The first UK exhibition in 30 years of work by Frederick Cayley Robinson opens at the National Gallery this week. Tom Jeffreys is intrigued.
What a strange little exhibition this is. I have to confess I’ve never heard of Frederick Cayley Robinson (I mean, he doesn’t even have an English Wikipedia entry) but this small show in the Sunley Room at the National Gallery provides a tantalising little taster of his, frankly, baffling work.
The exhibition centres around Acts of Mercy, four large-scale paintings produced by Cayley Robinson for the Middlesex Hospital between 1915 and 1920, and it’s the first show dedicated to his work to grace the UK in 30 years.
It all kicks off – as is often the way at the National Gallery – with some works from the permanent collection that give a bit of context and, in this case, trace lines of inspiration back to the Renaissance. And the comparisons with Botticelli’s Four Scenes From the Early Life of Saint Zenobius and Pierro della Francesca’s Baptism of Christ are undoubtedly apt: Cayley Robinson employs the same unnatural frieze-like compositions as the former, whilst his figures have exactly the same blankly melancholic faces as the latter – eyes wide set and perfectly oval in shape, noses straight and long, skin even and flawless, cheeks delicately blushed.
The rest of the exhibition is dominated by the four Acts of Mercy, two pairs of massive tempera paintings. First up are two paintings of orphans – all small, calm, blank, sad and identical, like little child-nuns set in strictly arranged compositions, that most likely echo the daily routine of such institutions. 
The next two – The Doctor – are exterior scenes. One sees a selection of wounded soldiers standing around outside, again in uniform but sallow-cheeked and stubbled. Again blank-faced and vacant, they stare into an unknown distance, as if somehow their lives are no longer real – merely a hollow performance following the horrible reality of the front line.
In the other, a mother and child are seen thanking a doctor for his work. They kneel as if before the crucified Christ, whilst the doctor, serene and wise, extends his right hand in sad, saintly gesture. Is medicine here replacing religion? Is the hospital, not the church, the new domain of calm and sanctity? Perhaps, but Cayley Robinson is very cagey.
His work is sort of bland, devoid of narrative or any apparent emotion. But in a sense it’s this lack of depth that forces one to look deeper. Take the injured soldiers for example – there’s just a blankness, an enigmatic absence of drama, as if these men can’t (won't?) comprehend what they’ve been through. The flat back-drop looks like a stage set, something enhanced by Cayley Robinson’s penchant for darkly outlining his figures – they stand alone, cut off from their surroundings and each-other, bemused and rigid.
According to the accompanying spiel the presence in the picture of a classical sculpture of a cavalryman is a “stern” reminder of war. But in its emotionless classical white perfection, it’s anything but – surely its presence is ironic? Our emotional and creative responses – in classical times as now – are simply inadequate.
Where the works of the Renaissance which clearly hold such strong influence aim up towards a sense of grandeur, the removal of God in these works leaves only humanity, and its archetypes – wounded soldier, frail old man, dutiful maid, obedient orphan, grateful wife, innocent child, babe in arms, wise doctor, caring shepherd. Work and performance of duty is all that can bind us together. In Cayley Robinson’s war-ravaged institutions, his bare and stilted interiors, even his countryside, living is only ever a performance, a (re-)enactment. And yet – for better or for worse – it’s all we’ve got.
Frederick Cayley Robinson - Acts of Mercy is at the National Gallery until 17th October 2010.
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Image credits (from top to bottom):
Frederick Cayley Robinson (1862–1927), Acts of Mercy: The Doctor I, 1920, Wellcome Library, London, Image © The Trustees of the Wellcome Trust Ltd
Frederick Cayley Robinson (1862–1927), Acts of Mercy: Orphans I, 1915, Wellcome Library, London, Image © The Trustees of the Wellcome Trust Ltd
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