Whenever I visit Oxford I try to call into The Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology. Whatever else is exhibiting, I always try to see the following two paintings before I leave.
Photo credit: The Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology
Due to the locations of each of these paintings, the first one I view is ‘Head of a Bearded Man wearing a Wheel Ruff’ by Anthony van Dyck. It is a preparatory study for one of the life-size figures in the large group portrait of the Aldermen of Brussels, painted for the Town Hall in Brussels in 1634–1635. The finished painting was destroyed in the French bombardment in 1695, but actually, I can’t imagine that I would be half as interested in that painting as I am in this wonderful study. Not only is it a beautiful example of Van Dyck’s working method, showing how he utilised a toned ground and blocked in the bigger shapes with broad strokes and a limited palette, it is also a tremendously psychological portrait in its own right. The unfinished nature always has a certain appeal. Perhaps it is in the lack of detail that somehow the life of the sitter has space to breathe.
The second painting I go to is (surprise) by William Nicholson. I’ve mentioned my love for this artist so many times on this blog, but it is rare that I see many of his paintings in the flesh. To quote The Ashmolean’s own information, ‘The Rose Crested Cockatoo’ (c.1917) is “one of Nicholson’s more idiosyncratic still lifes, showing a cockatoo tethered with a string round its leg, perched on a loaf of bread and pecking at it. The other elements of the composition are equally exotic: a black Japan tray and an overturned cup with tea leaves and a spoon.”
© Elizabeth Banks
Photo credit: The Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology
Indeed, compositionally it is so unexpected, but a sheer delight because of that. And as always, the shapes, structure and tonal patterns are seemingly simple, but actually highly sophisticated. In close-up Nicholson’s paint application is also so much sparer than you imagine at first glance. Like Sargent, he is able to describe everything with very little. Letting the viewer’s mind fill in the gaps makes for such a successful resolution to the work. Every time I overwork a painting I try to remember this. The skill involved in making less do all the work is one that takes a lifetime of practice (and I would argue, a touch of genius) to achieve.
Here are a few of the close-up shots I took in the hope of illustrating this idea.
