Strange
Openings: the Second World War in paintings by Colin Middleton
Guy Woodward
Trinity College
Dublin
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This is an
adapted extract from a chapter of my PhD Thesis, which has a provisional title
of ‘Literature and Culture in Northern
Ireland and the Second World War’. The chapter
from which it is taken is about the effects of the war on visual art in the
province, specifically painting and drawing. Whilst it is important to remember
the traumatic effect of the war on the province – we must think of the human
cost of the Belfast Blitz and that of the many people who fought and died
of course – I think that culturally and socially there is considerable evidence
that the war encouraged many positive, if perhaps temporary, developments.
In terms of the province’s twentieth century history, Louis MacNeice’s
idea of the Second World War as an “interregnum” is certainly applicable to
the place of his birth. Here I want to talk about the effect of the Belfast Blitz of 1941 on
one artist living and working in the city – Colin Middleton
– and look at how this is manifested in some of his paintings.
The wide range
of cultural responses, both official and unofficial, to the blitzkrieg
on cities in Britain and Northern Ireland shows how the patterns, sensations
and incongruous juxtapositions resulting from unprecedented and specifically
urban scenes of destruction proved both inspirational and troubling for artists
and writers at the time. In a Picture Post article published in 1941
Louis MacNeice, describing damage caused by bombing in London as “a spectacle,”
compares resulting patterns of water and smoke with an Impressionist painting,
and writes that: “When the All Clear went I began a tour of London, half
appalled and half enlivened by this fantasy of destruction. For it was – if I
am to be candid – enlivening”. In
an essay published a few months later he contrasts the
experience of seeing the rich West End the
morning after a bombing, which he describes as “almost exhilarating,” with his
impressions of the destruction of a poor area the same night, which he calls
“heart breaking”. The
enlivening sensual effect of such symbolic destruction on the spectator is also
described in Brian Moore’s novel of Belfast during the Blitz, The Emperor of
Ice Cream (1965), where the young protagonist’s feelings of exhilaration
when the bombs first begin to fall on City Hall, Queen’s University and the Harland
and Wolff shipyard, symbols of patriarchal and political authority in the city,
are similarly swiftly undercut when the terrible human cost of the raid is revealed
the following morning.
Artists and writers had to be mindful of treading a difficult line between
excitement and pity, as the visual spectacle of the Blitz was accompanied by an
inescapably brutal loss of civilian life. In an interview in 1971 Graham Sutherland
remembered this dilemma in relation to his Devastation series of
paintings of bomb damage in Swansea and London, executed
throughout 1940 and 1941:
The City was
more exciting than anywhere else mainly because the buildings were bigger, and
the variety of ways in which they fell more interesting. But very soon the
raids began in the East End – in the dock
areas – and immediately the atmosphere became much more tragic. In the City one
didn’t think of the destruction of life. All the destroyed buildings were
office buildings and people weren’t in them at night. But in the East End one did think of the hurt to people and there
was every evidence of it.
London based artists and
writers were particularly stimulated by these intense feelings, and Elizabeth Bowen, T.S. Eliot, Moore,
Sutherland and Dylan Thomas
are among those who responded to the Blitz in their works.
Perceived resemblances between the forms discernible in blitzed
cityscapes during the Second World War and the stylistic modes of early
twentieth century artistic movements have encouraged some artists and cultural
historians to make bold attempts to link the two. The painter and art critic Adrian Stokes,
for example, claimed that the patterns of cubism had indeed anticipated the
scenes of destruction thrown up by the heavy bombing of urban areas, writing
that:
A collapsed
room displays many more facets than a room intact: after a bombing in the last
war, we were able to look at elongated, piled-up displays of what had been
exterior, mingled with what had been interior, materializations of the serene
Analytic Cubism that Picasso and Braque invented before the first war; and
usually, as in some of these paintings, we saw the poignant key provided by
some untouched, undamaged object that had miraculously escaped.
The war also saw
Surrealism materialised, in the unusual shapes, situations, and unexpected
juxtapositions of everyday objects all too visible in the aftermath of air
attack. Many of Belfast
artist Colin
Middleton’s wartime paintings
incorporate such imagery of the Blitz into the psychological world of surrealist
art, the mode in which he frequently worked. My aim here is to set some of
these works in an historical context that enables an appreciation of the
complex combination of cultural forces at work on artists in Northern Ireland
during the Second World War. I believe that an examination of his wartime
paintings disproves Catherine
Marshall’s assessment that time
“had little place in Middleton’s philosophy” and her
assertion that “In his search for the essential and enduring, he ruthlessly eliminated
contemporary references”. In
particular, I will look at the place of buildings and their destruction in Middleton's paintings. The Belfast Blitz of April 1941
altered the complexion of his surrealist paintings and drove him to work for a
time within a localised vision which manifested itself in a preoccupation with
buildings and structures.
Detecting resemblances between the figures and tropes of artistic styles
and wartime scenes is an engrossing if potentially anachronistic pursuit, but
similarities were evidently noted contemporaneously. Patrick
Maybin, a close friend of John Hewitt
(they had met through the poetry circle at Queen’s University), was a doctor
who joined the Royal Army Medical Corps on the outbreak of war. Posted
initially in Northern Ireland
and Britain, and
subsequently to North Africa and Italy, he wrote numerous detailed
letters to his friend during the war, discussing works of art, literature and
philosophy. It is worth quoting at length from one startling letter written in
late 1943:
Tunisia is a much richer and more
friendly country than Algeria.
The battlefields have been nearly all cleared up. Some of the towns have been
bombed and bombarded till hardly a house is habitable. Here and there one comes
on a huge salvage dump of several acres – burnt out trucks and tanks and cars,
and demolished guns. At places – a level crossing, or
a road junction – in the shade of a group of cactus plants, a small group of white
wooden crosses. One scene stays in my mind: a flat coastal plain, brown in the
lit sunlight; a road along the margin of a wide beach, sweeping around to the
edge of a small port, so much bombed that not a living person was to be seen;
at the sea’s edge a crashed bomber, one huge wing with its black Nazi cross
angled across the sky. Behind it the pier, with the cranes twisted and tilted
across the dock; a wide expanse of purple blue sky, and a low bar of cloud
across the horizon. The scene was familiar, not in detail but in mood; I
remembered why – it is the mood of Colin Middleton,
1940.
Maybin’s vivid
and dreamlike description, which constitutes a composition in itself,
identifies many elements familiar from Middleton’s
wartime surrealism: the sense of traumatic aftermath, the apprehension of
conflict, the juxtaposition of recognisable material objects in an alien
landscape seemingly devoid of human presence. It also demonstrates the
psychological effect on the individual of the complex interplay between
artistic style and wartime reality: Middleton had never travelled to Tunisia
and never experienced desert warfare, but here, one and a half thousand miles
from Belfast, Maybin is struck by the resemblance between the scene before him
and a Middleton painting, and feels the need to record this in detail a letter
home.
Colin Middleton
was born in 1910, grew up in the Belfast suburb
of Cavehill and was educated at the nearby Royal Academy
grammar school. His father was a damask designer in the linen industry and had
studied painting at the Manchester School of Art, and
unlike many of his artistic contemporaries in the city Middleton
grew up surrounded by artists, painters and designers. After leaving school he
entered the family firm as an apprentice and attended the Belfast College of
Art as a part time student. Paintings
were a scarce commodity in Belfast in the early
twentieth century and Middleton depended on occasional
trips to London and Europe
to satisfy his interest in art during the 1930s: it was at this time that he
discovered the work of Salvador Dali and British surrealists such as Tristram
Hillier and Edward
Wadsworth. Surrealism proved to be
a liberating discovery for Middleton, and was to
have a profound impact on his work over the rest of his career.
When his father died in 1935 he took over the family business, a responsibility
which prevented him from leaving Belfast and
settling in London or Paris. Over
a career which spanned more than fifty years until his death in 1983, he
produced an astonishingly varied body of work: in addition to the surrealist
pieces his oeuvre includes post impressionist landscapes, expressionist pieces,
and abstract homages to Kandinsky. In addition, his
skills as a draughtsman were particularly acute: John Hewitt
observes that his trade as a damask designer had honed this talent for
precision, so evident in the surrealist pieces. Catherine Marshall writes
that his “chameleon-like changes of style” constitute “an art historian’s
nightmare,” and of
the sheer variousness of Middleton’s first one man
show in 1943, John
Hewitt recalled that “an immediate
reaction … was that the artist was hypersensitive to influence”.
His predilection for experimentation has remained a source of critical
confusion and speculation - despite his evident technical versatility the lack
of a single recognisable Middleton style arguably
prevented him achieving greater international fame. For Hewitt he epitomises
“the puzzle and the problem of the artist now,” and was a victim of a fragmented
age: Hewitt wrote of his friend in an unpublished autobiography, “A North Light”
that “Too honest, too open-minded, he has refused to drive or goad his genius
along a single avenue”.
It may be that finding himself assailed by manifold artistic styles in a new
age of photography and cheap commercial reproduction, where no single school of
painting could dominate, Middleton simply felt unable to limit himself to a
single mode, or perhaps his deployment of a multiplicity of styles constituted
a more considered strategy of self expression. Dickon Hall has suggested that
in creating an anthological body of work Middleton was trying to address the
problem of the provincial painter by being genuinely contemporary, and
certainly the artist’s (possibly ironic) self proclamation as “the only
surrealist painter working in Ireland”
conveys a keen desire to differentiate himself from his peers and his national
and cultural background. Questions about his stylistic variations can easily
descend into mere conjecture, and I do not intend to attempt to resolve them
here, but rather to suggest that comparisons of Middleton’s
wartime works allow us to approach shifts between styles from a historical as
well as a personal perspective. An untitled autobiographical poem written in
October 1941 reveals a profound emotional restlessness in Middleton
at this time. He describes himself as:
The youth who
left his father’s grave, a man
possessed of new possessions to possess,
an endless quest for equilibrium…
October 1941
marked six months since the Easter Tuesday raid on Belfast, the most serious of the Blitz. The
bombings seem to have had a severe effect on Middleton,
though accounts of this effect differ: according to Kenneth Jamison
he had found himself unable to paint at all for these six months following the
raid,
though in a letter written in July of that year Hewitt tells Maybin of a period
of concerted activity on Middleton’s part.
The idea of a “quest for equilibrium,” followed in the poem by an ellipsis, is
significant. Although on a personal level the loss of his father in 1935 was
clearly deeply painful, Middleton’s reading of his subsequent career as a
search for balance in the face of opposing forces may also refer to the
unsteady position of the artist in relation to the war, and specifically the
Blitz, as expressed by other artists and writers I mentioned earlier. Stepping back and assessing himself in the
third person in such a consciously poetic soliloquy as this implies a
reflective self questioning of the value of artistic pursuits, and Middleton’s ellipsis suggests that he too feels that as an
artist he is in a problematic position, stretched like his London counterparts between excitement and
pity. If stylistic appropriation and variation allowed Middleton
to negotiate his provincial situation, and to avoid being bound by his cultural
and national background, it also offered a strategy for responding to complex
and conflicting stimuli thrown up by the Second World War. Middleton’s
variousness was not just a feature of the war years and continued over his entire
career, but his technical versatility certainly allowed him to produce a
variety of nuanced responses to the war which tend to refute ideas of him as a
stylistic magpie or purveyor of pastiche.
The Dark Tower (Fig.1),
painted after the Belfast Blitz of 1941, is a surrealist scene played out
on the type of anonymous, undulating plain familiar from the works of Salvador
Dali. Two spindly towers dominate the middle distance
of the painting, asymmetrical and eccentric structures that stretch a resemblance
to recognisable buildings with their irregular dimensions and planes. Hewitt
went so far as to claim one tower as “now a monstrous air-machine plunged
in the sand, and now a great blind fish or eel-creature”. These towers are echoed by two similar constructions on
the horizon. In the foreground can be seen the heavily stylised figure of
a woman in a dress dancing beneath a stylised human eye situated on a two
dimensional quadrilateral, that looks away to the right. The towers are missing
pieces gouged from their sides, as though damaged by bomb blasts, and bricks
litter the ground on which the woman dances. Notwithstanding Hewitt’s lyrical
view of the painting, putting the overtly surrealist imagery of the woman
and the eye to one side the towers can be seen in the context of British romantic
depictions of urban bomb damage such as John Piper’s 1942 Bath series (Fig.2)
or Graham Sutherland’s 1941 Devastation series, and also, given the monochromatic
reproduction used in Now in Ulster seen here, of photographs of bomb
damage (Now in Ulster was a one off anthology edited by Arthur and
George Campbell and published in Belfast in 1944, which carried short stories,
essays and verse by many of the emerging younger generation of writers in
Northern Ireland at the time and, in a move that distinguished the publication
from other contemporaneous literary publications such as Northern Harvest
(1944) or Lagan, monochrome reproductions of paintings by the Campbell
brothers, Gerard Dillon, John Luke and Colin Middleton amongst others). A
clear parallel can be seen, for example, with a photograph showing Trinity Street Church
on 12 July 1941, having been decapitated and lost its spire in the Easter
Tuesday raid (Fig.
3). In the background of another of Middleton’s
1941 surrealist paintings, The Fortune Teller (Fig.
4) can be seen a church with a markedly similar truncated tower.
Further afield we might also compare the towers with British surrealist John
Armstrong’s Coggeshall Church, Essex (1940, Fig.5),
which depicts a church tower ripped open by a bomb blast and shows how surrealist
techniques could be recruited without difficulty for official war art. It is also worth remembering that surrealism was also deployed
in a striking advertising campaign for the British Government at this time.
Abram Games’s extraordinary Your Britain. Fight For It Now (1942,
Fig.6)
shows a bright, clean, two dimensional image of the iconic modernist London
Finsbury Health Centre (designed by Berthold Lubetkin,
dating from 1938, and a symbol at the time of the war modern health and progress.
Islington Primary Care Trust are currently trying to sell it off) forming
a wall which half covers a ruined structure, a bomb damaged building in which
a bandy legged boy with rickets stands, joylessly trailing a small pink toy
boat through a puddle. A tombstone looms against the rear wall of the ruin, and
the words ‘neglect’ and ‘disease’ are daubed on the cracked and stained walls.
As is pointed out by Darracott and Loftus in their survey of wartime posters,
the symbolic deployment of colour and the fusion of modern architecture with
dilapidated ruin in a single image “show Games’s familiarity with surrealist
work by artists such as Dali and de
Chirico”. Games’s poster shows how the Second World War allowed the
grammar of surrealism, the use of incongruous juxtaposition and realist technique
(significantly used here to depict a bomb damaged building), to be recruited
with relative ease to cultural forms intended for a mass audience, and for
political ends.
Returning to the landscape of The Dark Tower, the neutral
undulation on which the towers stand, and the complex symbolism of the woman
and the eye are all fairly standard products of the psychological surrealist
dreamworld (or, more cynically, the results of Middleton’s encounters with
earlier surrealist artworks), but the damaged towers themselves and the debris
in the foreground for me root this work in the year and place of its
composition, and the inclusion of a reproduction of this work alongside two
other more conventional representations of the Belfast Blitz by George Campbell
and Gerard Dillon in Now in Ulster reinforces this contextual reading.
The war, and specifically the Blitz, has made psychological detachment impossible
for the surrealist and forced Middleton, the self
proclaimed “only surrealist painter working in Ireland”
to work within the new wartime boundaries of a localised vision in which scenes
of actual destruction are recast in the surrealist mode. The meaning of the
woman and the eye is unclear: more cynical readings of Middleton’s
surrealist works have seen the use of such imagery as little more than mischief
making, poses and knowing attempts to shock and confuse the Belfast public. In The Fortune Teller,
Hall detects “a sense of showing off” and accuses Middleton of employing “impenetrable imagery” in a
mischievous attempt to do just that. The
Fortune Teller would seem to be free from references to the Blitz or the
ongoing conflict. Here another mysterious woman (perhaps a topless flamenco
dancer) appears in an anonymous and barren landscape, surrounded by seemingly
random objects and birds, comprising a faceless grandfather clock, a ladder,
two cockatiels and another, smaller yellow bird housed in an open fronted
cabinet on the ground. In the background a church on a hill appears to have a
vast door opening from its tower. The discordance of the scene is amplified by
the sheets of paper or fabric blowing across the landscape: one larger sheet is
loosely caught on the woman’s head and one sheet above the cabinet, although
completely blank, definitely apes an open newspaper, as though held by an
invisible reader. The sheets do not offer an explanation for this particular
assembly of objects, or their juxtaposition with the dancer and the birds, but
they do form an unexpected link between The Fortune Teller and another
of Middleton’s wartime paintings.
The title of The Holy Lands (1945, Fig.7)
would seem to refer to the eponymous area of inner city south Belfast to the
east of Queen’s University, and although it depicts rows of terraced houses
similar to those which make up this part of the city, the painting offers
a vague and heavily stylised representation. Semi vorticist rows of houses
fan out across the middle and far distance, and the hillside in the foreground
seems to have been introduced to aid the composition. However, it is a convincing
portrayal of urban Belfast
at play, perhaps demonstrative of a sense of affection and affiliation with
one’s home city as a defence against the uncertainties of the war. Amongst
the figures on the hillside are a courting couple, an elderly man sitting
alone with his walking stick, and a man in a bowler hat reading a newspaper:
in the foreground some boys play football. The threat
of war would appear to be absent (and by 1945 the threat of air attack had
all but disappeared for the residents of the city), and like Middleton’s 1941
Annadale paintings the scene seems to endorse a conventional, cosy, and above
all reassuring view of civilian life. However, across the scene blow blank
sheets of newspaper, similar to those blowing across the desert in The
Fortune Teller which threaten to envelope the woman in the flamenco skirt.
In The Holy Lands the sheets are more organised: spines aligned in
the same direction towards the horizon, as they flutter from the hillside
across the skyline from right to left the shapes echo a flock of birds. Against
the vorticist backdrop of the terraces the airborne papers are eerie, even
ghostly: none of the figures on the hillside has noticed them. The sheets
also appear in a post war painting, Elijah (1948), where seven fly
in a circle around a woman and two Blakeian images of the eponymous prophet,
the larger of which crouches on a pile of books, the smaller of which squats
on one of the airborne loose sheets. Without entering at length into the allegorical
and symbolic implications of this later work, it is worth remembering in the
context of the Blitz that the biblical prophet Elijah calls down fire from the sky whilst conducting
his test to ascertain the relative powers of the false god Baal and Yahweh
the God of Israel. Considering The Holy Lands alongside its surrealist
counterparts, the loose sheets can be seen to hint at undisclosed chaos, and
form a link between the recognisable and named world of urban Belfast
to the troubled world of the unconscious that Middleton
calls up in the earlier and later works.
Middleton himself associated his surrealist work with war and violence:
in an interview in 1973 he said that the flaring of sectarian violence in
Northern Ireland in the early 1970s had “re-activated the old surrealist bug,
and its coming up, this strong colour, that emotional colour,”
and the decade would see a return to dreamscapes populated by idealised female
forms, where again houses and more random built structures appear. Ríann Coulter
uses her assertion that “One explanation for the coincidence between
Middleton’s surreal works and periods of international and regional unrest, may
be that during these years … the landscape and people of Ulster were physically
and psychologically scarred by violence”
as a springboard for a discussion about Middleton’s search for symbols to
represent this trauma. I do not deny that Middleton
dealt in symbols, but I believe that the representations and allusions to destruction
and disruption of the built fabric of the city evident within his paintings are
a more direct way of responding to the trauma.
Siren over Belfast (1944, Fig.8)
is one such simultaneously symbolic and literal response to the Belfast Blitz
and the pain of its aftermath. This apocalyptic painting depicts a scattering
of buildings dwarfed by a huge, red-lipped, vaguely sphinx like demon or monster
with a mane of flames, which looms in the sky above. Here are three factory
chimneys and a church tower, almost certainly another allusion to the industrial
and religious Belfast
cityscape – also visible in paintings such as The Refugee (1944, Fig.9)
and Allotments on Annadale Embankment (1941, Fig.10).
Apart from the church and the factories though, the buildings are rough, windowless,
single storey and humble – the eye is drawn to the craters and the bright
flames emanating from the head of the siren. The punning title links the siren
used to warn of an imminent air raid with the mythological female siren, and
the combination of the open screaming mouth of the monster with the bright
red lips and flames cause the painting to emit a palpable sense of very loud
noise. In addition, some kind of guitar like instrument is being played in
the foreground, either by the Siren itself or by a pair of disembodied hands
- this is unclear. The sound hole of the guitar echoes the cyclonic pattern
that must be taken as the eye of the siren, and its neck recalls both the
barrel of a gun or a factory chimney such as those in the background, but
laid horizontal. Here creativity, destruction and
violence are fused in the heavily symbolic image of the siren. However, the
human and animal elements in the composition, small figures of a girl in a
green dress with a red ribbon in her hair in the middle distance, seemingly
carried off her feet by the blast, and a red animal (perhaps a fox or a dog)
running beside her counter this awesome symbolism, and are reminders of the
human cost of the destruction. The paint has been more thickly applied in
this painting: in contrast with the smoothness of The Dark Tower and
The Fortune Teller we see a more expressionist surrealism closer to
that of Max
Ernst during the 1930s than to
Dali. Indeed, Ernst’s
The Angel of the Hearth series (1937, Fig.11)
are arguably important antecedents for Siren Over
Belfast. Produced following the defeat of the Republican forces in Spain, Ernst’s
paintings show a monstrous, many limbed bird-like demon, dancing and raging
over an anonymous, flat landscape. In an interview the German artist said
“This is of course an ironic title for a kind of juggernaut which crushes
and destroys all that comes in its path. That was my impression of what would
happen in the world, and I was probably right”. In 1938 Ernst
briefly gave the work an alternate title The Triumph of Surrealism,
a despairing and ironic comment on the failure of communism and surrealism
successfully to resist fascism. What distinguishes Middleton’s
siren from its continental antecedent is the presence of buildings in the
composition.
Middleton’s Strange Openings (ca. 1942,
Fig.12)
offers a more detached representation of the Belfast urban landscape following the Blitz.
The title refers to the startling holes that appeared across the city after
the air attacks, and the painting depicts, in heavily stylised fashion, doorless
and windowless rows of terraced houses, and, looming larger, presumably industrial
buildings with large, similarly perfectly rectangular openings in their sides.
The style adopted by Middleton here, which recall de Chirico’s arcades and
piazzas of his pittura metafisica period in the theatrical intensity
of flat, stylised surfaces and depth of shadow (see Giorgio de Chirico, The
Enigma of a Day (1914, Fig.13),
avoids any reference to the chaotic effects of the Blitz, the irregular patterns
of destruction and disruption or the fragmentation that proved so stimulating
to many artists and writers. It is a far remove from the sound and fury of
Siren Over Belfast, and the haunting title of Strange Openings
echoes its eeriness of tone: no human or animal intrudes on this deserted
urban landscape, and the composition is entirely made up of straight lines:
the holes in the side of the building appear as part of the design rather
than damage occasioned by bomb blasts, in contrast with the chunks bitten
out of the sides of the towers in The Dark Tower. Where Siren over
Belfast emits noise and pain, this composition is a deserted stage set,
dominated by a portentous silence. Despite the appropriation of de Chirico’s
style, Strange Openings retains a fidelity to the closely packed terraced
backstreets, the outside lavatories and brick walled back yards of Middleton’s
home city: once again the recognisable and the knowable in Belfast is rendered
in a distinctly foreign style.
For Middleton, it seems, the importance of place
was heightened by its destruction: in an interview with Michael Longley
in 1967 he articulated a mysterious and mystical identification with places
using a kind of mantra: “Place is everything. Place is terribly important.
Places, places, places. I just can’t go out for a day’s sketching – that’s
meaningless, utterly horrible, terrifying”. Writing on Middleton in 1976, John Hewitt observed that
Northern Ireland’s wartime isolation had forced artists and writers to till
their own gardens, resulting in an “an unusually vigorous phase in the creative
arts”. This was certainly the case for Middleton:
the works I have discussed show him stating emphatically in paint his fidelity
to place by turning to his home town as subject matter, whilst retaining his
predilection for experimentation with continental styles. Though Middleton
engages with differing effects of the Blitz in these works, a concern for
the built environment is common to his non expressionist pieces: his war paintings
show that the impact of the Blitz on art in the province went beyond representational
depictions of the damage. Middleton’s paintings
show the blitzed cityscape as the site of a complex dialogue between representational
and non representational artistic modes, initiated by the traumatic collision
between the local and the international.
Guy Woodward is supported by the IRCHSS Government of Ireland Postgraduate
Scholarship Scheme.
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