munich Olympics to see some decent posters.

more about this story in the guardian.