Henry A Hunt – Well-Forgotten And Yet Overlooked

19 02 2012

[The following edited excerpt is taken from the ninty-fifth chapter of D H Laven’s historic work-in-progress ‘The Story of Forgotten Art’. In the introduction to this pioneering work he writes: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this passage he looks at the secondary artistic produce of the twentieth century painter Henry Adolphus Hunt.]

Why don’t you write something about Augustus John? Such were the words that fell like weakling lambs from the mouth of an elderly lady following a lecture I gave on the life and work of Henrietta Goosen last year at the Paul Clark Institute of Arts. Why should I do that? Here was my strident response: delivered with reassuring insolence. The lady was under the misapprehension that John qualified as a ‘forgotten artist’. On the contrary, I told her, John is not the slightest bit forgotten. And – I added – even if he were, I doubt whether I’d give him a second look. I do not bring the dead to life simply for the fun of it. Their work has to have some worth. ‘As for that hairy gypsy’ I said, ‘I cannot imagine what it is that people ever saw in him’. To my surprise the old woman concurred, finding my description both ‘apt’ and ‘memorable’. It turned out that she had once studied this rather tedious period of British Art herself, whereupon she had also come to the conclusion that John’s painting never reached the aesthetic heights scaled by his facial hair. What is more, her knowledge in this area was also to reveal that I was not the first man to call Augustus John a ‘hairy gypsy’. In 1921 an artist called Henry Hunt did the same thing to John’s face, whilst ‘chilling out’ with fellow artists in the Café Royal in London. A fight is said to have broken out, during which Wyndham Lewis’s moustache was severely damaged, along with half a dozen cream cakes. Read the rest of this entry »





‘Leave Us Alone’ – The Remarkable Case of the Tombs at Khum Tash

19 02 2012

[The following excerpt is taken from the eleventh chapter of D H Laven’s monumental work-in-progress ‘The Story of Forgotten Art’. In the introduction to this pioneering work he writes: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this passage he examines art that has not simply been forgotten, but strategically – if not unsurprisingly - ignored by a generation of superstitious academics...]

Artists are forgotten for an assortment of reasons. Though history can be unreliable, we must not ignore the fact that it often performs its task as it should: stalking the ranks of the dead like an impassive murderer, suffocating worthless aesthetics, lopping off the heads of untalented artists and hurling their wretched reputations into the black hole of forgetfulness. I do not doubt for a moment that some artists deserve to be forgotten; history must in these cases be thanked. Nevertheless, though I am by no means inclined to resuscitate corpses simply for the sake of it – I leave such vampiric behaviour to my fellow art historians – it must also be accepted that the system of history has flaws. Things that are forgotten do not always deserve to have been so. Read the rest of this entry »





‘Opening New Doors?: Art and the West Melbourne Community Sports Centre – by D H Laven

12 02 2012

[The following excerpt is taken from the seventy-eighth chapter of D H Laven’s much anticipated work-in-progress ‘The Story of Forgotten Art’. As Laven writes in his introduction: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this extract, he looks at a series of artworks commissioned by the West Melbourne Community Sports Centre - once dubbed the 'Medicis of Melbourne' .]

Art history is a many-splendoured thing. Well indeed. But then so is cattle farming, for those in the know. And the problem with these many-splendoured things is that they have a habit of getting on top of one. Even those of most magnificent mind will admit to moments in which the self-made mountain of their research wears their enthusiasm wafer thin. For anything that invites obsession also demands the temporary cessation of one’s passion in the face of suffocation. Which is to say: even the best of us need a break every now and again.

It will not come as news to regular readers that I have for some time now been engaged on what might be termed a marathonesque project: my beloved Story of Forgotten Art, a humble attempt to condense all that has been unfairly removed from the history of world art into a single, albeit grossly fat book. Read the rest of this entry »





‘Worm Tensions’: The Forgotten Art of Eugene Matendre

25 01 2012

[The following excerpt is taken from the fourth chapter of D H Laven’s much anticipated work-in-progress ‘The Story of Forgotten Art’. As Laven writes in his introduction: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this extract, he looks at the case of Eugene Matendré, a man once described as ‘if not the best, then at least the best-looking artist in France']

In June 1926, in the small village of Essanay outside the town of Montargis near the city of Paris, the body of a naked old man was dragged from a river. At the age of ninety four, Eugene Matendré had decided to drown himself. It wasn’t an easy decision, as his suicide note (well presented, with a firm sense of design) attests: Read the rest of this entry »





Cloven Conspiracy?: Sir Anthony Tosh and the Hereford Heresy

21 01 2012

[The following excerpt is taken from the twenty-fifth chapter of D H Laven’s historic work-in-progress 'The Story of Forgotten Art’. In the introduction to this pioneering work he writes: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this passage he looks at the work of Sir Anthony Tosh, an eighteenth century cow painter.]

Many a word I have written on art that has been forgotten. Literally forgotten: thrown into a damp and dingy cellar, burnt on a fiery furnace, tossed into the whiffy wastepaper baskets of history, to the unutterably ghastly gutters of culture’s overcrowded highways and byways; to the edge of the canonical circle – and beyond. Many a word I have written on this type of art. Art which has been and gone – which is no more, is lost, is finished, is but a faint stain on the great carpet of memory.

But there are two ways of forgetting. There is never looking, and there is never looking properly. There is some art, therefore, which is both remembered and forgotten. Art that is in fact well-known, and yet not known at all. Art that hides behind itself; that can be seen and not seen, both at the same time. Such is the art created by the British eighteenth century painter Sir Anthony Tosh. Read the rest of this entry »





‘Lights Out’: The Unfortunate Art of Luis Recagis

21 01 2012

[The following excerpt is taken from the fourteenth chapter of D H Laven’s historic work-in-progress 'The Story of Forgotten Art’. In the introduction to this pioneering work he writes: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this passage he looks at an unfortunate Spanish artist, whose great paintings quite literally never saw the light of day.]

Luck is no lady: it is the bastard child of the drooling she-monster and her incontinent husband; the festering cockroach under the cocktail cabinet; the hapless harbinger of despondency and doom. It may treat some people well, but many more are flung aside, like so many empty crisp packets hurtling along the dirty streets of modernity, pushed and pulled by the restless winds of change.

At the beginning of April in the year 1973, I was fortunate enough to find myself in New York, eager to witness the opening of an exhibition of work by the young Spanish painter Luis Reçagis. I had of course been aware of Reçagis for several years, but this was his first major exhibition – his so-called ‘breakthrough’. And I was just one amongst many who were extremely excited by the prospect. Previous work by Reçagis had promised much, but now – as an old lecturer of mine used to say (a little too often for his students’ liking) – ‘the time was as ripe as Aphrodite’s breasts’. Read the rest of this entry »





‘Nurtured from Pain’: The Bruised Beauty of Maria von Uppelhart

21 12 2011

[The following excerpt is taken from the thirty-first chapter of D H Laven’s fantastic work-in-progress 'The Story of Forgotten Art’. In the introduction to this pioneering work he writes: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this passage he looks at a contemporary ‘body-artist’ whose achievements are frequently misinterpreted by feminists and cynics alike.]

My body is a work of art. I refer not to myself, of course – I merely repeat that over-familiar cliché for effect. That gaudy, ghastly, insolently persistent battered cod of a cliché, of which so many of the world’s poorest artists’ are so fond (aesthetically poor, that is, not economically). The phrase is a sleeping pill: in its tepid tedium it tires me instantaneously. Whenever it plummets like a putrid pear from the moist mouth of an artist, any audience is well advised to run for cover. Ninety nine percent of the time it functions favourably as a warning sign, painted in bright fluorescent pink on a dull black background, reading as follows: ‘THIS ARTIST IS A WASTE OF TIME’. Read the rest of this entry »





Vladimir Dorwindovitch – Jokebook

10 12 2011

I don’t know how many of you have ever tried to spontaneously translate a Swedish joke into French during a public lecture, but I’ll gladly let you into a little secret: it isn’t very easy. Especially if the joke you choose is based on particular wordplay that couldn’t possibly operate outside of its native language. That I succeeded in sucking even a titter or two from between the flaked lips of my gratuitously soporific audience is testament to the mighty powers of coincidence. Though the original pun fell flatter than an anorexic pancake, it so happened that a word I’d used earlier on inadvertently presented me with a later opportunity to salvage the wreck. In fact, as I reflected afterwards, the new joke was in some ways funnier than its predecessor. Spurred on by this delusion, I later made the foolish move of leaping into yet another language as I tried, in vain, to communicate the comedy with an English friend. This time the joke emerged as no more than an informative sentence without the slightest hint of light relief. Luckily for me my friend found the whole thing so incredibly un-hysterical that he never cottoned onto the fact that I was telling a joke in the first place. I escaped unscathed – and have never touched the gag since. Read the rest of this entry »





Invitation to an Execution: a note on Jon Gvennersson

10 12 2011

[an anonymous article, first published c.2005]

My brain takes a ride on the memory train. Destination: St. Anselm’s Convent School, 196–. Escaped from the clutches of some domineering nun, I spend a blissful evening in the empty cloisters thwacking crane flies with a damp towel. I kill fifty, sixty, seventy: I lose count. Most of them die; a few escape baring wounds. One, two, three, four, five legs missing. A torn wing or two. They limp across the ancient paving stones like men on crutches, fly unsteadily into the courtyard like poor paper planes, either way regretting the day they ever crossed this small child’s path. And well they might.

I have so many happy memories of killing crane flies. Read the rest of this entry »





Red Onion Imagery in the Last Poem written by Ludomir Birovnik

10 12 2011

Of the many ways in which the Bulgarian poet Ludomir Birovnik might have made his exit from the planet earth, choking on a stick of celery – obscure though it might seem – may yet rank amongst the most apt. Of course, there is some doubt whether the celery was the primary cause of his death – or whether his subsequent tumble down the stairway and far-from-safe landing on an especially sharp-edged example of proto-futurist Bulgarian sculpture was actually to blame. But it matters not. The fact remains that the last surviving member of the Bulgarian Farm Poets Movement (a group which, in its prime, produced more poems about celery than any other Eastern European literary faction) has taken his final breath. Read the rest of this entry »








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