Frederick Cayley Robinson: Acts of Mercy
National Gallery, until 17 October
The free exhibitions in the Sunley Room offer a programme of meditations on the National Gallery’s permanent collection, either through works of art directly inspired by or related to the old masters, or connected in a more oblique way. Frederick Cayley Robinson (1862–1927) is a little-known early-20th-century English painter in oils, tempera and watercolour who deserves wider recognition: this loan exhibition is the first show of his work for more than 30 years.
A traditionalist with a feeling for the more modern statement, Cayley Robinson was using the same methods and materials as the old masters, but wanted to create something of relevance to his period. His acknowledged masterpiece is a series of four large paintings commissioned in 1912 by Sir Edmund Davis for the Middlesex Hospital, of which he was a governor and benefactor. These hung in the hospital’s entrance hall until its demolition in 2007, and were subsequently bought by the Wellcome Library and now form part of the Wellcome Collection in Euston Road. They are currently the centrepiece of the NG’s Cayley Robinson display.
The four pictures make an extraordinary set of images embodying the mission of the hospital, and deal with the Seven Corporal Works (or Acts) of Mercy: feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, giving shelter to the homeless, visiting the imprisoned, attending the sick and burying the dead. All are featured or implied in the paintings, which are arranged in two pairs: ‘Orphans’, and ‘The Doctor’. The ‘Orphans’ were painted to be shown next to each other and read sequentially, ‘The Doctor’ to be seen facing each other. Why then hang the two panels of ‘The Doctor’ at right angles? Apart from this solecism, the paintings look immensely impressive and repay time spent in their company. Not all is as serene as it first appears. The plight of orphans or patients is often far from easy and the surface calmness and underlying order of Cayley Robinson’s depictions is intriguingly offset by various symbolisms and suggestions.
Although the exhibition made me eager for more information, the accompanying pamphlet (price £2) concentrates on the paintings and tells little about the man. Here is a bare outline of Cayley Robinson’s career: born in Brentford he studied at St John’s Wood and the Royal Academy Schools, before taking off for two years to live on a yacht and paint realistic sea pictures (1888–90). Then he went to Paris to study at the Académie Julian for a couple of years. In 1898 he visited Florence for an extended stay and the frescoes of Fra Angelico were an inspiration.
Between 1902 and 1906 he was back in Paris, no doubt further indulging his admiration for the decorative schemes of Puvis de Chavannes. In 1909 he designed décor and costumes for Maeterlinck’s Blue Bird at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, and was professor of figure composition and decoration at Glasgow School of Art from 1914 to 1924. Surely enough there for a fascinating monograph?
Certainly, his hospital paintings are really rather out of the ordinary. At first glance, the casual visitor might think the figures a trifle wooden, but their quietly assertive presences are far from bland. The paintings have nicely varied surfaces and light effects, with a formal intricacy that will please those who look for the elements of abstraction in figurative art. ‘The Orphans’ are the finer pair in terms of the subtle orchestration of figures. The frieze-like arrangement of seated and standing figures is by no means obvious or uniform, and is notably disrupted by several of the girls making eye contact with the viewer.
In the first panel, two girls catch the spectator’s eye — one coming down the stairs, the other seated on the far left of the table — while a third to the right of centre looks out but also seemingly within herself; or perhaps she simply suffers from strabismus. In the second panel, the central figure turns and confronts us directly, in eloquent appeal, while the girl next to her turns to look back questioningly. Here are two different sorts of entreaty, to be joined by a third, a more level-eyed appraisal from the queuing girl who emerges from behind the massive pillar.
The powerful vertical domination of this column is accentuated by the classical bust that gazes down from the ledge of the high window. The height and deep embrasure of these windows suggest a place of detention more than a sanctuary. Large empty expanses of wall connote the bleakness of incarceration. This undercurrent is troubling, as is the lack of liveliness and humour in the girls’ expressions despite the range of personality on view. If the pleated white bonnets create the effect of a frieze, the positions of the orphans’ hands set up another kind of rhythm to activate the picture surface and articulate the space. The vaguely Pre-Raphaelite girls in charge, and the handsome Italian-looking serving woman pouring milk from a jug, make a telling contrast with the lost girls. The complexity of this work, with its shaded meanings, only emerges after close study.
‘The Doctor’ is not nearly so enthralling, although colour is used in a more provocative and exciting way (note the use of green and the repeated accents of red, on garters, ties and caps), while the still-life quality (very 17th-century Dutch) of ‘The Orphans’ is dispelled in this open-air composition. Again, there is a lovely encounter of textures, from the ashlar façade to the mottled tree trunk to the varying weights of drapery. The comparative paintings by Cayley Robinson are worth attending to, particularly ‘Pastoral’ (from the Tate), and it’s always good to see Piero’s ‘Baptism’ in a different context. But I question its inclusion here, also the Botticelli. Better to have had a Fra Angelico and a more typical Puvis than the small study we are offered. Better still to have had a display just of Cayley Robinson and let visitors make their own connections.
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