The Guildhall Art Gallery has a well-defined policy of mounting temporary exhibitions of work by living artists, providing the subject matter is closely involved with the theme of London. David Tress, although born in the capital in 1955, has lived in Pembrokeshire, West Wales, since 1976, and has made a substantial reputation for himself as a painter of wild, not to say elemental, landscape. But, as the riverscapes of George Rowlett make abundantly clear, you don’t have to go to the country for passion and drama — the paint can swirl just as crazily or as poignantly over the Thames. Tress’s London scenes are equally robust, based upon childhood memories and refreshed by recent trips to the capital. Previously, they had constituted the least well-known (and, as such, somewhat downplayed) aspect of his oeuvre. The Guildhall show now gives them centre stage, and the results are very impressive indeed.
At this point, I should declare an interest — I have written the catalogue essay for Tress’s touring exhibition of drawings, originated by Brecknock Museum & Art Gallery, Brecon, of which this show is a version. The exhibition has been restyled to suit London requirements, and new work has been added. There are 29 pictures on display, all made in the past few years, most of them in mixed media on paper, a couple of oils on board, and some splendid graphite drawings. The exhibition space is subdivided into smallish rooms, focusing our attention on different themes. One of the most powerful groups is devoted to the subject of cranes (London as building site) — three of Westminster and one at Blackfriars. ‘Darkening (Cranes, Westminster)’ is a very intense and beautiful graphite drawing, swart but not gloomy, as much about the structure of buildings against the evening sky as about a particular urban atmosphere.
The two paintings — one of Westminster, the other of Blackfriars — are composed of pigment urged into three dimensions, churned up from the picture plane like a stormy sea. For Tress is an emotional painter, depicting states of mind as much as specific places, recalled not necessarily in tranquillity. His drawings are often seared and scraped, the thick paper scored through and patched over and re-worked, looking as if violence has been visited upon them in the artist’s determination to express his understanding of their significance and meaning. Tress recalls visiting central London as a child with his father (a moving depiction of St Paul’s and the surrounding devastation as it was in 1945–6, after the Blitz, is imagined in a drawing entitled ‘My Father Told Me’), and seeing the great fa
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