by Kelly Doust
DEARLOVE AND DOWN
Art review
Tony Haddon, The Guardian, September 1991
After months of speculation, rumour and hype, Robin Dearlove’s new exhibition has opened at the Serpentine Gallery in London and it is anything but what most people would expect from a young lord-in-waiting. We have come to anticipate dark and visceral from Dearlove through his previous works, but his Enter the Chasm exhibition is something else.
Britain’s only truly avant-garde movement, Vorticism, was partly inspired by Cubism and infused the art and poetry of the early 20th century. Its manifesto? To reject landscapes and nudes in favour of a geometric style which tended towards abstraction.
Much contemporary art does this already, but Dearlove creates sly references to the short-lived era in Enter the Chasm, putting an Escher-esque yet somehow personal spin on it as well, informing us of his inspirational journey in descriptive plates.
Fusing technological wizardry in film and photography with traditional poster art and the Vorticist style, he has presented us with a thoroughly autogenous mixed media experience made up largely of oil paintings, collage and video, which is more immersive than any of his other collections to date but still draws upon his preferred monochromatic palette.
Oils are layered upon canvas to create whorls of emotive depth, so that one feels cast adrift in a midnight ocean of Dearlove’s imagining. Inside a specially created box at the heart of the exhibition, we slip sideways into a confining room which measures three by three metres to view works that appear to cave in on you from all sides. One leaves the space – a work titled ‘Echo Chamber’ – feeling changed. In the sense that one feels changed after a near drowning.
Characterised by lurid emotions and vile, excessive details, the tawdry and low-rent aspect of many of these paintings – some literally created from garbage thrown up by the sea – are revolting, fascinating and yet somehow transcendent.
I felt battered by the exhibition’s relentlessness. There are flashes of technical virtuosity and wit, and Dearlove’s imaginative vision is alluring. I’m not sure it works, but if the purpose of art is to provoke, then he certainly does that.
As a spectacle, the show is unmissable, but it does lead one to wonder where Dearlove will take us next, as Chasm literally propels us to the edge of experience and entices us to look over into the abyss below, before treacherously pushing the ground out from under us.
32
Sylvie tried the studio in the barn first, and then the kitchen, but Robin wasn’t anywhere to be found. Where was he? Their car was back in the drive, but her parents didn’t appear to be home at all . . . Damn. She was just about to give up when she saw a long black extension cord trailing along the hallway. It hadn’t been there earlier when she’d gone down to visit Gigi, but it was now snaking its way down the corridor towards the old library in the east wing. The library appeared to be closed, but the cord was curling around the doorframe, disappearing inside the room. Sylvie opened it with a push, expecting the door to stick, but it swung inwards rather quickly.
‘Dad?’
There was Robin, sitting in the half-dark, drapes drawn against the sunshine. Perched on a very cracked and worn leather armchair, horsehair sprouting from its armrests, he looked like an ageing faun in a forest clearing. A huge, leather-bound volume sat on his lap and his boots – soles peeling away from the upper – were propped up on a matching footstool.
‘Oh – hello, darling. I was just taking a breather. I find myself hiding away in here sometimes. What have you been up to?’ he asked, studying her over his silver-framed reading glasses. ‘Your mother and I just returned from Wells. I think she’s out in the veggie patch if you’re after her.’
‘I was coming to find you actually.’
‘Oh?’
‘How was Wells?’
Robin shook his head and gave a crooked half-smile. ‘Let’s not talk about it, do you mind?’
Sylvie sat down in the chair beside him. ‘I’ve just been down speaking with Gigi . . . Dad, can I ask you something? It’s important.’
‘Sure.’ Robin took off his glasses. ‘What’s up, darling?’
‘Well, Gigi said . . . I was talking about the offer on the house, and Mum being, well, so kind of pushy all the time, and Gigi mentioned something I didn’t understand. About why you stopped making art.’
Robin sucked at his teeth, and Sylvie hesitated before deciding to plough on.
‘I realised that we’ve never really spoken before about why you gave up painting in the first place. I always assumed Mum forced you into it, a bit. Against your will,’ she blurted out awkwardly, watching her father’s face, ‘because she wanted you to take over the estate.’
Her father frowned and sat up straighter, closing the book in his lap and placing it on the floor beside him.
‘Really, Sylv? Is that what you thought? You’re wrong on both counts. Wendy didn’t force me into anything. And she didn’t want me to take over the estate.’
‘That’s what Gigi said.’ Sylvie bit her lip. ‘She said that Lydia was responsible . . . but I don’t understand. How’s that?’
Robin sighed. ‘Oh, darling, it’s complicated. Are you sure you want to hear the whole story?’
Sylvie nodded, a thread of anxiety coursing through her. She wasn’t really sure what he was asking; she’d lived with an image of her father as a great artist for so long, she wasn’t certain she wanted him to shatter that illusion.
Holding out his hand, Robin urged Sylvie closer. She sat down on the edge of the footstool, letting him grip her palms in his own.
‘Those days when I was seen as really successful were actually some of the worst times of my life,’ he said, flinching slightly. ‘I was such a mess, Sylv.’
‘I overheard you arguing with Mum one night. I remember her telling you to focus on the estate and just forget about your painting . . . And then that’s what you did.’
‘Yes, but Bledesford wasn’t why I gave up, Quicksilver. Your mother was worried about me. Desperately worried. She knew I was teetering on the edge, but I was probably still blaming her back then. It’s actually been my work on the estate that’s saved me. It was London and the painting that was killing me, bit by bit.’
‘But I don’t understand.’ Sylvie’s face crumpled. ‘You were so good! Everybody loved you . . . Your work’s still worth a fortune. What made you stop?’
‘I grew tired of what I was painting, and tired of the circles I was moving in, Sylvie. All those dark, abstract pieces . . . It was like opening up a vein every time, and living in a sort of hell for the period it took me to finish. I’d developed a kind of co-dependency with those people I hung about with as well. We took a truckload of drugs. Not just to forget the ways in which we hurt or to make us feel special – and not just for the fun of it, either. But to make art, music, whatever . . . We used the drugs as fuel. And after a while I became dependent upon those as well. But the drugs ended up making me feel insane . . . I even had a psychotic episode. And there was only so long I could sustain it. I tried to escape, but Lydia was having none of it. She was resistant to me doing anything else, because she knew that what was bad for me was good for her. When I tried kicking the habit, she was at my side, encouraging me not to stop . . . I was only holding on by this much.’ Robin held up his hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart, his eyes pools of shadow in the darkness.
‘Do you remember what she was like? You were too young, maybe. But Lydia could be such a nasty piece of work. When I showed her the first few pieces I’d prepared for my last exhibition, she told me off. “That’s not what people expect when they buy a Dearlove, Robin!”’ her father mimicked. ‘“They want chaos. Not sunny landscapes with rolling hills and bloody pastoral themes. That’s old England – that stuff’s dead, and you’ll be dead too if you try selling that crap!” My new work disgusted her. And, I don’t know, I was disgusted with myself and what I’d become . . . I dried up after that. I would paint
for days without rest, taking uppers instead of sleep, and then I would just collapse. One day I became delirious, and your mother took me to the doctor. He told me my heart would give out if I kept on doing things the same way.’
Oh, Dad, Sylvie thought, her own heart breaking. He looked so ashamed. The embarrassment of letting people down, letting yourself down, worst of all, and the difficulty of coming back from the brink – it was all very familiar to her.
‘I’m sorry, Pa,’ Sylvie said softly, her voice faint. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘You were only fourteen or so at the time. You were at a vulnerable age, and struggling at school. Your mother and I decided it was for the best. We chose Bledesford, and I chose you – you and your mum. Looking at you every day, and at the person you were becoming, made me realise I had to be a better person myself. I had to stick around. What would be the point if I was dead? I decided that I didn’t want to be the candle that burns brightest – not at that cost. And I’ve never regretted it. Besides, I’ve come full circle. What I’m creating now – the landscapes – is what I’ve wanted to be working on for some time.’
‘Why didn’t you do that sooner? Surely you could have found another agent, after you started to feel better? Maybe the drugs messed with your head, but I can’t believe you ever stopped having new ideas. How do you do it, Dad? You’re never short of inspiration . . . not like me.’ Sylvie swallowed, looking at her hands, which were balled into fists in her lap.
‘What do you mean, darling? You’ve always been so talented. You’re an artist in your own right, we’ve always known that about you.’
‘Oh, Dad. I just fucked everything up so badly,’ Sylvie said now, her words rushing out. ‘I only had that one idea – the scarves and the layering pieces – but after winning the award I just kind of . . . ran out of inspiration. It’s not anyone’s fault. I had that one good idea and I flogged it to death, but then I couldn’t come up with any better ones. From then on, it was always looking to other people and their work instead, basically copying it, I suppose.’
‘But that’s all artists ever do, Sylv. There’s nothing new under the sun, but we all come up with our own interpretations on a theme. Fashion’s the same as art in that way. Even more so – and look how it all comes around again.’
‘Yes, but I did more than that. It was worse, so much worse.’
‘Oh, darling. Enough. Look, you gave Dearlove your best shot. And you fucked up. So what? It’s so much easier to criticise than to create, otherwise everyone would be creating. Some people just feel safer hiding behind a cynical exterior. Don’t be one of those people. Stay bright. You know how proud of you we are, just for trying? It’s very difficult to keep churning out your best work under constant pressure, whether that’s time or mind-altering substances or whatever. Your mother and I love you very much. All we’ve wanted is for you to be happy. Oh, Sylv – come here.’ Robin pulled her into a hug. Burying her face in her father’s shoulder, Sylvie felt the tears roll down her face as she sobbed out the last six years of frustration, heartache, fear, stress and anxiety.
As her sobs gradually faded to little hiccups, Robin found a crumpled handkerchief in his pocket and handed it to her. ‘All out now?’ he asked, studying her face. ‘Feeling better?’
Smiling tremulously, Sylvie nodded, blowing her nose.
‘Listen to me, darling: I know what it’s like to consider yourself beyond hope. I had a black dog beside me for years but you have so much ahead of you. Don’t make the same mistake I did, hiding away to lick your wounds.’ He gestured around him. ‘And as horrible as it is to admit it, I think it was the threat of finally losing this place that helped me get over myself, and the terrible block I seemed to have created for myself. When we decided that we had to sell this place, it sort of unlocked something in me – I started painting and I couldn’t stop. Making up for lost time, I suppose.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I can’t believe I wasted all that time. When I could have been using this place as inspiration.’
Sylvie took a deep breath. ‘Dad, about Bledesford . . . How do you feel about staying on?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I— It’s over with Ben . . .’
‘I thought as much. You hadn’t mentioned him in a bit. And we’ve been waiting to meet him for months. Does that mean you’re not going back to New York?’
She nodded. ‘And Gigi said someone approached you once about a grant from the National Trust. Well . . .’ Sylvie swallowed, hoping he wouldn’t get mad at her. ‘I put in an application. Because I want us to stay here. Not sell it. We can’t go – it’s home.’
Robin’s eyes widened.
‘I should have told you about the grant,’ she rushed on. ‘I’m sorry – they don’t give them out to just anyone. But if we’re willing to have visitors, and make changes around here so Bledesford covers costs and brings in an income, they might just bankroll our efforts.’
Robin sat thinking quietly. ‘I reckon I could cope with that, you know,’ he said slowly. ‘If it means we’re able to stay.’
‘Really?’ Sylvie’s breath quickened. ‘I thought you’d hate the idea. And you and Mum already have that place lined up in Wells . . .’
‘Hmmph! We put the deposit down, but it’s so bloody small and poky, Sylv. The dogs would have to go. I thought I’d find another studio to work in, but we haven’t had much luck. I keep kicking myself about all the years I’ve squandered, producing nothing . . . I’ve been so spoiled.’
Robin got up and wandered over to the window, and Sylvie followed him. She watched his gaze alight on her mum, working in the garden on her heels. She was wearing a large floppy-brimmed hat and was pulling up beautiful round beetroots while the dogs ran in circles on the grass.
They both smiled as she swatted at an insect buzzing around her head.
Sylvie looked down, far out over the Colm Valley, and shook her head. What a legacy this place was. Not perfect, but something worth saving. Funny, she used to feel the opposite; now she was utterly petrified they were going to lose it.
‘Will you say no to Mark Rutherford?’ Sylvie asked softly, looking up at her father pleadingly. ‘Please?’
Robin pulled her close and hugged her again. ‘Unbelievable. You were always the one urging us to sell, but it looks like neither of us has been very honest with each other. Maybe, rather than beating ourselves up about all the ways in which we’ve gone off track over the years, we should think about this as a sort of mid-course correction. It always feels scary, taking a risk, but if something feels right it’s usually worth trying . . . All right, kiddo,’ he said, slapping his hands together. ‘Let’s go speak to your mother, the unstoppable force.’
He held the door open for Sylvie. ‘You know, the only reason she wanted to sell this place is because she thought it would be good for all of us. She loves it here too, and she’ll miss it like an amputated limb, you know . . . Your mother would always do anything to help us. She’s the best support person I know.’
‘I’m starting to realise that,’ Sylvie said as she followed her father down the corridor. As he strode on ahead of her, she felt a knot in the pit of her stomach. She had misjudged her mother all these years, and had often behaved horribly to her. But now, she realised, she owed Wendy an apology.
As she and Robin walked down the grand staircase together, Sylvie lingered for a moment on the landing to look at the portrait of Rose. All that success she’d been chasing in her life, Sylvie thought ruefully, all the effort she’d expended, to project the perfect image, to create the perfect life, striving to live up to the legacy of those perfect, impressive Dearloves – Rose, her father, even Gigi – and it had all been for nothing. Such a pointless way to live. They weren’t perfect, they were flawed, messy people in complicated situations, just doing the best that they could. Sylvie looked up at Rose’s portrait, and where before when she looked at it all she could see was cool composure and mocking regard, now she thought the expression on her great-great
-grandmother’s face was of sympathy and understanding.
Her heart suddenly lighter, Sylvie stopped to press her palm to Rose’s image, feeling the canvas taut beneath her fingertips. On an impulse, she leaned over and gave the painting a quick kiss, before skipping down the stairs to catch up with Robin as he walked out into the garden.
‘Oh, my heavens above,’ said Wendy faintly. ‘Oh, goodness. I think I need to sit down. Are you sure?’
Robin stepped forward and took her by the arm, leading her to the old wooden bench. ‘Do you need a glass of water, darling?’ he asked anxiously. He took Wendy’s hat from her limp hand and started fanning her with it.
They had broken the news to her right there in the garden, Wendy still with her gardening gloves on and Sylvie and Robin interrupting and talking over each other.
Wendy swatted the hat away. ‘Do stop that, Robin, I’m not about to faint.’ She looked up at Sylvie, her eyes shining. ‘Do you really want us to stay? I thought you hated it here. I thought you wanted to go back to New York.’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘Not any more. I can’t believe I thought selling Bledesford would be for the best. But look, Mum, about that grant. Nick said they’re looking for places that can bring in their own income. We don’t have that yet, of course, but there’s loads we could suggest. Something similar to Raspberry Hills perhaps, or setting up a weekend market . . . maybe a Devonshire teashop? I suggested a wedding venue to Lizzie, but she was mortified by the idea . . . Or we could get the orchard and the veggie gardens going again and sell Bledesford-branded goods?’
Wendy gave her a smile. ‘I think a wedding venue is a wonderful idea. And the products – you mean like Prince Charles’s Duchy Organics? I like it.’
Sylvie was suddenly overtaken by a wave of love for her mother – so generous, so willing to listen to her mad ideas – and she sank down on the bench next to her, circling her arms around Wendy’s waist. ‘Mum,’ she murmured, unable to look her mother in the eye. ‘I’m so sorry.’
