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The Nation
767
RPEN has always the saving grace of seeming interested in what he is doing, though one may not always accept the way he does it, or share his interest. But whether
one approves or no, the fact that he himself is being amused
and absorbed- gives life to his work and forces one to look at
it, to think about it. His six portraits are as successful now
in breaking the Academic monotony as Sargents were of
old. Like Sargents, they have the virility of all painting by
an artist who paints because he enjoys it; like Sargents,
they are infinitely more skilful than anything else in the
exhibition, and again like Sargents, their tendency is to
exaggerate character into caricature and catch the eye by
over-emphasis.
In none is this emphasis so marked, and
moreover so out of place, as in his half-length of Lord
Bryce, for whose usually pale and colorless cheeks he has
borrowed the violent red of the old-time bus driver or publican. Winston Churchill, at his hands, is transformed into
the states-man of the stage, a melodramatic furrow between
the eyes, a histrionic handupon the hip, all but leaping out
upon the world from the enveloping shadows. In Colonel
Elkingtons face he has searched less for the lines dug into
it by the cares and thought and responsibilities of the leader, the commander, than for the lines in which he saw an
amusing pattern when balanced by those of th*e curtain
drawn in rigid angles on either side in the background. His
Lady Bonham Carter defies the no longer disputed axiom
that a figure should keep its place well within the frame, for
her head stands out defiantly as if to insist on the painters
clever tr.ick of lighting, and her gown, with its dark blue
and gold sleeves and loose, soft blue vest, is not so much a
characteristic part of the woman inside it as a delightful
excuse for the display of the painters tremendous dexterity
And yet, for all their overin the rendering of textures.
emphasis, for all their false accents, their technical fireworks, there is not one of these portraits that does not
claim and hold attention, that does not entertain, that does
not stimulate and excite; while I have learned before this,
on coming face to face with his sitters after first seeing
their portraits, that what I fancied exaggeration in his rendering of character or dress can sometimes be really excess
of realism, the question is, however, if they do not excite
and stimulate too much. The great masters have spared
us not a jot of the character of their sitters, but they expressed it with that fine serenity inseparable from the greatest art. We never stop to ask if it is character or caricature
in the Philip of Velasquez, the Saskia of Rembrandt.
SO long as I was in the Academy, I confess it never occurred to me to find fault with the touch of excitement
Orpen contributes to its walls, so grateful was I for any
diversion.
The other portraits are so sadly characterless
and inert that the grossest caricature would be an agreeable exchange. Greiffenhagen, whose portraits have often
had a delicate decorative value, apparently begins to droop
under the Academic mantle as if over-conscious of what is
expected of the member of an institution in which the standard of portrait painting is set by Dieksea and Ouless and
Solomon, and he has relapsed frankly into commonplace.
Glyn Philpot, once the hope of the younger Internationals,
appears equally oppressed by his recent Academic honors,
though he struggles against the oppression by a bold bid