We need to talk about Duncan.
August 14, 2024A discussion of Duncan Grant’s painting, ‘Interior at Gordon Square’, c. 1915.
When I was 18, I firmly believed that painting was dead. I’d done the whole art thing throughout school yet, year on year, my love for it lessened. Despite this, I was still determined to hold onto that tiny nub of hope I had that my love for art would come back. So, I started a new course in London and dabbled in Textiles for a bit. Missed painting but, pleuughhh…didn’t know what I wanted to paint did I!
Halfway through that year, I went to the Tate Britain for the first time in years. I remember walking around, feeling so lost and frustrated. I put all this pressure on myself to be constantly creative. Angry that I had these galleries on my doorstep but didn’t feel like I was getting anything from them. I should’ve been salivating at the visual feast they had given me. Instead, all I felt was an absence. I was getting to do one of my favourite things in the world but felt like I was stumbling around wearing a blindfold. Imagine listening to your favourite music or eating your favourite food but not being able to hear or taste anything. There was something missing in me that meant I couldn’t connect with any of it.
I was prepared to go home, I’d done no sketches and no studies. In the three or four hours I had been there, I had only mustered up the courage to have a flat white and tiny, little, overpriced, avant-garde…ish pastry (how brave, I know).
I did one more walk through, just to convince myself that my commute was worth it. And then, I stopped.
In an expansive room, nestled, almost uncomfortably- like it knew it wasn’t meant to be there, was ‘Interior at Gordon Square’ by Duncan Grant, c.1915. A rather small painting, dimly lit and encased in what seemed to be quite an ordinary wooden frame. Most walked past it, had it been any other day, I’m sure I would have too.
I looked at this painting.
Then, it looked at me.
I took a double take, feeling like my mind was playing tricks on me. It did the same. We kept this staring contest up for a few minutes, both of us waiting to see who would cave first.
Unbeknownst to both of us at the time, we were both very stubborn. Painting decided to stay looking at me on the wall. Naturally, I decided that two could play at this game, so plonked myself on the floor and stared right back.
I was transfixed, there was something about this painting that I could not look away from. My legs were getting pins and needles from sitting cross-legged for so long. A way to describe how I felt looking at this piece was that confusion one feels when you say a word over and over again until it no longer sounds like a word and has lost all sense. I pulled out my sketchbook and began to draw. Oil pastels and charcoal were worn down to stumps because I did so many studies. The Tate was emptying out, people were starting to go home. My friends had all left. Yet, every time I looked up from my sketchbook, a new detail or mark or brushstroke came to my attention. I was determined to unpick this painting and understand it, as I felt it understood me.
When you look at this piece, you might think it is nothing extraordinary. You might not feel what I felt and you might think I’m a bit weird for feeling this intense about it. You might be a bit right. But, humour me and think about how many people must’ve had to walk around the strange art student who stared at a painting for 3 hours and whose hands were covered in sticky, melted oil pastels.
I love this painting because it seems quietly deceptive, a little two-faced and like it might be secretly laughing at me. What I mean by that is that when you first look at it, you might be drawn in by the simplicity of the colour palette; central swathes of reds, blues and greens are encased by a perimeter of warm brownish hues. These colours all share a cohesive undertone of muted grey. They let us feel some sense of comfort. Perhaps the artist felt at home in the room he’s depicted and that is how he’s letting us know. You might think, as I did, that this is the sum total of the painting. It’s a nice palatable work of art that you could print on a postcard and send to your family. This is why it is secretly devious, because the more I understood this painting, the more I realised it was a world of odds. Its’ composition almost makes sense, but not quite.
I saw blocks and rectangles and odd abstract shapes, all politely touching and not getting in each others way, like neatly stacked books on a dusty shelf in a library. My eyes were telling me that these were just shapes. Though, for some reason, that conclusion left me dissatisfied. I knew there was more to be discovered about this painting, I just couldn’t seem to work it out.
It took many more long, hard stares at this piece for me to begin to unravel it. Generally, my favourite parts of looking at paintings are as follows:
· The way it makes me feel/ think
· The composition
· The colour palette
· Trying to figure out the artists’ intentions
· Tracing their decision making/ problem solving through their brushstrokes or way that they apply paint to a surface
This piece is still one of my favourite things to look at. I think that’s because the answers I’ve come to for my above criteria have rarely ever been sated. It seems as though Grant himself is a master puppeteer who’s pulling strings attached to each form and moving things around. We see glimpses of the truth but we’re never permitted to see it fully. It is fun to get lost in this piece and try and navigate your way around it.
By this point, I felt my analysis was a cycle of confusion. I was setting myself up to eternally misunderstand this painting.
I had to ask myself, “Kitty, why do you have to make it so hard for yourself?”
If ever I wanted this mystery to be over, perhaps it was worth considering the title, ‘Interior at Gordon Square’. Grant literally gives us the context to view this piece. Indicating, truthfully, that this is his representation of his house. Through this lens, the mishmash of shapes and colours aptly shows the comforting disorder that makes a home, homely. When I realised this, my eyes began to trust what I was seeing a bit more. Perhaps the reason I could never make sense of this piece is that there was nothing to make sense of in the first place. Home is home. It needs no explanation.
Colours, shapes and composition cannot do the familiarity of home justice. Gazing through the window in the afternoon, sharing a cup of tea with loved ones is what home is. Time slipping through your fingers, wanting to get up but so enjoying a lazy way of living.
Maybe, just maybe, this painting was holding up a mirror to myself at the time. Seeming to dangle knowledge and warmth in front of me, which were the things I craved the most but was still working out how to give myself. Earnest little me, in vain, tried her hardest to extract those things from it. This painting could not give me what I sought. It was what it said it was. All it could offer was an oil painty reflection.
And, to that end, the painting has been solved. Perhaps the title was the key all along. My eyes couldn’t see for looking. What I thought before, may actually be accurate. This painting is near enough, a postcard- or stamp. A visual mark of home. An intimate invitation to see the artist in his most natural state. And, for that, I feel very lucky.
It took a few more years of trials and tribulations. But, I can safely say, that this painting helped me find my way back to myself. It reminded me of why I love what I love and that it is such a blessing to be able to make things for people to look at! It’s great if it’s deep, philosophical or so visceral you want to cry. But, what may be greater, is if it’s so gentle, so unassuming, that your eyes feel safe looking at it. In that moment, you feel known and like everything has clicked. And, I’ve yet to discover a better feeling than that.
If you are ever nearby, I’d highly recommend seeing this piece. See if you feel how I did, or if you get it straight away or, maybe, it is just shapes and colours to you.