Art Therapy

I was meant to be in Wales this weekend, attending a reunion, but circumstances conspired against me. It was frustrating - I'd be been looking forward to going for months - so I decided to make up for it with a day out in the local area.

Instead of driving 275 miles west, I drove 20 miles east:

Beachy Head is usually a little bracing, as the almost horizontal trees bear witness, but yesterday it was more like the Costa de la Luz, with warm winds gently buffeting the coast.

The suicide chaplin half-heartedly did his rounds, looking for solitary figures at the cliff edge, but I think he knew that it was going to be a quiet day.

Before going to Beachy Head, I stopped off at Birling Gap, to see what damage the winter storms had done. The small pile of debris at the bottom of the cliff was a bit of a disappointment, but I knew that the tearoom I took my mother to last summer had fallen into the sea.

The newly-rendered side of this terrace suggests that the storms had also claimed a house:

I don't know how much these houses are worth, but I suspect that a 25-year mortgage isn't on the cards.

After viewing scenes of carnage and destruction, I ambled along the coast to Eastbourne's Towner Gallery, to see an exhibition of works by Peggy Angus:

Rather than give you a potted history here, I would recommend visiting the website of James Russell, who is an expert on mid-20th century British artists in the Ravillious/Nash/Bawden milieu. He has written some excellent books on Ravillious, Paul Nash and Edward Seago and has just published a new title on the life and art of Peggy Angus.

 

I think it would be fair to say that the sum of Peggy Angus's art was greater than its parts. Her paintings don't compare well to those of her friend Eric Ravillious, but her greatness lay in her determination to bring art into everyday life, energising everyone around her.

Not content to remain in the rarified world of fine art, she also designed tiles for public buildings, wallpapers for homes and clothes to wear. She passionately believed that we should resist mass-production and uniformity, creating our own art.

Mrs Steerforth was as impressed as I was and we both agreed that we should put some of Peggy Angus's ideas into practice in our own lives.

The Towner Gallery is one of the best in the south-east. The building is well-designed and, unlike some of its counterparts, has an impressive amount of content. Entrance is free, but after a visit to a chi chi cafe with 'artisan' bread rolls, I must have funded the purchase of at least one new painting for their collection.

In addition to the Peggy Angus exhibition, there is also an excellent collection called Designing the Everyday:

I particularly like this rather insouciant depiction of the male theatre-goers as porcine, purse-lipped fops.

And this plate by Ravillious is one of many that I coveted.

Bouyed-up by our day at the Towner, we decided to take our youngest son to Charleston Farmhouse, where the Bloomsbury Group covered almost every square inch of the interior in murals, tiles and paintings:

My son is eight and has an interest in art and architecture (his favourite programme is Grand Designs) that has come entirely from within him. We are trying to foster this enthusiasm with visits to galleries and 'make and do' sessions at home, but don't want to be too heavy-handed.

It mustn't feel like schoolwork.

Charleston usually has guided tours, which are very interesting but would have bored my son rigid, so I picked the one day in the week where there are no tours. I wanted him to be able to wander around freely, looking at whatever took his fancy.

Sadly, from the moment we arrived, a posse of eager women pounced on us. Would our son like to fill in a quiz? No. Had we been here before? Yes, so bugger off and leave us alone.

There was one volunteer guide per room and most of them seemed determined to tell us everything they knew about each room, whether we wanted to hear it or not. When one particularly keen woman asked my son what the table legs reminded him of, I wanted to say "Leave the boy alone! Let him look in peace."

Luckily, my wife was only too happy to respond to the guides and started asking them increasingly obscure questions. She pointed at a violin and asked "Who played that?" The guide looked crestfallen. "Oh...I don't know." Then, like an admonished child, added "But I know all of the main things."

I shouldn't be rude about the guides. They are genuinely passionate about Charleston and the guided tours are some of the most interesting I've ever had, but they need to realise that some visitors just want to look at the art without any distractions.

I used to have similar problems with my older son, who has Asperger's. During one visit to Kipling's house, a well-intentioned volunteer started asking him questions about school. She was trying to be friendly, but within seconds he went from being relatively relaxed to feeling as if he was going to be sick.

Perhaps these places could introduce a scheme where people who wanted to be left alone could wear a simple badge. If it was successful, it could extended to taxis, hairdressers and barbers.

The visit ended in the beautiful gardens. I asked my son what he thought. "It was great. I really liked it, but not those guides."