Parallel worlds: A portrait of Duncan Grant
You can draw parallels from the many people that influence you. For me, Duncan has laid ground that I find myself retreading. Duncan's own world was a parallel experience of calm and chaos.
Excuses have absolutely no place in art, mere intentions do not count for anything, the artist has to listen to his instinct all the time, with the result that art is most real thing there is, the most austere school of life, and the true Last Judgement.
Marcel Proust
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There is a door leading into the Library at Charleston that says much about the relationship between Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell. Painted into the two panels are two figures, one female and the other male, both mythical and Byzantine. Duncan painted these in 1917 when the room was Vanessa’s studio, a few months before the birth of their daughter, Angelica.
The image represents two people confined to their own space, singular but cohabiting, reliant on one another. It’s another subtle message from these two artists at a time in their relationship when everything was about to change; it expresses the commitment to each other that they now could not deny, the arrival of a daughter that would forever bind them together.
Vanessa and Duncan could not have been more different; one steadfast and reclusive, the other fleeting and sociable. Their relationship attained a stickiness of dependency that neither could deny. A daughter would amplify these characteristics, ultimately imbuing her with a character of confusion.
Duncan was an aloof father and an unreliable lover. His self-satisfaction often came first. There is a sense of introspection in his character.
As I end a tour of Charleston Farmhouse, I notice a large mirror in Duncan's studio. I recall seeing another oversized mirror in his bedroom upstairs. Duncan has bestowed considerable value on these objects, placing them prominently in his space; they seem to be a significant part of his surroundings.
Mirrors demand attention; they are nothing without your looking into them. You can't turn them away from you; they must face you; you must face them. You must be prepared to graciously receive the brutal truth they share.
Duncan’s mirrors offer him discovery; they are for looking through to the gestures and fleeting moments that make up his soul. He uses them to observe himself and peel away the surface of his physicality.
Duncan Grant: A Self Portrait
As time bends back and forth across the dales and wind-swept beacons of my imagination, I keep seeing you. You're working, walking, loving. You have become my companion. We spend a lot of time together, and I talk a lot about you. You don't like talking about yourself; you stay silent.
Of course, you fascinate me, not because of your reputation, although that is very important to me (and a lot of other people). But rather because I sense in you a kindred spirit. Your vulnerability and your introspective preservation mirror my own self-defence. We share aspects of life at ease, non-combatants floating somewhere out above these breezy fields, gently moved along by warm currents. We are solitary souls, and yet we thrive on the energy of our companions.
Your work is a manifestation of your spirit. The image reflected by the mirror has a sense of energy to it. I peel away the layers of paint to reveal the unseen, the soul. It’s this double layer of being that you possess; your giving and keeping, your reclusion and hedonism, your hidden truth, your search for self and my search for you.
From behind your easel, you say nothing. You stare at me, stare right through me. Your gaze brings everything to a standstill; even your breathing stops momentarily. An ephemeral silence drifts away into the past, this fleeting pause offering us a greater acquaintance. Just as quickly you animate again, your attention is back on your canvas, where you commit your perception to paint.
A familiar face emerges from the darkness of the canvas.
You are finding yourself.
You are finding me.
I am your mirror.
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Duncan was born in a wild and beautiful place in the highlands of Scotland. You can smell the heavy scent of the land he came from in his work. Scotland offers artists a magnanimity of landscape, something Duncan portrays in his work. For the first 10 years of his life, he is shipped back and forth from India and Burma, where his father, Bartle, having married his mother, Ethel, in 1884 at Gurdaspur, India, had gained the rank of Major in the 8th Hussars.
He was sent to boarding school from the age of 9, spending summers with his grandmother, Lady Grant, in Chiswick. I can comprehend his sense of isolation at such an early age. The combination of youth, introversion and separation forces an enduring ease with oneself. There is a sense of contentment in seclusion, something an artist and writer needs.
His early isolation, both in landscape and relationships, may have made him more at ease with himself, and it clearly made him more aware of his environment. He is often described as social and outwardly engaging, interested in those around him. His ease is often described as infectious and endearing.
Duncan was born in 1885 and died in 1978. How it started is vastly different to how it ended. In between, society made some radical changes. He arrived whilst Victoria was on the throne and would see 5 Kings and a new queen. This tumultuous moment is somehow unimaginable now, but with a steadfast resolution, he, like many of his Bloomsbury friends, pursued their modern principles and opened pathways to contemporary life.
This was not done without criticism. The debate centred on Bloomsbury, their position in society, and their response to both World Wars continues. Duncan described the conflict as 'entirely the result of foolish thought and passions' and felt unable to support the cause. Criticism for his position came from the ‘upper classes’ and from his father in particular, who, like Duncan's grandfather, had played a strong role in the defence and administration of the British Empire. Failure to rise to duty must have disappointed him. Duncan's father Bartle, described as a "poverty-stricken major in the army", was expelled from Edgeborough School in Surrey for being disruptive and idle. However, he clearly excelled creatively; music being his passion. At around the time of Duncan's birth, the Grants were living near Canterbury, where his musical composition entitled, Serenade with an accompaniment for violin and piano was published.
After moving to India, Duncan's father suffered financial problems, almost being imprisoned for not paying outstanding bank loans. This led to his demotion in the army and his move to Burma, where Duncan was then returned to school in England. Financial woes would follow him for the rest of his life, but this did not deter him from pursuing other creative efforts, publishing a book on Burmese orchids, ‘The Orchids of Burma’ described as a “scissors and paste job with little claim to originality”. (Curtis's Botanical Magazine Vol. 23, No. 3)
Unlike his father, Duncan's life seems ordained in resolution and originality. His tempered attitude to conflict was calm and withdrawal. His response to faction was often flight, leaving the rest of the Bloomsbury’s to resolve the fissures. His growing up in his father’s turmoil must have instilled in him a desire for calm. And yet he continued to drift from commitment.
Duncan was laid to rest in 1978 in St. Peter's Churchyard, West Firle, Lewes District, East Sussex, England.
I love the depth and the texture of this relationship of yours, and how it ignores the strictures of time and place, dimensions that often freeze us to where and when we are
Oh wonderful, such true and beautiful observations from you, on the relationship between Grant and Bell. I love the 'mirroring' you write of. Thoroughly enjoyed this piece, thank you Ian.