The language of art is full of Symbolism and Metaphor
I have a clear expectation for my art galleries. They should hold regular exhibitions, serve excellent wine and scrumptious canapes, and provide an eclectic stage for people-watching and gossip. I should be invited to the VIP night, which should teem with uber-chic atmosphere. Of course, there should also be some interesting art on display which, occasionally, I might have had enough wine to buy.
The pandemic put a hold on those invites, but for the last few months they’ve been flooding back.
So I was slightly curious to hear about an art gallery which doesn’t hold exhibitions; doesn’t rely on alcohol or ambience for sales, which a few friends have raved about recently. What curiosity is this?
From one of those large industrial buildings the Victorians built with brooding gracefulness, resides McKay Williamson, on Barlby Road, a quiet road in Ladbroke Grove. Like the gallery itself, almost grand but charmingly aloof from ostentation.
I met with gallery owner Richard Williamson, who is demure and cool in the way that only creative people can be. Surrounded by a variety of art, from landscape to abstract, x-rays to portraits, it feels more like a sitting room than a gallery. Over coffee, Williamson enthuses on the core philosophy, which I then realise I’d heard my friends parrot, “I believe the art in your life ought to be personally meaningful; that if the house were on fire and everyone was safe, you’d at least think about trying to save it.”
“That’s the point of art, isn’t it?,” his slightly eager but thought-provoking argument continues, “it should be more valuable than what you pay for it. It’s the ultimate value add purchase. And it’s going to be in your family for decades, even centuries, so choose more wisely than whether it goes with the décor or the curtains.”
Although I hadn’t thought about my art out-living me, the slightly morbid logic was sound. But still, I wondered, isn’t that the choice of the buyer? How can a gallery know what’s personally meaningful to me, or any of its collectors, when each of us are so different?
Williamson responds fairly simply, “We just ask. In person its easier, of course, to get to know people. For people we meet online, we’ve developed our Art-I-Love Review survey page. We think its unique - I don’t know of any other galleries with anything like it - which not only works out the taste in art that people have, but also some of the more meaningful and personal parts of their life.”
Without me asking, he then offers some examples. He shows me a modern landscape by Peter Wileman, almost abstract, interpreted from someone’s relatively poor holiday snap. And a fully abstract piece by Shelley Anderson, made for someone whose ‘happy place’ is the sea. And portraits, lots of portraits.
“We’ve all seen a cheesy painting of someone’s family, which is what we associate with personal artwork. But those are just bad paintings. Portraits can be done beautifully, as can reportage pieces, if the basic rules of composition are followed. Which often means refusing to make what a client asks you to make, but often is a better result than they had ever imagined possible.”
This I find intriguing. Williamson is American, the land of the ‘customer is always right’, and even if he’s lived in London for 25 years, I am curious how he navigates this artistic credibility with demanding West Londoners and their free-flowing platinum cards.
“Most of my artists don’t take commission work from anyone but me. And to be clear, less than half of the art we sell is commissioned. If someone got engaged in Paris, for instance, there’s no reason to commission anything. I might try to find a style of cityscape that resonates for them.”
“But portrait and figurative commissions are full of paradox. Since da Vinci and Caravaggio, there’s an established formula for the composition of these pieces. Every artist knows it. But then people who don’t understand art history, commission pieces that artists don’t want to make. Since artists hate confrontation, they take the money and regret it later. So my job is to ensure every commission is a piece of art first, that just happens to be personalised.”
To be fair, Williamson has curated an impressive set of artists, which include BP Portrait Award, Threadneedle Prize, and Frank Herring Award winners. Walking through his gallery, I see twenty different artists’ work displayed, from the traditional to the modern. I ask why some of the faces are imprecise, almost vague, especially with family groups.
“That’s what we call reportage art. The impressionists taught us that you don’t need much facial detail to capture a person. The right touch of body language does it. Some people feel more comfortable being in a painting with a vague, almost wistful interpretation... and it feels more like a memory. Detail can be a burden.”
It’s all very interesting, even a bit eye-opening. I’m accustomed to the gallerist effusing over the journey of the artist, trying to convince me their college phase was as impressive as their cheating-on-their-spouse phase. Williamson is turning that notion on its head, and suggesting my own life phases could be the subject of the art in my home.
Still, I see the x-ray of a skeleton, and a colourful set of butterfly wings and other pieces which don’t look very personal or meaningful.
Williamson explains, “The language of art is full of symbolism and metaphor. You don’t have to commission anything for your art to be personal and meaningful. People do this already. Your favourite piece of art is probably not the most expensive one you own. It’s the one with which you have the best story. All your art should be like that.”
He’s right. It’s a little sculpture I bought in southeast Asia on my gap year. It’s chipped and slightly dirty. Doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, but it makes me think of a very fun time and has been in my life now for more years than I’d like to count.
Feeling a bit reflective, I realise that even without the alcohol or atmosphere, I’m tipsy enough from the ideas to ask, how much was that ‘happy place’ by the sea?
