|
Publications : Chapters
in Books
Paul Gough
‘Graham Sutherland in Context: War, Art and
the Commissioning Schemes'
Catalogue essay to accompany: From Darkness
into Light: Graham Sutherland: Mining, Metal and Machines
for Penlee House Gallery_September 2013
In the last war [art] would have meant pictures
of the WesternFront... blasted trees, trenches, mud, shell-holes,
shattered Ypres,the straight roads
of France with army lorries moving through alandscape of bursting
shells, a landscape where no bird sang.
So wrote the poet Stephen Spender in 1943 reflecting
on the official art of the Great War, and arguing that that 'war
pictures' today could mean only one
thing: 'famous ruins ... our historic monuments
in their sudden decay ... thebombed city'.
The artist of this war, he declared, is 'the
Civilian Defence Artist'. (1)
And, as had been the case in the Great War, there was no shortage
of those who wanted to paint the conflict. Indeed a great many craved
the official status of ‘Official War Artist’. The scheme
that bestowed such a curious privilege lay under the direction of
respected art historian Sir Kenneth Clark, then the Surveyor of
the King’s Pictures at Windsor and Director of the National
Gallery, London. His War Artists’ Advisory Committee (WAAC)
commissioned dozens of painters, printmakers and sculptors to make
a systematic record of Britain’s war activity. The WAAC was
a near replica of Lord Beaverbrook’s innovative scheme in
the First World War, which was charged initially with producing
eye-witness images for propaganda use overseas, but quickly grew
into a comprehensive project for documenting the conflict on every
theatre. As the culmination of his programme, Beaverbrook aimed
to create a vast Hall of Remembrance in central London, but the
project ran out of steam after the Armistice as the country and
the Empire tried to leave the war behind. (2)
Beaverbrook’s scheme was an extraordinary achievement: one
of the single largest acts of government patronage of the arts.
It created opportunities for many who had served as combatants at
the Front - Paul Nash, C.R.W. Nevinson, Stanley Spencer, Wyndham
Lewis, and Henry Lamb - and melded the work of established artists,
such as William Orpen, John Singer Sargent, and Charles Sims, with
a younger, avant-garde crowd. The resulting collection - housed
at the Imperial war Museum in London - is both diverse and impressive,
second only perhaps to the Tate galleries for telling the story
of British art as it responded to the radical breakthroughs of continental
modernism.
Clark was equally single-minded. He wanted to produce a significant
and lasting artistic record yet he knew there were many constraints,
not only within Whitehall departments but also in public taste,
and despite his personal preferences he felt restricted by the need
to employ artists capable of making representational or illustrative
work. Very few of those called upon in the Great War were re-commissioned
and a new wave of younger painters, illustrators and printmakers
– amongst them Edward Bawden, Anthony Gross, Laura Knight,
Edward Ardizzone - were drawn into Clark’s elaborate and far-reaching
programme. At the final reckoning the WAAC accumulated over 6,000
pieces of art produced by 300 Official War Artists.(3)
Under Clark’s systematic regime most art was ‘made to
order’, and although some artists were given commissioned
rank and loosely attached to a fighting unit, their output was constantly
tailored towards producing a particular portfolio of images. In
the Great War, the first wave of official artists had been given
honorary rank, a vague brief and allowed to roam at will. All this
changed as the Beaverbrook reforms took hold and selected artists
were required to conform to an ambitious scheme for the Hall of
Remembrance. Some impressive pieces resulted but - as in the Second
World War - it also produced an air of conformity; a number of the
younger Modernist artists felt cowed by the strictures of the commissioning
process; others felt the constraints irksome, even if on occasion
it did result in some impressive art. Wyndham Lewis - not one to
paint to order – described one of his largest official canvases
A Canadian Gun-Pit as ‘one of the dullest good pictures on
earth’, a compromise between his experiences, his intentions
and the restrictions of the brief. (4)
In both wars the government’s zeal to make a complete record
of military activities also bred an atmosphere of casual overproduction.
Managing the official art schemes of both wars required logistical
prowess, administrative dexterity and considerable patience. At
times this was in short supply on all sides. In 1917 the British
Chief of Military Intelligence in France was asked to cater for
an increased throughput of visiting artists. He was not much minded
to comply. Surely two at a time was ample, he responded, bemoaning
their unfortunate tendency to ‘want
to sit down and look at a place for a long time.’
(5) For their part, artists
in both wars were faced on occasion with some fairly dull and uninspiring
subject-matter. The minutes of the WAAC in September 1943 record
that the painter Kenneth Rowntree had finally ‘accepted
the commission to paint jam-making, which is being done by the Women’s
Institute.’ (6)
Sutherland - ‘A sort of reporter’
Aged thirty-six at the outbreak of war, and therefore considered
too old for active service, Graham Sutherland was one of along list
of artists drawn up by Clark as essential to his war art project.
As early as August 1940 he had been identified by the WAAC, and
required to ‘'stand by to make pictures of debris and damage
made by air raids'. (7) Although
reassured by committee secretary E.M. O’Rourke Dickey that
‘Our plan has been to leave it more
or less to the artists to produce what they think is fair for the
fee … and to get the work done at the pace which suits them
best’ (8)
he was summarily despatched - with a special petrol allowance -
to South Wales to begin work for Clark’s committee, a five
year programme of postings that would expose him to every face of
modern war, and more significantly stretch - and at times tax -
his artistic imagination.
Sutherland's war art falls into a number of phases, predicated largely
on his creative response to the geographical location given him
by the WAAC. It resulted in a diverse folio of work, in which each
subject, each distinct place had to be handled on its own terms
rather than a style imposed on to it. As Douglas Cooper has noted
(9), Sutherland had to learn
to ‘refrain from imposing his own artistic personality’
onto these new and unique situations. For an artist of Sutherland’s
temperament that did not come easily:
There was I, who, up to then, had been concerned
with the more hidden aspects of nature. I had been attempting
to paraphrase what I saw, and to make paintings which were parallel
to, rather than a copy of nature. But now, suddenly, I was a paid
official - a sort of reporter - and naturally not only did I feel
that I had to give value for money, but to contrive somehow to
reflect in an immediate way the subjects set me.
(10)
He worked first in Swansea and then in London
recording the impact of the Blitz; in 1942 he drew down the mines
of West Cornwall; he then worked in the great steel foundries of
Cardiff and at the Woolwich Arsenal. In 1943 he moved once again
to South Wales drawing the open cast coal mining in the Abergavenny
area, and finally, in 1944, with much of France liberated he persuaded
Clark and the WAAC to send him abroad to capture the impact of the
Allied air raids on northern France.
In South Wales on his first foray as an official artist Sutherland
started to gain a sense of how the war might impact on his art:
Swansea was the first sight I had of the possibilities
of destruction as a subject. The architecture was florid and Victorian.
At first I made as complete a record as I could of what I saw.
I hadn't yet begun to feel any sense of what these remains really
looked like. Later, as I have said, some were to become great
animals who had been hurt. After making my studies I would go
to a farmhouse we knew to work them out.
(11)
Sutherland described to Dickey at WAAC in October
1940 how he had been able to complete these drawings 'within reach
of the “motif”; the complexity of the subject necessitated
constant reference’, adding that '[d]oing the scenes of devastation
I have found most absorbing… not without its nerve-wrecking
element.' (12) For an artist
accustomed to his own company it could also become a rather public
performance and at times Sutherland found himself uncomfortably
surrounded by ‘too curious crowds’.
However, it was not until he and his wife returned to London to
draw the effects of the Blitz in the City and the East End that
Sutherland began to appreciate the gravity of the events and his
responsibility as an artist. He found the devastation in the City
of London 'more exciting than anywhere else' mainly because, unlike
Swansea, the devastated buildings were larger and offered more dramatic
sights. Emptied of people, the destroyed and gutted blocks took
on a quite terrifying appearance, evoking that strange thrilled
fascination which is so often associated with the Sublime, a place
where the material world met the magical, alluring but hellish,
conjuring scenes that were redolent of Dante, a blackened city ‘wrung
from the bowels of destruction.’
(13)
Yet Sutherland could not afford to be overawed and he drew on his
innate self-discipline as a worker to organise his daily regime.
‘On a typical day, I would arrive there
from Kent where we had resumed living, with very spare paraphernalia
- a sketchbook, black ink, two or three coloured
chalks, a pencil - and with an apparent watertight pass that would
take me anywhere within the forbidden area.’ (14)
I will never forget those extraordinary first
encounters: the silence, the absolute dead silence, except every
now and again a thin tinkling of falling glass - a noise which
reminded me of some of the music of Debussy.
(15)
He would start by making what he called 'perfunctory
drawings here and there' as a way of getting his eye accustomed
to the weirdness of the place. Gradually as he began to identify
the key elements from the mess of the desolation he would begin
to isolate a specific form, 'A lift-shaft for instance, the only
thing left from what had obviously been a very tall building', bizarrely
collapsed 'like a wounded tiger in a painting
by Delacroix.' (16)
His drawings in the flattened 5-acre area just north of St Paul’s
Cathedral are amongst some of the most painful and grotesque images
produced on the Home Front during the war. The
Fallen Lift Shaft series are mostly small
ink and chalk drawings, some no larger than an outstretched hand.
They describe the crumpled metal infrastructure of collapsed lift
machinery leaning, leering dramatically from the charred recesses
of cavernous office blocks and charred ruins. As George Shaw has
observed, where once Sutherland had painted the flotsam of nature,
the chance amalgam of trees, stones and natural debris thrown together
by water, in the aftermath of the Blitz he now paid testimony to
unnatural forces tossed up and then thrown together by fire. (17)
The result is an extraordinary suite of drawings, ’taut,
nervy, precarious’ (18)
where one can trace the artist's hand as it worked to record the
spectacular ruination around him: a spidery ink line weaves across
the sketchbook page to delineate the edges of a girder, it ends
abruptly changing direction to follow the ragged outline of a fractured
building and then coalescing into a cross-hatched matrix of fire-blackened
timbers. Dense pools of unmodulated black ink rest alongside precise
passages of tightly constructed line. Sutherland controls the chaos.
Constantly shifting the focus and pictorial emphasis across the
surface of the paper, he teases the eye, disrupting the expected
hierarchies of a composition; aerial perspective is forsaken, the
frontal space of a view slides into the background as the distance
cascades into the foreground.
But they are also highly disciplined works. In an insightful essay
on the painter’s approach to picture-making, novelist William
Boyd notes that the initial serendipitous coup d’oeil that
first caught Sutherland’s eye is always subject to his taut
discipline. His habitual use of geometric grids when scaling up
his initial drawings serves as a means of controlling, framing,
and taming those unknowable, pungent, writhing forms that characterise
his work. The initial impetus is held to account through a wilful
procedure that bespeaks; ‘patience,
thoroughness, endless, practice, precision…’.
(19)
The ‘pathetic melancholy’
of Silvertown
With his predilection for isolated grotesque motifs, Sutherland
ought to have been disappointed by the uniformity and flatness of
the East End of London where the German bombing had levelled the
housing around the docks. Far from it, he described how he 'became
tremendously interested in parts of the East End where long terraces
of houses remained. … [their] great - surprisingly wide -
perspectives of destruction seeming to recede into infinity and
the windowless blocks were like sightless eyes'.
(20) Ever drawn to the anthropomorphic
potential of the built and natural world Sutherland became fixated
by these iconic images producing many variations on the double row
of houses of Silvertown, the view invariably punctuated at its vanishing
point by a single large building, or a toothless gap in the terraced
row. In such paintings as Devastation: City,
East end Street, (21)
Sutherland limits his palette to a chilly lemon yellow to describe
the husks of buildings which are stranded in great pools of black
ink and gouache. His sequence of paintings emit an eerily, slightly
fluorescent glow, that may echo some of the discomfort he felt at
prowling around these abandoned homes. Indeed, a number of the paintings
had to be worked up in his studio with the aid of photographs he
had discreetly taken in Silvertown, because it had been difficult
to draw in some places ‘without arousing a sense of resentment
in the people’. (22)
‘Very mysterious’: the
tin mines of West Cornwall
As the air raids subsided in London, Sutherland left the abandoned
and flattened neighbourhoods of the East End, a place which he later
described as ‘tremendously moving... mysterious and sad’,
and travelled to Cornwall. He worked in the St Just area for three
weeks in June 1942, returning - as was his pattern - to his studio
in Kent to work up his preliminary drawings into a suite of six
paintings which were submitted to the WAAC in December. He made
a further short visit to Cornwall in November to gather further
material so that he could complete the six pieces.
Despite his fear of enclosed spaces - as an apprentice engineer
in 1920 he had once been trapped in a locomotive boiler for several
hours - Sutherland came to cherish his time down the mines, it was
to prove 'a world of such beauty and such
mystery that I shall never forget it. There was none of the urgency
of the war in this - unless you can call mining a perpetual war.'
(23) His first encounter at
Geevor tin mine was indeed memorable:
The man who first took me round said, ‘Look
now, we’ll go down on the bucket’ ... We went down
1,300 feet like a bullet and I didn’t like it at all. I
disliked even more the fact that the last floor, the 14th, was
not served by a lift. One had to go through a trap-door in the
floor and down a ladder ... 100ft of ladder ... Once down and
walking through the various tunnels - some a mile along - the
problem was to avoid getting lost ... Far from the main shaft
the sense of remoteness was tangible and the distances seemed
endless. Faintly, far away, was the sound of work on other levels.
(24)
It was a thrilling environment; gargantuan in
its proportions, heroic in its scale, massively challenging, especially
for an artist who was not naturally at home when drawing the human
figure. Sutherland could barely conceal his enthusiasm, nor his
sense of trepidation:
The mines are stupendous & thrilling to a
degree which I wouldn’t have believed possible & life
below is awe inspiring & one begins to understand the [?]
fringe of the “height & the depth & the breadth”
especially in this case, the depth & the breadth. I hope I
can be equal to the occasion. The records I make shall either
be easily the best I’ve done or a failure. At all events
the problems widen one’s experience enormously ... I go
down in the cage at 9.30 & work until one o’clock when
I come up & work on my sketches in the afternoon. I won’t
attempt to describe the wonders of inspiration below as I am hoping
my paintings will do that or attempt to do so.
(25)
For most of the time underground Sutherland worked
in a sketchbook no larger than nine and half inches by seven [25
cms x 19 cms] but he managed to concentrate into these compact pages
a sequence of evocative images that convey cramped, dangerous and
uncomfortable labour. In accompanying notes he offered a running
commentary of the non-visual phenomena –sounds, smells, clamminess:
Miner approaching turns on hearing voice issues
from slope below. Walls dripping with moisture. Do painting sufficiently
large to give an impression of the
actual scale of the mine tunnel. (26)
and on another study of a figure emerging from
a cleft in a mass of rock:
Suggest miner in distance coming round curve
of slope (very strong feeling of shut-in-ness and weight of stone).
Miner emerges from entrance of slope. Very
mysterious. Approach associated with noise of boots and falling
stones and with approaching light of lamp. Remember light flesh
colour derived from light
reflected from close walls. (27)
Chris Stephens, in an excellent commentary on
one of Sutherland’s most memorable Geevor images, Miner
Probing a Drill Hole (28)
suggests that Sutherland borrowed heavily from Henry Moore’s
Shelter drawings as a way of tackling the human form. Sutherland’s
treatment of the figure echoes Moore’s simplified and stylised
morphology, producing organic shapes which become central to the
composition, very different from many of Sutherland’s other
war pictures where the figures – if any – are peripheral
and incidental. Here they became the main subject, iconic, statuesque,
exuding authority but also a ‘passive acceptance of their
hard life’ (29):
Often one would come across a miner sitting in
a niche in a wall, like a statue, immobile…one would flatten
oneself against the wall when trucks passed…
All was humid. The walls dripped water, and the only light was
from the acetylene lamps fixed to each man’s helmet.
(30)
In the sticky intimacy of the deep mines at Geevor
Sutherland bonded with the miners. He described them to Clark in
June 1942 as ‘grand handsome da Vinci types who move easily.
I like them very much, & have ideas for one or two portraits
(perhaps two combined in one design) in addition to any other work’.
(31)
Underground Sutherland evolved a grammar of drawing that explored
the intimate relationship of miner to stone, in some pieces their
limbs fuse with their compressed surroundings, in others they seem
in the act of extrication, emerging fully realised from the bedrock,
but in others they seem to have sacrificed their bodily appearance
to the mass itself. There is a strong sense in some of these studies
that the artist was working at the edge of his ability, as if he
is trying to find a way of abbreviating and simplifying the figure
without losing some of the specific characterisation that he easily
conveys in the portraits he made, drawings he later described as
'splendidly incongruous':
The heads I did were small and naturalistic,
as suited their purpose; but the deeper significance of these
men only gradually became clearer to me. It was
as if they were a kind of different species - ennobled under ground,
and with an added stature which above ground they lacked, and
my feeling was that in
spite of the hardness of the work in this nether world, this place
held for them - unconsciously perhaps - an element of daily enthralment.
(32)
Assessing these images not long after they were
finished, Edward Sackville-West suggested that the success of the
Geevor paintings lay in the fusion of the organic and the heroic:
‘The mystique of Nature, which Sutherland
has expressed so eloquently in his landscapes, lives again in the
inky gloom of these subterranean galleries, and the miners themselves,
helmeted and crested with acetylene flame, look as if they were
made of the ore they are engaged in extracting ... We are back among
the primitive gods.’ (33)
In similar vein, Douglas Cooper claimed that the war work had brought
a new force to Sutherland’s use of the figure: his tin miners,
'have the anxious and tense look of creatures in thrall to some
monster'. In other work of the strange restless war period - the
gutted buildings of London, the twisted metal of the Blitz, the
troglodyte world of Geevor - 'they may be
grim and terrifying outward manifestations of his passage, but everywhere
we feel - even in his absence - the presence of man.' (34)
There is something quite frenzied about much of Sutherland's war
work - surfaces are agitated, line work is busy and overly energetic,
the paint slapped on in intense pools of symbolic colour, texture
abraded and scoured. Although compositions are often singular, even
monolithic, the painterly approach is wilfully, sometimes perversely,
complicated.
Rather tellingly, the artist described his war period, in a letter
to Julian Andrews, as a 'kind of imaginative-realist
journalism which in the nature of things had to be done rapidly
without pondering and reflection.' (35)
Like many non-combatant official war artists Sutherland laboured
under the conviction that he had to prove himself useful, to contribute
however slightly to the war effort and to produce a substantial
volume of art - in fact, during the five years of his commission,
he produced over 150 works, gouaches, sketches, drawings, and oil
paintings, although as Clark knew a fair number of the sketchbook
and smaller works were never released to the WAAC.
Across to France
His last official duty as an 'imaginative-realist journalist' was
to capture the devastation wrought by the RAF on the rail marshalling
yards and the German flying-bomb sites in northern France. He described
it later:
I've never seen such a panoramic piece of devastation
in my life, for miles the bridges and remains of houses of either
side of the river were like black spokes. A lot of Germans had
been killed inside the caves, and there was a terrible sweet smell
of death in them… There were bits and pieces of people knocking
about, and I did some, but they were not allowed to be shown;
and I think probably rightly. (36)
Although it was Sutherland's first ever trip
abroad his recent experiences in South Wales, the East End and the
Cornish Peninsula had equipped him with a new language suited to
suffering, distortion and hardship. In a small way these works pay
homage to his Great War antecedents - Nash, Nevinson, Kennington,
Wyndham Lewis - who had made the imagery of withered trees and blasted
panoramas the essential leitmotif
of the war on the Western Front.
In a sketchbook drawing of a German flying bomb depot at St Leu
d'Esserent Sutherland took a rather deadpan viewpoint of the bombed
site, with its cavernous bunkers of the launch pads contrasting
awkwardly with the blackened stalks of trees poking out of the blasted
ground behind. In these last war drawings colour is applied sparingly,
an occasional ochre wash spread over patches of wax, as if man’s
violation has leached every natural colour from the scene. In a
final bout of work in France he made a series of rather hurried
ink and gouache paintings of the devastated train marshalling yards
around Trappes. The mad frenzy of the bombing is conveyed through
animated mark-making 'engines standing on
end or on their sides, boilers and pistons in strange conjunctions,
humps of earth heaved up as if by giant moles.'
(37)
Just as he had done deep underground at Geevor, Sutherland devised
a specific graphic language to match the raucous violence around
him. Drawn lines and calligraphic marks are scattered independently
of the dominating patches of colour; rounded forms, words and railway
emblems are sprinkled across the picture surface, large mechanical
shapes fight for pictorial precedence over the pooled swathes of
ink and gouache. The machine motifs balance precariously or sink
slowly back into the primeval ground, creating extraordinarily potent
images. There is little here that evinces hope or recovery, these
are images of deadly war and its grim aftermath, riven with morbid
symbolism, the isolated non-combatants have an anxious air, the
‘tense look of creatures in thrall to some
monsters’ (38)
How different then from the troglodyte reveries of St Just, which
for all its claustrophobia, clamminess and crowded emptiness drew
the very best from Sutherland. His work in Cornwall aroused a new
humanly-inspired vision, resulting in optimistic, even heroic images
of humans attuned to their surroundings, united in their endeavour,
and - as Sutherland put it - ‘ennobled
under ground’.
Notes:
1 Stephen Spender,
War Pictures by British Artists
- Second Series, no. 4.
2 For
a full account of the scheme devised by Beaverbrook, and his predecessors,
Charles Masterman and John Buchan, see Sue Malvern, Modern
Art, Britain and the Great War: Witnessing, Testimony and Remembrance
(Yale University Press, 2004) and Paul Gough, A
Terrible Beauty: British Artists in the First World War
(Bristol, Sansom and Co., 2011)
3 The
fullest accounts of Kenneth Clark’s scheme is in Brian Foss,
War Paint: Art, War, State and Identity 1939-45
(Yale, Yale University Press, 2007) and in Meirion Harries and Susie
Harries, The War Artists: British Official
War Art of the Twentieth Century, London
1983. Clark’s autobiography is also of interest: Kenneth Clark,
Another Part of the Wood: a Self-portrait
(London: John Murray, 1974).
4 Wyndham
Lewis to Herbert Read, 17 December 1919, cited in W.K. Rose (ed.)
The Letters of Wyndham Lewis
(London: Methuen, 1963) p.102.
5 Charteris
to Charles Masterman, 12 March 1917, Imperial War Museum (IWM) Art
Department file G4010 / 17.
6 WAAC
Minutes file, Art Department file, IWM.
7 Sutherland
to Dickey, 3 August 1940, Art Department file, IWM. Dickey was a
former Ministry of Education Inspector for Arts and member of the
London Group.
8 Dickey,
cited in Roger Berthoud, Graham Sutherland:
A Biography (London, Faber and Faber,
1982) p.99
9 Douglas
Cooper, The Work of Graham Sutherland.
(London, David McKay, 1961).p.27. Sutherland’s actual contract
as an Official War Artist did not start formally until 1 January
1941, when he began a six-month contract worth £325 payable
in three instalments; the payment was contingent on delivery of
works which WAAC considered of a standard to warrant payment. All
original work and all rights of reproduction were to be vested in
the Crown. Thereafter Sutherland was given a series of recurrent
six-month contracts. In autumn 1943 the annual salary was increased
from £650 to £750. His formal link with the WAAC ended
on a rather sour note with petty disagreements over expenses, aggravated
when the Ministry of Information would not accept his expense claim
for new pyjamas and braces worn during his long war service.
10 Open
letter from Graham Sutherland to Edwin Mullins, Daily
Telegraph Magazine, 10 September 1971.
11 Sutherland
to Mullins, op.cit.
12 Sutherland
to Dickey, 1 October 1940.
13 Eric
Newton, In My View (London 1950, reprinted from an article first
published in December 1940).
14 Sutherland
to Mullins, op.cit. Painter George Shaw writes tellingly of Sutherland
‘clocking on for duty’ like many artists of the time
who kept long but regular hours, ‘reaching a productive accommodation
between freedom and routine.’ In the wartime documentary ‘Out
of Chaos’ Sutherland appears rather
incongruously in a pin-striped suit while out drawing in a lime
quarry in Derbyshire, but wearing a hard hat to underscore his mission
as a man engaged with unstinting manual labour. The film ‘Out
of Chaos’ was directed by Jill Craigie
and released in 1944.
15 Sutherland
quoted in Berthoud, op.cit, p.102.
16 Quoted
in Berthoud, op.cit, p.102. For further references to this period
of his work see Martin Hammer. Graham Sutherland:
Landscapes, War Scenes, Portraits, 1924 -1950
(London, Scala, 2005).
17 George
Shaw, Graham Sutherland: An Unfinished World.
Oxford (Museum of Modern Art, 2012) p.26. Shaw, p.26)
18 George
Shaw, ibid., p.27.
19 William
Boyd, On Graham Sutherland
(London, Bernard Jacobson Limited, 1993).
20 Roberto
Tassi, Graham Sutherland: The Wartime Drawings
(Milan 1979, translated by Julian Andrews, London 1980) p.19.
21 Sutherland,
Devastation: City, East end Street, 1941,
Tate, N05736.
22 Sutherland
quoted in Berthoud, op.cit., p.103.
23 Sutherland
quoted in Tassi, op.cit., p. 70.
24 Sutherland
to Mullins, op.cit.
25 Sutherland
to Kenneth Clark, nd [probably June 1942], Tate Gallery Archive
8812.1.3.3131. Sutherland had to leave the mines during the afternoons
while the mines were closed for blasting, repair and allowing the
fumes to clear.
26 Sutherland
quoted in Berthoud, op.cit., p. 107.
27 ibid.,
p.107.
28 Sutherland,
Miner Probing a Drill Hole,1942,
Tate N05741.
29 Sutherland
quoted in Berthoud, op.cit., p.107.
30 ibid.,
p.107.
31 Letter
to Kenneth Clark, nd [probably June 1942], Tate Gallery Archive
8812.1.3.3131
32 Sutherland
quoted in Berthoud, op.cit., p. 107.
33 Edward
Sackville-West, Graham Sutherland
(London, Harmondsworth 1943) p.16.
34 Ross,
p 48]
35 [Ross,
p 49]
36 Open
letter to EM
37 [Ross,
p 46] Art.IWM ART LD 5550
38 Cooper,
p.26)
top
back
|
|