Glories of paint

This is an example of the kind of exhibition which flourished for a while in the 1950s and 60s, and has sparked up occasionally since, like a partially active volcano — a show of work selected by a critic because he or she cares passionately about it. There was a famous series of Critic’s Choice exhibitions in the 1950s when the likes of Herbert Read and David Sylvester chose the paintings and sculptures of Henry Moore, Francis Bacon and such newcomers (then) as Frank Auerbach, for mixed shows at the commercial dealership of Tooth’s in Bruton Street, W1. It was recognised that critics needed the chance to explore and air their preferences in public, to nail their colours to the mast. And the gallery-going public welcomed this initiative, for it gave them a better idea of the tastes and personalities of the people who reviewed exhibitions for them, and brought them closer to understanding their beliefs. But the beneficent habit of mounting Critic’s Choice exhibitions fell into desuetude, as the amount of column inches devoted to commercial galleries shrank.

Today, when the nation’s newspapers seem hell-bent on reviewing the same few exhibitions, either in the museums or the hot spot of the moment, there is catastrophically little coverage of the wealth of high-quality exhibitions in the commercial sector. It is thus brave of a gallery in the provinces — or, rather, in the principality of Wales — to put on a show which allows a critic to speak his mind through a particular selection of paintings. I am very happy to say that in this instance the critic is myself.

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It was with some slight trepidation that I took the train up towards the Black Mountains. I had planned to hang the exhibition myself, but had been prevented from doing so by illness and had had to rely on the good offices of the gallery owner, Pauline Griffiths, and her staff.