British Folk Art at Tate Britain: A Special Feature
Exhibition Review
Anything prefixed with the word 'folk' can be problematic. On the one hand, the term implies something both time-honoured and contemporary, which blends together the old and new. It can be an art form which harnesses tradition while providing meaning for the present. However, it also contains an element rooted in the past that is less desirable: a kind of coarseness, an unskilled attempt which is less worthy than the efforts of a professional. In this exhibition both meanings are suggested, and, at the end, I was not sure whether this was a positive celebration of folk art, or a justification for reducing its significance.
The opening room was wonderful. Around the walls were hung old trade signs, mostly made of wood, but truly enormous. One of the most striking was that of a locksmith: a giant padlock the size of a garage door hanging from its metal support. It is highly stylised and instantly recognisable. Heart-shaped, it is attached by strong metal hooks, the black bar of the closed lock sunk deep into the light coloured wood of the lock itself. It exudes strength and reliability: this is truly a lock that you could trust, which is presumably the message. This is not simply a sign that identifies, it roars out that this is the locksmith you want, you need. At a time when literacy was not universal, such objects were important signifiers, not just of location, but also of value. The polished wood, now scratched and cracked, has a surface which, if made now, would be admired for its tonal quality, for the way in which its surface both absorbs and reflects light. As it is, this is an object made in the mid-nineteenth century, and its marks are the result of its usage.
There are other signs hanging nearby: a fish, a gloved hand, a leather boot, a cast-iron sunburst face. Beautifully constructed, these objects are a reminder to us of lost craftsmanship, but also of a world where visual signs were commonplace and significant. The leather boot, nearly six feet long, was no lightly undertaken enterprise. It is a real leather boot which would have needed a last, the wooden mould around which such boots were made, and, as the caption states, it would have been perfectly usable as a boot if a foot could have been found to fit it. This opening room is a worthy introduction - here we have a folk art which is practical, for, while the signs are objects of artistic value in their own right, they also have purpose.
The following room contains handwritten signs that act as a counterpoint to the previous objects. Here the lettering is squeezed into the available space: decorative information with the minimum of fuss. This is folk art displayed as common advertisement, but, as it is hand-crafted, can it be claimed to be some kind of genuine artistic creation? Here begins the uncertainty surrounding what constitutes folk art. Alongside these handwritten signs is an intriguing visual compilation. A pub sign, ' The Four Alls, ' visually represents the hierarchy of nineteenth-century English social structure. At its head, captioned I govern all, is Queen Victoria. She is followed by a priest (I pray for you all), then a soldier (I fight for you all), and finally a happy drinker (I pay for all). The painted images are crudely drawn, flat, and with little attempt at perspective. The texts which sit underneath each image are set in capitals with a dot between each word, emphasising their meaning. I.GOVERN.ALL is the Establishment statement, which is ultimately contrasted with the final I.PAY.FOR.ALL of the downtrodden worker. It is an interesting object which clearly communicates an ironic view of the social structure of the times in which it was produced. Yet artistically it is poor, and here the essential issue provoked by the exhibition becomes obvious and can no longer be ignored.
We make judgements about art all the time. Our favourite artists are deemed 'great,' 'geniuses,' 'masterful.' We admire technical brilliance --few would question the place of Rembrandt or Vermeer in the pantheon of great artists, and we expect to see their works in our national museums. But because we label something 'folk art,' does this mean that the same standards should not apply? Should technical prowess, the subject matter, the handling of materials, the communicative process and the social or religious relevance of the piece not be subject to the same critical assessment that we would bring to a work by Raphael, or Van Gogh? This nineteenth century pub sign was not made to hang in a gallery, or on a wall belonging a wealthy patron. The person who produced it was making it for a specific purpose, to attract customers to a business, and to make them smile as they walked past a visual portrayal of the social ironies in which they lived. It has a primary function beyond the aesthetic, and this function is its dominating feature. So much folk art has a practical purpose, and therefore cannot rise to the artistic level attained by works which have as their raison d'etre the creative ambition of their creators. This difference is noticeable in the exhibition, and it becomes increasingly obvious as more of the work is viewed.
Without wishing to labour this point, but perhaps to emphasise its veracity: consider the works on display by Mary Linwood. I had heard of this artist, but had never seen any of her work before. From the 1780s onwards she was one of the most popular artists of the period, a fact remarkable for two very different reasons. The first and most obvious reason is that she was a professional female artist, working at a time when this in itself was a rarity, but the second concerns the medium in which she chose to work, namely embroidered versions of Old Master paintings. So, unlike the works discussed above, these were a deliberate attempt to produce art of worth, with no practical function. However, unlike the giant lock, or the hand-stitched boot, the pictures fail on almost every level except technical virtuosity.
One of the works shown is Self-Portrait After John Russell. Russell was an RA artist famous for his portraits, and as Mary was well known, it is no surprise that he painted her. However, this work is her needlework version of Russell's portrait, so even calling it a self-portrait is a misnomer. It is an embroidered copy of her portrait by another artist, a replication of how another artist has portrayed her. Indeed, Mary Linwood's whole oeuvre is problematic. While one can admire the skill with which the objects were made --and indeed her contemporaries did just that-- the viewer is left wondering why on earth she did not invest that technical brilliance in the pursuit of something original. Copying the works of great artists is still a legitimate training method for aspiring young artists, but few would wish to do that for their entire career. So here we have a technically proficient craftswoman who consciously rejected original subject matter, or contemporary themes, and yet carved out a career as a professional artist. These works are soulless pastiches of their originals, and to include them here merely reinforces the view that to call something 'folk art' serves to lower our expectations of it -an idea which makes me deeply uncomfortable.
In an earlier room, as if to highlight the problems discussed here, are works by an artist who might be thought to transcend the gap between 'folk art' and the more easily recognised work found in the great museums: Alfred Wallis. His story is well-known and does not need repeating, but his inclusion here is rather beguiling. Wallis is often regarded as a naïve painter, which on one level he certainly was. One definition of naïve in relation to painting is that the artist is untrained, and for some this is a distinct advantage. The naïve painter sees only with the eyes of the artist; he has not learnt the professional tricks of the trade which an art school education can teach. In the early twentieth century many artists were consciously trying to unlearn artistic theory and somehow return to a truer form which came from within, Gauguin being the most obvious example. He rejected everything about French academic painting and fled to Tahiti to engage with people he believed to be Rousseau's noble savages, and we all know how that ended - great art at the expense of a dubious morality.
So to see Wallis here provokes further exploration of the notion of 'folk art.' The presence of Wallis suggests that the untrained or unschooled artist can be included in the term, even though the work has been created with artistic aesthetics in mind. Many, myself included, see Wallis not as a great 'folk artist' but simply as a great artist in his own right. One of the works here, Voyage to Labrador 1935-36, painted a few year before he died, is a genuine masterpiece which can stand alongside anything produced in this country at the time. While arguments still continue about how much influence Ben Nicholson had over Wallis's style, the paintings themselves remain deeply moving, and seem many miles away from the reproductions of Mary Linwood.
The final group of objects come as no surprise: figureheads from long-lost sailing ships. Most date from the nineteenth century and have been recently repainted and restored. They are large, gaudy figures, with bright staring eyes and shining surfaces. Again, these objects had a purpose, but one which was mostly decorative. Indeed, at the height of their popularity in the mid-nineteenth century, some were made so big that they began to threaten the stability of the ships to which they were attached. However, it is now difficult to understand their appeal other than as curios of a bygone age. The carving is coarsely worked, and the colouring almost universally bright, but perhaps the most disappointing aspect is the facial expressions, or, more accurately, the lack of them. The faces on the figures displayed here are devoid of any human emotion: they are empty caricatures which fail to engage.
Despite the defects, this is an exhibition with treasures to enjoy. The signs, some of the quilt works and samplers, the Alfred Wallis collection and other individual contributions make this an enjoyable experience, though of variable quality. It succeeds in demonstrating the sheer range of what we call 'folk art,' but fails to convince that much of it can stand alongside more recognisable forms. And, of course, one is also left with the conundrum of what was omitted -for example, trade union banners, stump work, Toby Jugs and cigarette cards. Perhaps the next exhibition should be entitled "British Folk Art - The Bits We Left Out".--Paul Flux
British Folk Art (exhibition catalogue) Jeff McMillan, Ruth Kenny and Martin Myrone (Tate Publishing, 2014)
After reading this book, I had less of an idea of what British folk art is and what constitutes it than before I started it. Not that this is a criticism. It's just that, though all artistic genres are ultimately approximate, the term 'folk art' is, perhaps more than most, a catch-all, ex post facto term which is as porous as it is protean. One way of dealing with this dilemma, and in some ways the most rewarding, is to focus on the work gathered together under this problematic rubric rather thanargue about the boundaries of its jurisdiction. On the other hand, attempting to determine the meaning of a reference to 'folk art' (British or otherwise) raises some intriguing questions about the term's usage, ambit and reception. To their credit, the authors of the book under review --who also curated the British Folk Art exhibition held at Tate Britain this summer-- do try to offer their interpretations of what, so far as they are concerned, their subject encompasses, and how that informed the selection of artefacts displayed.
First up is Jeff McMillan, an artist who, we are told, brings his background in American folk art to bear on proceedings. In the course of explaining the methodology used in putting the exhibition together, McMillan concedes that "we all have a different and vague idea of what {British Folk Art] refers to." Consequently, "because the subject is vast [with] no absolute definition," a decision was made to "approach the exhibition as a proposition," that being to select works which "inherently reflected certain territories and themes." Not that the book of the exhibition (which is more of a companion volume than a catalogue) appears to be organised along these lines, which means that it's hard to resist the temptation to dip into it as a sort of proxy Wunderkammer, rather than read it cover to cover.McMillan provides an impressionistic take on the whole subject which, at times, teeters on the whimsical. He is obviously excited by being part of the project, and his prose scampers around all over the place, scattering quotes from such diverse sources as Joseph Beuys, the Coen Brothers and Immanuel Kant. It's all very energetic and modish, taking as its leitmotif the idea of folk art as a practice which is enduringly ingenuous, compulsive and homespun, an interpretation which culminates in McMillan's invocation of the folk artist as "Jack the Lad, the maker with a twinkle in the eye whose enjoyment is manifest in the work he or she makes." Well, maybe - but then again perhaps sometimes 'Jack' may have been a disenfranchised itinerant trying to scrape a miserable living, his happy-go-lucky twinkle having long since been extinguished due to disenfranchisement and a rumbling belly. Who knows? To be fair, though, McMillan, for all his occasionally rose-tinted idealism, does manage to convey what it is about British folk art that gives it a certain eclectic fascination, even if he ends up making a little too much of its interconnections with 'outsider art' for my liking --but we'll come back to that.
Moving on to Ruth Kenny's essay, which is much more thought-provoking: it begins by quoting author Jane Kallir's pronouncement that "folk art is, in fact, everything that everybody always thought was not art before the modernist revolution of the turn of the century." That, perhaps, gets us a little further in that it suggests marginalisation and a virtuous lack of metropolitan sophistication as key attributes of folk art in general. If these are negative qualities, then a positive attribute of folk art for Kenny is its origins in a sense of community. In this respect she makes a clear distinction between 'folk art' and 'outsider art', the latter being much more about "the unique vision of its maker" in that it "leans towards the mystical, metaphysical and deeply personal". Here I have to declare what might seem a certain undue antipathy to the term 'outsider art' and the value judgements that it seems to imply. I understand that in its most technically benevolent guise the term merely refers to a certain paucity of stylistic or formal guile rooted in a lack of professional training. However, it's the insidious implication that artists such as Madge Gill, Georgina Houghton or Joseph Cornell are therefore anomalous curios to be judged by a different set of values to all those lucky 'insider artists' that I find problematic. Be that as it may, Kenny's contention that 'folk art' is distinguished from the lonely world of 'outsider art' by its roots in the community yields some interesting observations, particularly that its usually anonymous creators subsumed, of necessity, their individual artistic identities within those of the groups or cultures which their work enshrines. In effect, the objects thus produced capture and preserve a chthonic sense of the physical and spiritual locales in which they were made. As such (Kenny notes), revivals of interest in folk arthave often manifested around times of communal crisis, one example being a resurgence around the periods of the first and second world wars. In other words, we turn to folk art whenever there is a need to remind ourselves of who we are (or who we would like to think we are). This sort of reification of national identity can and does, however, often lead to a broad-brush romanticism which bathes folk art in a crudely undifferentiated, and nostalgically quaint, light.In the process, the individuals who produced the artefacts, their working practices and socio-economic conditions are conveniently conglomerated into a vague notion of 'the folk' as a benignly enervated construct. It's only a short step from there to McMillan's Jack the Lad craftsman, with that ersatz twinkle in his eye. Speaking of which, Kenny references perhaps the best known untutored virtuoso in the whole British folk art tradition when she cites the Cornish fisherman and painter Alfred Wallis as an example of an unknown 'ordinary bloke' who, whether he knew it or not, was the living embodiment of what people wanted the folk artist to be. Discovered by 'real' artists Ben Nicholson and Christopher Wood in 1928 when they chanced to look into the open doorway of his St Ives house, the paintings done on odd bits of paper and cardboard with which Wallis decorated his walls soon became famous as the epitome of modernism's compact with primitivist authenticity. Just how much of an ingénue Wallis actually was is the subject of some debate, but what's clear from Nicholson's account of their relationship is that it suited him to emphasise the old fisherman's unsophisticated outlook ("...still sufficiently childlike to make the 's' at the end of his signature whichever way round he felt inclined to...") in order to preserve and propagate the notion of what a genuine folk artist should be like. It is in light of the issues about the meaning of authenticity and the perils of cultural appropriation posed by Wallis's case that Kenny ultimately asks whether folk art is, in fact, "largely middle-class wish fulfilment," though she doesn't conclusively come down either way on that rather significant point.
To round off these essays, Martin Myrone surveys the ways in which folk art has been displayed and written about from the twentieth century up until the present day. As has already been noted, the subject seems to have cropped up as a matter of public interest and debate whenever the British felt the need to bolster a sense of self-definition: the 1951 Festival of Britain was another such occasion, reviving an interest in traditional arts, this time as a kind of dichotomous counterpoint to the more futuristic aspirations showcased at that event. Even so, Myron emphasises the lack of "an authoritative master-narrative or single, centralised initiative" underpinning these occasional resurgences of enthusiasm.This has meant that, once the intermittent interest in the subject wanes again, folk art tends to compliantly retreat back into the cultural hinterland until the next time around. Having said that, thanks to a few notable museums and dedicated collectors, folk art in Britain has never been completely erased from public consciousness for any considerable length of time, even if it has occasionally been the subject of some disparaging appraisals. When a high-profile art critic such as Waldemar Januszczak can remark that "the very thought of folk art makes me queasy," it's perhaps an indication of how vulnerable the term is still to a cursory mixture of suspicion and disdain, particularly if too closely associated with that middle-class wish fulfilment that Kenny has identified. Even so, it would seem that, despite the vicissitudes of folk art's critical reception within the art establishment, some serious headway is now being made. With such innovations as the permanent display of folk art now to be found at Compton Verney in Warwickshire, the Folk Archive travelling and online exhibition created by Alan Cane and Jeremy Deller, and the exhibition at Tate Britain which accompanies this book, it could be that a significant corner has been turned.
As for the objects on display in the Tate show, which are illustrated in the book, there are wonderful examples on nearly every page, so here are a few personal favourites. Take the Bone Cockerel, for example, made by a Napoleonic prisoner of war near Peterborough some time between 1797 and 1814 (still British folk art?) As its title suggests, this is a three-dimensional figure of a cockerel made of discarded bones from the meat and poultry cuts prepared for the prisoners' food. The skill with which it has been assembled from improvised tools is formidable, its carefully fashioned creamy plumage cut and positioned so as to convey a convincing sense of the creature's plumped up, beady eyed watchfulness. There is something inviolable and even a little imposing about this object, as if the expertise that went into producing this oddly baleful looking bird continues to resonate. A similar sense of an object retaining not just the visible but the experiential evidence of its facture is inherent in the Bellamy Quilt, which was embroidered by an engaged couple at the end of the nineteenth century. Decorated with five quilted panels full of vividly coloured, sharply delineated motifs, it is described in the book as a 'textile scrapbook,' featuring images that reflect the couple's interests and shared associations. As such, it is a powerful memento of the time they spent together, with depictions of household objects, sheet music, plant life, and even a popular contemporary comic strip. The workmanship and facility for spatial configuration are striking, especially when allied to the feeling that, although the quilt can be admired as a finished piece today, the shared experience of making it persists as a key vestigial substratum of its attraction. Indeed, the suggestion of an interrupted discourse between maker and audience lingers around so many of these objects, rendering them both accessible as signifiers of social structure and at the same time endlessly opaque, the interactions that brought about their making long since lapsed into silence. The viewer is baffled, for instance, by the God-in-a-Bottle, which, as its name suggests, is a variant on the familiar Ship-in-a-Bottle theme, except that cotton yarns arranged as crucifixes replace the traditional three-masted schooner; or the Bone Wesley, in which a crude likeness of the founder of Methodism has been painted on a horse's vertebra so as to give the image a startling three-dimensional presence; or the example of Boody Ware, broken ceramics reassembled to form an oval platter made up of chaotic fragments that are strikingly reminiscent of Picasso and Braque's experiments in synthetic Cubism. Besides these stand-out pieces, there are plenty of other curiosities to intrigue and delight, whether your tastes run to eccentric shop signs, intricate samplers, or giant figures made from straw.
Perhaps the one thing common to all the featured objects is precisely that they have no aesthetic commonality, in the sense that they have been extracted from their respective contexts in a manoeuvre which sees them classified as 'folk art,' a seemingly nebulous category that can be used to either affirm a certain time-honoured national identity or, alternatively, that stands for everything that keeps a culture tied to the apron strings of its own simulacral foundation myths. As such, folk art can evoke feelings of affection, admiration and delight, as well as hauteur and suspicion. It lacks, as Myron says, "an authoritative master narrative." British Folk Art is, then, a well put together volume which, seemingly of necessity, never quite gets to the elusive essence of its subject matter.--Mark Jones
