Face to face

British Self-Portraits in the 20th Century: The Ruth Borchard Collection
Kings Place Gallery, 90 York Way, N1, until 29 August

This makes self-portraits fascinating documents but not always easy to live with. Self-communing can be a very private matter, and if the artist has used the painting to exorcise devils, the results can be deeply disturbing. Nevertheless, Ruth Borchard (1910–2000), a refugee from Hitler’s Germany, decided to concentrate her collecting entirely on the self-portrait, citing the fact that her taste in literature was introspective and confessional — towards diaries, letters and autobiographies — and that she should collect paintings on a similar theme. To this end, she wrote to a considerable number of contemporary artists in the 1950s and 1960s, offering to buy or commission a self-portrait from them. She offered a maximum of 21 guineas, and sometimes paid as little as seven to the lesser-known among those she approached. Over the years she built up a very respectable collection which is interesting primarily for the range of practitioners it covers: from the well-known to the unknown, and the infinite shades between.

At Kings Place, the 100 self-portraits she amassed (plus rather a severe portrait of Borchard herself by Michael Noakes) are hung alphabetically in two groups. The larger section is distributed around the spacious landings flanking the escalators at the centre of the building, while in the gallery itself is hung the cream of the collection. This inner sanctum contains a sequence from Michael Ayrton to Anthony Whishaw, and includes many fine things. Peter Coker in an apron, William Crozier as a screaming skull (existentialist angst taken to the extreme?), Dennis Creffield in Bombergian mode, achieving remarkable sensitivity through slabby paint, Cecil Collins hieratic as an Egyptian dignitary, Tony Eyton adding and subtracting light in his studio, fencing with self-revelation, William Gear spiky but dynamic in a flat cap, drawn in Indian ink, Anthony Green in (now) uncharacteristic thick impasto, beneath a hanging light bulb (still a favourite motif).

Lawrence Gowing paints a juddering image of himself, the visual equivalent of his notorious stutter. There’s a lovely delicate Roger Hilton pencil drawing, probably done on a hangover, vulnerable and world-weary. Among the surprises are Henryk Gotlib’s self-portrait, a cross between a mythical creature of the woodland and a tortured Francis Bacon businessman, and Patrick Procktor’s encrusted oil, a lacerating portrayal like a down-at-heel court jester, telling his last, bitter story, his eyes like pissholes in the snow. The inner sanctum ends with a strong blast: David Tindle, Keith Vaughan, Euan Uglow (with a red nose, having fallen over and bashed it after one too many), and Carel Weight singing to himself. As a young man, Weight trained as an opera singer, and used to have a large lady sitting on his chest to develop his lungs during singing lessons. At least that was his story.

Among the larger collection there are fine things by Albert Herbert, Jack Millar and Rowland Suddaby, but half the enjoyment of this show will be encountering new or forgotten names. There are a few noticeable omissions. David Hockney is not represented. He apparently refused the commission, more’s the pity. In fact, the Pop artists don’t do well — no Allen Jones, Peter Blake or Patrick Caulfield. Nor is there any sign of John Craxton or Lucian Freud. That great self-publicist John Bratby is not here either (and he made dozens of self-portraits, painted and drawn, many of them very powerful), though there’s a good self-image by his first wife Jean Cooke, big eyes staring out of the dark. In fact she is one of the artists in the Borchard Collection who deserve to be rediscovered. Cooke was a lyrical and poetic painter, with a highly original take on life. Despite protestations to the contrary, she was rather good at plunging to the depths of her being, and ‘pottering about at the bottom of the treacle jar’.

Also due for reassessment are such quirky talents as Raymond Coxon, Alfred Daniels, Edwin La Dell and John O’Connor. It would be marvellous if further initiatives (such as monographic exhibitions and publications) could grow out of the Borchard Collection. There’s already a very useful related book, Face to Face: British Self-Portraits in the 20th Century by Philip Vann (Sansom & Company, 2004). In the meantime, this century of self-portraits makes a substantial and rewarding exhibition to visit.