Ways and Means (11 page)

The Gropists

Sir, It was good of you in the face of so much blind prejudice against anything new to refer to the forthcoming exhibition of ‘The Gropists’. May I venture to express the hope that your readers (and others) will look at our pictures before they pass judgement on them. I know that this idea is getting out of date, but it is certainly one of the formalities which even our group considers should be observed.

Yours faithfully,

SIMON PLANT

The handwriting was that of Mr Plant, but the wording was Basil’s. — ‘Simon Plant,’ said Mr Hedges. ‘Simon Plant. Never heard of him. I know what it is. The blackguard. The coward. He’s either using another name or he’s just put up someone to take the first blows. Just like him. Can’t face the music.’ He went to the telephone directory. No Simon Plant. He telephoned several of his friends. No knowledge of Simon Plant. Shortly before the exhibition opened, an advertisement appeared in several newspapers in the following terms:

The Gropists

Five or six lunatics have joined together and exhibited their work. They take a piece of canvas, daub a few patches of colour at random, and sign the whole thing with their name. It is as if the inmates of Bedlam picked up stones and imagined they had found diamonds.

We shall be honoured if this sort of criticism is accorded to us. This is what was said of the famous Impressionists Monet, Pissarro, Morisot and others in 1876. Come and see for yourselves. If only we are as bad as they were. Exhibition opens at 10 a.m. on the 1st June at the Drewe Galleries, 11 Touchstone Street.

Special inducement: Every visitor will be given an opportunity of registering a protest against or recording his enjoyment of each picture, and OF MAKING A LARGE SUM OF MONEY.

‘The police ought to stop this sort of thing,’ said Mr Hedges. ‘It’s prostitution; that’s what it is. Much worse than the poor creatures who get taken to Marlborough Street. They’ve no alternative.’

‘Don’t artists ever starve?’ asked Selina innocently.

‘Then they should give up being artists. Look at me. Did I ever starve? Not a bit of it. Of course, I was hard up to begin with and it was a bit of a struggle — but that’s not starvation. If you can’t make an honest living at art, do something else at which you can.’

‘Are you going to see them, Father?’

‘No, thank you. I do not require a LARGE SUM OF MONEY. My means are sufficient for my requirements, and I am thankful to say I made them honestly and not by bribing people to come and look at my pictures.’

‘But don’t you want to see if there is anything worth seeing?’

‘How can there be? Anyway, in the unlikely event of there being something worth seeing, I shall be told, and then I can go and see it. There won’t be more than one. There won’t be that.’

‘Did they really say all that about Monet and Pissarro?’

‘I’m sick and tired of hearing what was said in the eighteen-seventies. That’s nearly eighty years ago.’

‘But if prominent people made such bad mistakes then, couldn’t the same happen again?’

‘Of course people make mistakes and always will, but I can tell a good painting from pretentious nonsense.’

A fortnight later the exhibition opened. It was a huge success. Even the critics were a little cautious. Reminded in advance of the language used about the French Impressionists, they had to employ other phrases. Some, of course, dismissed the whole exhibition in a sentence:

‘This is beyond criticism.’

‘The only thing I noticed was the absence of onions.’

‘The public behaved as though it were in an amusement park, but there was nothing to laugh about.’

Some critics, however, actually referred by name to a few of the pictures. For example, Mr Simon Plant’s
In a Rectory Garden
was described as ‘in rather bad taste’, but
8 at Henley
by the same artist was referred to by another critic as showing ‘splendid breadth of treatment’

Within a short time it was plain that Basil was right. They were in the money. The printing presses rolled out pool coupons, the public voted for the pictures, filled in the coupons, bought postal orders, and waited for the results. The dividends rose steeply. The treble chance became the most valuable. It seemed as difficult to forecast a draw at pictures as at football. Mr Rock became as famous for his forecast of picture favourites as of winning football teams. ‘Note Simon Plant’s pictures,’ he advised his readers. ‘There is a type of person who always votes for them and they are therefore sure to secure some points. So never risk a draw with them. Keep the draws for the pictures you think will get no points at all. Here are my suggestions for this week.’

Walking into the Samson Galleries one day, Mrs Grantley Wotherspoon horrified Mr Macintosh by referring to the Gropists, but he was careful not to show his feelings and, on the contrary, he started to work out how much as an honest dealer, who valued his reputation, he could decently charge her for one of their productions. But £100 seemed to him like highway robbery. Yet anything else would probably make her refuse to buy it. It was an awkward predicament for him.

‘D’you know,’ confided Mrs Wotherspoon to him, ‘I’ve been three times. It was so crowded I couldn’t do it all at once. I wish they’d stop those silly pools. It brings such a lot of people there and many of them are rather undesirable, I’m afraid. I’m sure they think more of the pools than the pictures.’ For once Mr Macintosh was inclined to agree with mob opinion, but he held his tongue.

‘I don’t mind telling you, Mr Macintosh, that I’m not at all sure they aren’t the coming thing in art. What do you think?’

Mr Macintosh coughed slightly. ‘I haven’t had time to go there yet.’

Mrs Wotherspoon looked surprised. ‘Not been there yet? But you must, you really must, if only for your own pleasure. I must own I want you to buy me one or two, but I’m really not urging you to go for that reason. It’s so stimulating.’

‘It sounds most interesting,’ said Mr Macintosh, and realized sadly that he would have to go. He resigned himself to the inevitable. After all they wouldn’t be the first monstrosities he had had to get for a customer.

‘Have you any particular ones in mind, Mrs Wotherspoon? I was thinking of going there tomorrow, and I’d have a word with Mr Drewe.’ He spoke of Nicholas as though he were an old acquaintance, although he had never seen or heard of him until the advertisement came out.

‘Well, there are several, really. There’s a most attractive little one of an eye. That’s all it is. It’s called
Going my way?
It’s amazing what the artist has got into that one eye. You can see the whole scene. It’s much more effective than if he’d painted all of it. So much is left to the imagination.’

Mr Macintosh commented to himself that the visitor could probably fill in the gaps better than the artist, but to Mrs Wotherspoon he simply repeated: ‘Most interesting.’

‘Of course, I know nothing really,’ went on Mrs Wotherspoon, ‘but it seen-u to me like an entirely new form of art. The more that is left to the beholder to do for himself the better he likes it. It makes him a partner in the work, so to speak.’

Mr Macintosh would have liked to suggest that another good idea would be to exhibit blank canvasses and let the beholder do the lot, but again he refrained. He was, however, a little surprised at the fact that Mrs Wotherspoon was able to voice such criticisms. At any rate, they didn’t sound too ridiculous. He did not know then that Mrs Wotherspoon had been well primed by Nicholas, who had warmed to the work.

‘I expect you’ll find them very expensive,’ Mrs Wotherspoon went on. ‘D’you know he didn’t even hint at selling me one?’

‘He?’

‘Mr Drewe.

‘Oh, of course.

‘No; he just talked to me quite naturally and explained the partnership idea which I’ve mentioned and several other things which I’ve forgotten.’

‘What other pictures took your fancy?’

‘Well, there was another very clever one, I thought. Just two pairs of hands. One right way up, the other upside down. The first were obviously those of a jockey making a great effort to win a race, and below them was the other pair, a greedy pair waiting to collect the winnings. It was called
Past the Post.

Mr Macintosh reflected. ‘I suppose there could be something in it,’ he said to himself; ‘if the drawing was good enough.’

‘Any others?’ he said aloud.

‘There are so many really. D’you know, I’m almost thinking of letting you have the Monet back to make room for some of them, though I’d hate to part with it. Oh, there was a very grim one, but terribly good, I thought. It was just a forehead — obviously a judge’s. It was called
And may the Lord have Mercy on your Soul.
I could see the whole thing: the prisoner in the dock, trembling with fear, the jurors looking away from the man they had sent to his death, the wife sobbing her heart out — all that and more, just from a forehead. You really must go, for your own sake.’

Mrs Wotherspoon had quite a good memory and Nicholas had spread himself for her benefit.

Eventually, Mr Hedges himself went to the exhibition. He chose a day and a time when it was least likely to be full. When he was handed the pool coupon, he looked blankly at the attendant who had presented it to him and said: ‘And what is this?’

‘The coupon, sir.’

‘I’ve come to look at the pictures or whatever they are. What do I want with a coupon?’

‘You never how your luck, sir. Might as well have a go. Cost you nothing.’ Mr Hedges dropped the offending paper on the floor and moved away. His practised eye told him at once that there was nothing worth looking at, but, having gone there, he was determined that he should be able to say that he had seen them all. So he went right round the exhibition. He did stop for a moment at a pair of lips called
The Critic
. Subconsciously he must have realized that his own lips were at that precise moment very like those in the picture, set and determined and slightly curled, with no trace of kindness in them. He left that picture and passed quickly along the wall, not noticeably looking at Mr Plant’s
What I think of the Critics
, which he almost brushed against on the way out.

‘This must be stopped,’ he said to himself.

An opportunity for a public protest presented itself to him not long afterwards. A dinner was being held in honour of an American artist hardly known in this country, though well-known in his own, but it had been thought, when it was learned that he was on a visit here, that such an occasion would be good for Anglo-American relations. It was one of those formal, yet informal, occasions; formal, inasmuch as there was a toastmaster and set speeches; informal, in that the speeches (or some of them) were to some extent improvised and punctuated by facetious remarks from the audience. The wine flowed freely and the speeches were correspondingly influenced. At last Mr Hedges had his turn. He was responding to the toast of British art.

‘I am usually delighted,’ he said, ‘to respond to this toast, but I confess that today, for the first time, I am not happy about it.’

‘You look happy enough,’ said one of the even happier-looking diners. Mr Hedges glared at the interrupter and continued:

‘I have always considered myself a progressive man. I hope I can say without conceit that I have done my best to encourage new artists, to foster the young idea and to examine without prejudice or preconceived notions every supposedly new aspect which may be put before us.’

‘My hat,’ came quite audibly from a corner of the room.

Mr Hedges affected not to hear this and went on:

‘I am well aware that times change; I am well aware that standards alter, that new mediums may be found —‘

‘Media,’ interjected someone.

‘Gone spiritualist,’ said another.

Mr Hedges turned on the interrupters. ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that I shall be listened to with the courtesy which I extend to others. It is perhaps symptomatic of this new world of ours that rudeness is mistaken for humour and that some young men consume more alcohol than they can conveniently carry. This was not so in the bad old days. But, as I was saying, there is always a firm basis for such genuine changes as occur. It may take some time before the new form is appreciated, but it has something about it which any unbiased observer can recognize even though he may disapprove. But just as one can recognize, without liking, the genuine new forms of art, so one can recognize, while loathing, the fraudulent forms which, decked in every kind of device designed to seduce the ill-informed public, try to foist themselves upon it. I have lived a long life — I do not say a useful one — it would ill become me to do so — but a long one — and I have seen many changes —’

‘Not in the R.A.,’ came a voice.

‘Many changes,’ Mr Hedges repeated, ‘in every form and aspect of art. I have also seen spurious attempts at change — something designed to enrich the inventor at the expense of the public — something which the inventor well knows is no more art than, than —’ He paused for lack of a simile. It would not come. ‘Which he knows is not art at all,’ he went on. ‘But never, never have I in my life seen anything such as is now to be seen — and heard, I may say — in this great city of ours. I am ashamed that our distinguished guest should arrive here at such a time. What will he think? What will he say about us when he goes home? Let me implore him to remember that these people who call themselves “Gropists” — I had preferred not to say the ugly word — these people, and those who for financial gain are backing them, are tricksters, mountebanks, thugs, gangsters, murderers of true art, and they can sue me for libel if they like. I should welcome it. I challenge them to do so. I brand them as a fraud upon the public, I say they should be in prison. My only regret is that this speech of mine is not going out over the air, so that all the world might hear the truth ring out loud and clear. I heard a whisper that the spoken word is slander, not libel; then let me say that in the book which I am writing and which will shortly be published —’

‘How much?’ came a voice.

‘Too expensive for schoolboys,’ went on Mr Hedges. ‘In this book I will write down verbatim what I have said tonight, and we shall see if these creatures will have the temerity to take me to the Courts. Highwaymen and swindlers, cut-throats —’

At this stage the Chairman whispered something to Mr Hedges.

‘I will not refrain,’ he went on. ‘Never did I expect a reproach from this quarter.’

‘I only said you’re repeating yourself,’ whispered the Chairman.

‘Apparently I need to do so, and let me say this before I sit down, that I shall go on repeating myself over and over again — no, not here — it’s all right — until these criminals have been driven off the face of this lovely earth.’

He sat down amid tumults of applause, though there was some divergence of view as to what was being applauded — his forthrightness, his choice of language, the subject-matter of his speech or just his sitting down.

‘Never heard him better,’ said one.

‘You’d have had to be pretty deaf not to,’ said his neighbour.

But it is one thing when influenced by sherry, hock, champagne, port, and brandy to make bold speeches; it is quite another thing to make them good in the cold unfriendly light of next morning, as Mr Hedges was soon to find.

‘When I was at school,’ said Basil, shortly after the four had eagerly read a full report of the speech, ‘there was a small boy who used to go up to bigger boys and say “Go on, hit me.” He was eventually cured, so it can’t have been Mr Hedges and, anyway, he’s too old. Perhaps it was his son, though. It fits in.’

‘He’s certainly laid his head most artistically on the block,’ said Nicholas. ‘Even a fairly inexperienced executioner could hardly miss him. Pity we don’t need the money.’

‘
We
don’t,’ said Basil, ‘but a lot of those artists could do with a bit. I rather fancy that most of Chelsea will go Gropist now, once the good news spreads that you only have to prove you’re a member of the Group in order to get thumping damages. I’m almost sorry for poor old Hedges. However, we must steel our sympathetic hearts and resign ourselves to the inevitable. So must he. Go and issue writs on behalf of yourself and Petula and all the artists who’ve exhibited at our Show. That’ll be about thirty or so. It’ll do to begin with.’

A few days later Nicholas, armed with thirty-seven writs, called on Mr Hedges. ‘No. I must see him personally,’ he told the maid. After a short time Mr Hedges came out.

‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Are you Mr Sumpter Hedges?’

‘I am.’

‘I have to serve you with these thirty-seven writs.’

‘What on earth d’you mean? That sort of thing is done through solicitors.’

‘Do you really imagine that solicitors would appear for cut-throats, thugs, and gangsters?’

‘This is positively disgraceful.’

‘My dear Mr Hedges,’ said Nicholas, ‘one of these days in the not too distant future you will wish you had treated me with the courtesy which, according to your speech, you normally extend to others.’

‘Complete your business, sir, and leave this house.’

‘At your service, sir,’ said Nicholas, and added: ‘With apologies for using the word “service”.’

‘Get out,’ said Mr Hedges, and Nicholas went.

A few days later, however, in the offices of Messrs Rounce and Ponsonby, Mr Hedges began to regret some of the language he had used. It transpired that he could have been almost as offensive without rendering himself liable in damages, but, as it was, his persistent allegations of crime were (according to his solicitor, who was an old friend of his) likely to make his speech a very expensive one.

‘Don’t take it from me,’ said Mr Rounce. ‘We’ll go to counsel if you want, but there’s no doubt about it. You’re on a very sticky wicket. Most of the plaintiffs are penniless artists. You’re a successful one. Here you are trying to damn their careers from the start.’

‘They’ve done that for themselves. The law’s absurd. I refuse to pay a penny to any of them.’

‘If that’s your last word, well and good, but I can assure you that the only result will be that damages to the tune altogether of thousands of pounds will be awarded against you, and you’ll be forced to pay. If that’s what you want, there’s no difficulty at all in getting it for you. You don’t need my help. It’ll come by itself. On the other hand, if, on consideration, you don’t want to be ruined in that way, you’ll have to eat very humble pie at once. It won’t be easy or pleasant. After what you’ve said, I can understand your not wanting to retract. But there are no two ways about it. They’ll make you pay quite a bit in any event — but if you withdraw and apologize handsomely at once, you’ll get away with your life. Not otherwise. No doubt you’d like to think it over, or we’ll go to counsel if you wish.’

‘You seem to be on their side.’

‘If by that you mean that I think they’re in the right — well, I do. You can’t call people fraudulent tricksters in this country unless they are. And just because you paint better than they do, you’re not entitled to say they ought to be in prison.’ Mr Rounce was quite as forthright as his client and, moreover, he knew what he was talking about. In the end, Mr Hedges authorized Mr Rounce to do the best he could for him. He found the plaintiffs uncommonly generous. £100 apiece and a very reasonable form of apology, which ran as follows:

Mr Sumpter Hedges deeply regrets that in the heat of the moment he said things about the Gropists and the organizers of their exhibition which he ought not to have said. He freely acknowledges that he has been treated by the people he slandered with great restraint and generosity and he desires publicly to withdraw and apologize for every allegation of bad faith which he made against them. He unreservedly acknowledges that there is no truth in any such assertion.

Nicholas had it framed and exhibited next to
The Critic
.

It must be said to the credit of Mr Hedges that thereafter he never said a word against the Gropists, and his friends tactfully avoided mentioning them in his presence. Although, however, he was effectively silenced, there were others to take his place. There was only one Sumpter Hedges, but there were plenty of other distinguished artists who were as angry and intolerant as he was, but able to exercise more self-control. It was in consequence of the activities of one of the more intelligent of these gentlemen that just before the Drewe Gallery closed one evening two officers from Scotland Yard in plain clothes presented themselves there. They requested and were granted a private interview with Nicholas. They told him who they were.

‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ said Nicholas politely.

‘We’ve been sent by the Commissioner of Police to ask you some questions. The Commissioner has been considering with his legal advisers the matter of your competition. A question has arisen as to whether or not it is a lottery. The Commissioner has not made up his mind yet whether to prosecute or not and, in order to enable him to do so, I should be glad if you would give me some information. I should say at once that you need not do so if you do not wish, but naturally if you cooperate —’

Before he could finish the sentence, Nicholas interrupted. ‘I must stop you, Inspector. Come and look at this before you say another word. It’s too good to be true.’

He led the surprised inspector into the exhibition and up to a picture of a clenched and threatening fist. It was entitled:
You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so
.