THE PRIVATE LIVES OF PICTURES : ART AT HOME IN BRITAIN 1800-1940
By Nicholas Tromans
Reaktion Books. 294 pages. £25. ISBN 978-1-78914-623-3
Reviewed by Jim Burns
I grew up in a house without pictures. I’m not sure why there were
no paintings or other illustrations on the walls or even on the
sideboard or mantelpiece in the form of photographs. Nicholas
Tromans tells the story of Jeanette Winterson’s “severely
fundamentalist mother” who wouldn’t display some paintings she had
inherited. My own
mother came from quite a strict Baptist background in the Cumberland
coalfields, but I doubt that she had a particular aversion to
pictures. It was more likely that a lack of money meant that
pictures were not seen as essential. And she certainly would never
have considered clipping something out of a magazine and tacking
that on the wall. Advertising your poverty, no matter how real it
was, was not something you did.
I did see pictures as I got older. The local combined library and
art gallery was always open and wandering around the different rooms
opened my eyes to what paintings could do. I can still see one or
two of the canvases from seventy and more years ago in my mind’s
eye. In a way I’m glad that there weren’t pictures at home. They no
doubt would have been fairly innocuous, had they existed, and I’d
have been so used to them that they would have lacked any kind of
meaning beyond the merely decorative, and perhaps not even that.
Even a home well-stocked with paintings might not have appealed.
A profusion of pictures in a
small room can often confuse me and I prefer a single painting in a
domestic setting. On the whole, however, I choose to view paintings
in galleries and even there like to see them well spaced out.
Tromans’ engaging book by its very nature looks closely at what the
more-affluent classes chose to hang on their walls. There is little
consideration of what was on display further down the social scale.
He’s not to be condemned because of this. It’s doubtful if much
documentation exists of what, if anything, working-class people
owned in the form of paintings. Lower middle-class families wanting
to show how respectable they were might well have had a painting on
display in their living-room. And the more-ambitious, moving into
the managerial range of employment, might well have gone even
further and had more than one painting prominent. I’m generalising,
and exceptions must always have existed, especially if the
definition of a “picture” is extended to include prints and
illustrations of one sort or another taken from magazines and
newspapers. And why not photographs? They were easier to obtain as
commercial photography developed. When I was small in the
early-1940s I was often looked after by an old lady. I don’t
remember any paintings in her house but there were photographs of
her sons who had been killed in the First World War,
I think it’s of interest to note, in the context of what the
less-affluent might have experienced in connection with paintings, a
few lines from O. Henry’s supernatural story, “The Furnished Room” :
“Upon the gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the
homeless from house to house – ‘The Huguenot Lovers’, ‘The First
Quarrel’, ‘The Wedding Breakfast’, ‘Psyche at the Fountain’ “. I
think I may have seen at least a couple of these, or something
similar to them, over the years.
So, with Tromans, we are taken through an imaginary house and told
what was seen as suitable for hanging on the walls. He illustrates
his tour with references to real rooms in the homes of the
well—to-do and intellectually active. The aristocracy could afford
to purchase pictures and sometimes commission them, and the poets
and writers would have had friends and acquaintances who were
artists and so be in a position to obtain paintings at reasonable
prices and sometimes as gifts. But inevitably it’s mostly the
upper-classes whose houses were filled with paintings. How often
they were looked at might be another matter. The rooms in some of
the photos in the book seem cluttered to me and not just with
paintings. The furniture and ornaments take up a lot of space and
surely would have distracted from any consideration of the art other
than at a superficial level. The writer George Moore perhaps got it
right when he suggested that “all important old paintings” ought to
be in galleries and not in domestic settings.
It’s interesting to follow Tromans as he categorises the kinds of
paintings in the various rooms. The hallway was not seen as
somewhere to hang anything significant. Few people linger there, so
what’s the point in displaying anything worth more than a cursory
glance? I’m not just referring to Tromans’ views and he cites
critics and commentators who claimed to provide expert advice on how
to get the best from pictures in terms of deriving pleasure from
them or presumably just impressing visitors. There were publications
designed to guide people into the world of “good taste” by
indicating which wallpaper was best suited to certain pictures. It
wasn’t a case of simply finding a convenient spot to hang a picture.
Its colours had to combine and not clash with those of the space
surrounding it.
There were discussions about which pictures might be hung in the
dining-room. Nothing too striking in case they diverted attention
away from the talk around the table. Bland family portraits,
perhaps, though those could also be used on a staircase. Very few
people, ascending or descending, would bother to pause and look
closely at a picture of some old man or woman. So, the better
pictures, those with impressive painterly qualities, or at least
some notable financial value, might be allocated places in the
library or living-room.
And the bedroom? Ah, the adventurous might have a slightly
provocative painting there, but nothing likely to shock the female
members of the family or the servants.
Generally, it would seem that the bedroom was not considered a
suitable place to hang paintings of any kind. And throughout the
house the controversial was avoided. PaIntings created their own
world of serenity and calm and the world outside of mills and mines,
and the people who worked in them, wasn’t allowed to intrude into
middle and upper-class domesticity. To be fair, it’s not likely that
working-class families would want to be reminded of where they had
to go during the day. If they had anything on the walls it could be
of flowers and fields, or somewhere exotic. Tromans points to D.H.
Lawrence’s play, A Collier’s
Friday Night, where a picture of Venice hangs over the
mantelpiece.
“By the last years of the nineteenth century”, says Tromans, “the
sense of the picture being an ‘alien’ in the home promoted a late
flowering of the gothic picture tale”. Oscar Wilde’s
The Picture of Dorian Gray
is one of the best-known in the genre, though it had a
predecessor in Charles Maturin’s 1820 novel, Melmoth the Wanderer.
There can be something unnerving about a portrait of someone staring
out at the viewer and even giving the impression of the eyes
following one’s movements. This could have been another reason for
hanging portraits where few people would bother to look at them. An
obscure 1890s ghost story, Ralph Adam Cram’s “In Kropfsberg Keep”,
says that “the stiff old portraits changed countenance constantly
under the flickering firelight”.
But I like the Thomas Hardy story, “The Enemy’s Portrait”, where,
Tromans tells us, “the narrator finds at an auction the portrait of
one who had done him a terrible wrong. After he had bought it with
the intention of burning the canvas and reusing the frame, the
picture is laid against a wall pending its destruction, but, being a
trip hazard, it is hung by a servant on the wall, where it is
forgotten, eventually outliving the embittered owner”. Moving away
from portraits, M.R. James’s “The Mezzotint” shows what can happen
when a landscape which includes figures takes on a life of its own.
The reference to the frame in the Hardy story takes me to a section
of Tromans’ book where he discusses frames and their uses. I tend to
like frames which are plain and functional and don’t overwhelm the
canvas. Looking at old paintings in charity shops and second-hand
dealers, where I suspect they come from house clearances, I’m
inclined to the view that the frame was, for some householders,
often more important than the picture. And lent itself to the
interpretation that it was simply an extension of the general
decorative scheme. Rather in the way that much abstract art,
especially of the colour field variety, has become in large offices
and the like. Little to do with art and more to do with creating a
soporific effect guaranteed not to disturb anyone.
If frames were, or should have been important then the way a picture
was hung should have been equally so. Flat against the wall or
slightly tilted forward? Tromans examines the procedures open to the
home-owner anxious to establish the right effect. And the types of
hooks and other devices used. It wasn’t just a matter of knocking a
nail in a wall, at least not in homes where appearances counted.
As new techniques relating to prints began to appear the possibility
of having something on the wall became open to a wider public. Not
everyone was in favour of this, feeling that the mass reproduction
of well-known works of art lowered their value, not only in monetary
but artistic terms. But something like the Autotype (“a
photomechanical printmaking process using light-sensitive gelatine
to reproduce the intermediary tones of a transparency of an initial
photograph”.) helped
popularise art, again not something that purists and highbrow
critics necessarily liked. In a way it was taking art out of their
control and they were in danger of no longer being needed for
consultation about what was recommended
for the home. People just exercised their own judgement and
bought what they enjoyed in cheap versions : “For those with taste
but limited funds, the autotype was the passport to authentic art in
the house”.
Tromans refers to the department store, Whiteleys, which issued in
instalments “domesticated versions of the famous masterpieces of the
great galleries of the world.......For at least one Edwardian
working-class memoirist, tacking up a selection of these in his new
lodgings was a symbol of having escaped the slums”. He also brings
in another aspect of the working-class use of pictures: “Dan Cullen,
a London docker thrown out of work for his union activism, was found
dying in his filthy Whitechapel room around 1900, looking up at his
collection of cheap portraits of Engels, John Burns and other heroes
of labour”.
The front cover of The
Private Lives of Pictures reproduces a Harold Gilman painting,
“Edwardian Interior” which shows a young woman seated at a table and
studying the items on it. Tromans wonders how many people
“truthfully, really looked at the pictures in their home on a
regular basis?” and then suggests that Gilman’s painting “was surely
more common – the pictures reassuringly present but the occupants’
attention fixed on the tangible, operable objects of the home”.
Well, perhaps, though the lady may have looked at the pictures
before she sat down, or will look at them when she gets up. And, in
any case, why should she be expected to look at pictures all the
time? Looking at a picture ought to be a pleasurable experience and
not just a duty. I’m
having a little fun here, but making what I think is a serious point
about how and why people appreciate art. Not everyone wants to be a
specialist.
Nicholas Troman’s has written a thoroughly interesting and at times
provocative book which moves away from the standard texts of art
history and analysis. HIs account of the roles that art fulfilled in
private homes is immensely readable and offers a great deal of food
for thought. There are ample notes and some useful illustrations.
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