Page 41 - Studio International - March 1966
P. 41

Peter Behan  with his                                                      Michael Buhler
           Homage to Peter Behan 1965                                                 Sleeping Figure in a Landscape 1965
           Oil on board                                                               Oil on canvas
           48 x 48 in.                                                                36 x 28 in.
           Roland, Browse & Delbanco                                                  New Art Centre












































           Robert Medley                                                              be thought of as owing something to Patrick Caulfield
           The Mountain 1961
           Oil on canvas                                                              —there is the same interest in the banal image, bounded
           44 1/2 x 38 1/2 in.                                                        by a hard, definite, challenging line. There's also some-
           Leicester Gallery
                                                                                      thing of the nihilism of West Coast art, though Buhler
                                                                                      tells me he has never been to California. He admits to
                                                                                      a special feeling for the peeling and the shoddy—the
                                                                                      sleaziness of Torremolinos, or the Argentine sea-side
                                                                                      resort of Mar del Plata. This he distills into formal
                                                                                      patterns. It's a long way from  belle peinture, but here
                                                                                      again, one finds a thread which leads back to the kind
                                                                                      of thing which the Russians were up to—the harsh
                                                                                      judgement of modern life which is yet an identification
                                                                                      with it.
                                                                                       Indeed, my fascination with Burliuk, disappointing as
                                                                                      the present show is, really arises from my feeling that
                                                                                      the Russians and not the French were the inventors of
                                                                                      'idea' art—the kind of painting in which the conception
                                                                                      counts for far more than the execution, where the
                                                                                      painting is really only a certificate that a certain kind
                                                                                      of gesture has been made. Some people may find this
                                                                                      a horrible notion ; it frightens me enough myself, in
                                                                                      certain moods. But it does seem to me part of the
                                                                                      generalising, abstractionising process which has been
                                                                                      the hallmark of art in the Twentieth Century, and which
                                                                                      seems to reflect a change in modern psychology or,
                                                                                      less pretentiously, 'in human nature'. Art is the
                                                                                      chronicle of such shifts in sensibility, and we must
                                                                                      accept the evidence. 	 q
                                                                                                                                    111
   36   37   38   39   40   41   42   43   44   45   46