“The Andrew Lambirth Collection” sounds rather grand. Perhaps it is: for Face to Face, an exhibition drawn from it of 65 portraits or self-portrait studies variously carried through as painting, drawing or print, represents but one of its many aspects. We can only wonder what else it holds. In quality, variety and discrimination alike, this selection is certainly impressive.
We are all collectors at least to some degree, but to be a true collector bespeaks a certain commitment, if not certifiable obsession, within the chosen field. Whatever it may be—a stamp, old china, a Dinky Car, a work of art—the immediate object of pursuit is to be hooked or crooked anyway, whether there is room, or indeed the money for it, or not. The eponymous Andrew Lambirth, former art critic of The Spectator, whose art-critical hat he wore with sympathetic judgement and exemplary curiosity over many years is, by any measure, a True Collector.
But of what sort? One can only speak in general terms of what is conditioned as much by circumstance and opportunity as by temperament. Some collectors fix upon a particular interest, setting clear limits of scope or kind, while others remain naturally more miscellaneous, open-eyed and open-minded in their approach, and one would draw no distinction of merit between them. Even so, distinction there can be, and when it comes to art, the mild temptation is to wonder if, in contrast to the art historian, the workaday art critic, necessarily skipping from one thing to another in the daily round, is more likely to be of the latter than the former kind.
In Lambirth’s case it indeed seems so: for if he is a true collector he is also a true critic, in that the disciplines of art criticism, if truly followed, confront the critic almost every day with work, both of high quality and low, across the full spread of period, practice and technique. And such exposure cannot but stimulate curiosity, broaden interest and knowledge and, above all, refine the eye. Just so, Lambirth openly admits to his collecting being a direct function of his profession as writer and critic. “It reflects,” he tells us in his introduction to the show, “the artists I have written about, from Eileen Agar to William Gear and Patrick George.” And these names, thrown out almost at random, immediately offer a clue to his collection’s essential qualities—a broad sweep of engagement, from the figurative and Surrealist to the abstract; a sure eye to quality; scornful of current critical orthodoxy; full of surprises.
“I tend to accept commissions to write about those artists I find sympathetic and whose art I admire… My tastes have inevitably changed and developed… I have themes I pursue though rather sporadically. I collect landscapes, and particularly paintings and drawings of trees… I have been very fortunate to benefit from the generosity of friends—some artists, some collectors, even some dealers…”
He fires off the odd volley here and there. “I would rather pursue the unfairly neglected than heap more praise on Young Turks or Old Lions. I have fought a rear-guard action against the obvious and the over-rated: likewise against the perversion of the term ‘artwork’, which even some curators these days are guilty of misusing—presumably out of sheer ignorance—when they mean ‘work of art’… I am suspicious of so-called art critics who don’t know any artists or have art on their walls….” Amen to all that.
But the exhibition itself is perhaps the more eloquent statement, in being less explicit in explanation, leaving us to draw the threads together for ourselves.
Its scope is wide, the British portrait of the past century and more, the earliest example a tiny etching by Sickert of a young lady in a cocked hat, from 1894, the latest —two self-portraits, by Anthony Eyton and Cherry Pickles, both from 2013. Again, the names betray that instinctive preparedness to look beyond the fashionable and familiar. But for him unfamiliarity or rarity in themselves are never the point: each piece, however slight, must rest its justification in large part upon its technical merit. The craft, to Lambirth, is a necessity. Whatever it is, it must be well made and fully resolved within the terms intended. Perhaps the most haunting work in the show is just such a one, a large portrait etching (1971) by Peter Coker of his only son, who died tragically young. Not only does it demonstrate the most formidable technical command, but it is possessed of a timeless authority that transcends technique, worthy of any master.
Touch and surface too are of the first importance—the stuff of oil paint, variously celebrated in works by Eyton, Coker again, Jeffery Camp, Augustus John, Maggi Hambling: the graphic mark, charcoal or pencil, and the decisive movement of the hand across the page —Jacob Kramer, Dennis Creffield, Mike Harvey, Kitaj, David Jones: the several qualities of the print—William Strang and Allan Jones for the lithograph; Sickert and Michael Ayrton, etching; Michael Carlo, monoprint.
But of course the image is ultimately in command. And is the confrontational presence, that the self-portrait especially so often carries, a particular quality Lambirth finds difficult to resist? Alike in the portraits and self-portraits, even in David Jones’s imagined Roman Woman (1948), which is the most covetable wok in the entire show, that implacable stare is inescapable.
This is a curious, hugely enjoyable and in the end touching exhibition, for in it we find a critic now of long experience paying homage to some of his heroes, and great compliments to his friends-in-art. But it is rather more than that, in sort an autobiography without words. It is, shall we say, his own self-portrait.
It is more than worth the detour, and Sudbury not a world away. And Gainsborough’s House, poised we hope for major expansion, is a delight, and deserves all our support.
Face to Face: Portraits from the Andrew Lambirth Collection, Gainsborough’s House, Sudbury, Suffolk, until 16 October