No Ears in Aspic

 

We recently went to a ‘Selfie’ exhibition at Cardiff Museum centred around one of the many wonderful self portraits of Vincent Van Gogh. We even treated ourselves to a ‘High Tea’ at the museum that came as an optional extra with Van Gogh. The tea was nice but we both felt it could have at least made some kind of nod to the star of the show. Not necessarily an ear in aspic, that would have been full Tate Modern. And a Sunflower would have perhaps been too big, dwarfing both us and the food. A dandelion might have been nice, there being only one Vincent Van Gogh on show.

That fact alone illustrates the ingenuity of the ‘Exhibition.’ With only one painting —a temporary swap for a Renoir—how best to maximise interest? Thus the concept of ‘Selfie’ was born, the gallery bringing together a collection of self portraits ranging from Francis Bacon to Rembrandt, Angus Bean to Edna Clarke Hall.

I enjoyed the comparison between Van Gogh’s portrait, his face daubed with vivid red and green lines and Bacon’s, to my mind, more sinister portrait. “Bacon challenged the idea that portraiture should offer a direct likeness, aiming instead to capture the essence of his sitters.” 

The trouble for me was however hard I squinted or angled my head, near to or far the essence eluded me for a time. Eventually, and whether that was Bacon’s intention or not, I sensed something vaguely bestial, porcine perhaps, no pun intended. 

Van Gogh was a much more enjoyable challenge. From a distance the face bursts from the canvas with a vibrant purity. Close too, the green and red lines tend to startle and yet vanish as you step back. I advanced and retreated, a cultural yo-yo, finding the exact spot where the red and green vanished into luminous flesh.

I also learnt something knew, an artist I’d never heard of before, and a story that illustrated suffocating limits on women of brilliance. Kent born, Edna Clarke Hall, was a child prodigy, winning a scholarship to the prestigious Slade at fourteen.

 Her tutor, and eventual saviour was Henry Tonks, a man that terrified many. Tonks took no prisoners. As the artist Paul Nash remembered: 

'Tonks cared nothing for other authorities and he disliked self-satisfied young men…his surgical eye raked my immature designs. With hooded stare and sardonic mouth, he hung in the air above me like a tall question mark, moreover of a derisive, rather than an inquisitive order. In cold discouraging terms he welcomed me to the Slade. It was evident he considered that neither the Slade, nor I, was likely to derive much benefit.'

Another described him as ‘a towering figure, almost 6ft 4 inches tall. Lean and ascetic looking, with large ears, hooded eyes, a nose dropping vertically from the bridge like an eagle’s beak and a quivering camel-like mouth.’

Edna should have been terrified, but Tonks recognised her brilliance, especially impressive considering she was painting alongside the likes of Augustus John.

And then, aged nineteen, she married.

Her husband. by the standards of the day, was a kind and good man but Edna found wifely duties and motherhood an oppressive prison. Her great talent was now limited to what she could fit in—drawings of her children and illustrations for Wuthering Heights. 

Henry Tonks continued to encourage her, persuading his former pupil to hold a one woman show at the Chenil Galleries in 1914. 

In 1919, the tension between family duty and her need to create resulted in a nervous breakdown, and again Henry Tonks came to her aid—as did her husband, who set her up in a studio near Gray’s Inn. From 1922 until 1941 when the Blitz destroyed much of her work, Edna Clarke Hall’s talent at last found the outlet she’d craved since her wedding vows of 1898—after twenty, not wasted, but thwarted years.

The story is reflected in these two portraits, one of the young girl with the world at her feet, 

the other sadder, trying to deal with her world slipping away.