National Trust gets it right at Basildon Park

Picture: Wikipedia

This weekend I went to Basildon Park. Some of you will know it as home to Victorian art collector James Morrison, who owned a couple of Poussin's best pictures, plus Rubens, Claude, Rembrandt and modern British pictures, which in his day meant Constable and Turner. Others will know its interiors from Downton Abbey, where it was used as the family's London house. Basildon has been cruelly abused, and had to be substantially re-made in the 1950s. It's not entirely clear from the guidebook which bits are new, but I thought the plasterwork in the entrance hall a heavy-handed caricature of Adam's delicate neoclassicism. It's not clear if it was a heavy-handed eighteenth century plasterer, or modern work. The house is still a delight, and it has some wonderful things, including eight apostles by Pompeo Batoni. 

Picture: MS

I went particularly to see an exhibition of pictures from the late Brinsley Ford's collection. I have a two volume catalogue of his collection published by the Walpole Society. He owned a superb Michelangelo drawing that was sold a few years ago, and a magnificent Subleyras that is now a highlight of the eighteenth century French room at the National Gallery. But his house was also crammed with 'minor' works, including modern British and pictures related to the Grand Tour, which was a particular interest of Ford's. Basildon is an ideal venue to show the collection, and the display is perfect. It includes fabulous portraits by Batoni and Mengs, a famous drawing of a temporary ballroom attributed to Adam (more likely by an assistant who was actually a better draughtsman), drawings by Tiepolo and a wonderful big caricature of grand tourists by Patch. 

I like the dense hang, and it convincingly recreates the feel of Ford's own house, as seen in the Walpole Society volumes. A couple of the pictures are masterpieces, but I enjoyed the mix of more minor works, too. The NT wanted the light off; I don't know why the are so attached to darkness. The room guide sensibly used her initiative on a dull day and turned it on so we could actually see the pictures. Unfortunately they're not allowed to sell catalogues in the house (do they think the guides will defraud them?), so you have to remember to go into the shop before entering the house. But it's only a fiver, and it's very good, summarising the entries from the Walpole catalogue. Good art, good display, good catalogue. The NT has done everything right this time. 

The Basildon exhibition will be in place for at least five years, so do try to see it. It's an easy day trip from London. It shows the excellent things still done by the National Trust, despite the best efforts of 

Dame Beanbag. Speaking of which, I got a response from the NT following my gripe about Kedleston. The response went from the house manager to the regional manager to the head office, but of course I wasn't given any contact details other than head office. Despite drafting so many layers of management, the response could have been written by a computer, and the needless levels of bureaucracy and oversight are an ominous sign of mismanagement. Especially concerning to me is the delegation of accountability. Silly stunts like the Kedleston party have been encouraged from the very top. But they present it as a purely local decision for which they have no central accountability—except, of course, to coordinate and vet the responses to make sure they are written in the blandest possible corporatese. 

Why is the National Trust hiding our pictures?

Picture: Lynn Roberts

Recent trips to National Trust houses prompt me to add to Art History News's concerns about this failing institution.

Last week I went to Kedleston Hall in Derbyshire with friends. It was seven hours of driving, and one of our party had traveled from the US, but worth it to see one of Adam's masterpieces, stuffed with fabulous furniture and baroque pictures. But the drawing room - one of the highlights - was in darkness. We couldn't see any of the pictures. The room has been set up to recreate the sense of an eighteenth century party. It fails on so many levels. It stops us seeing the things we had made great effort to visit. It patronises us by asking us to imagine a party at Kedleston, then assuming we're incapable of imagining and have to have the whole thing set up for us. And it fails because the execution is so feeble: a few wine glasses, electric lighting, and added spotlights on the gilt furniture for effect. 

Tracy Emin would do a better job (and I never thought I'd say that). The National Trust panjandrums are using great houses as backdrop for their own art projects. I am just furious that we weren't allowed to see anything in the room because of this childish prank. And I'm embarrassed that my friend, who is a passionate connoisseur of the Italian baroque, will now likely never get to see the pictures. They threaten to extend this throughout the house:

Adding to the sense that the National Trust doesn't care for the things in its trust is the dumbed-down guidebook. The original guidebook lists virtually all of the pictures. The new guidebook just mentions a couple in passing. In the library one pictures is listed, and we are told the theme of another (Diogenes), but they don't even give the artist (Asserto, according to the old guide I own). Stourhead, which I also visited recently, is even worse. It has one of the best picture collections of any National Trust house, and the old guidebook I own provided a separate handlist of all the pictures on display, and discussed some in detail in the main guidebook. The new one mentions just half a dozen paintings in the picture gallery, but speculates that the collector 'was especially moved by female distress', seemingly on the evidence of two pictures he bought. This kind of gossipy human interest speculation is typical; the older guide discussed his taste in the context of eighteenth century collecting and stylistic preferences that make historical sense. 

As I child I don't remember ever going to an art gallery, but my parents did take me to National Trust houses. I was enthralled, and I used to devour the guidebooks. Learning about this 'stuff' set off a lifelong interest in art history. Now they think I should instead have been distracted with gimmicks. The new guidebooks give a fraction of the information in the old. And instead of encouraging children to enjoy the houses and look at their contents, they put toy animals in the rooms and ask kids to locate them. I'm all in favour of engaging children with activities, but couldn't they make the activity in some way relevant to the house? They can play finding games anywhere. Here's the cat that I found:

Our visit also reminded me of all that is wonderful about National Trust houses. Kedleston really is one of the great neoclassical houses, with a vast entrance hall whose proportions work so much better than you'd imagine from pictures, its Roman austerity softened with alabaster pillars, leading through to a giant rotunda. Not everything works at Kedleston; the oddly reduced proportions of copied classical sculptures seem lost in the niches, and the functions of some rooms seem rather overwhelmed by the grandeur of their setting; modest bookcases are out of place in the library. But the collections are largely intact and so well-suited, the wonderful Linnell furniture and Italian pictures. Reminding us of the good work still done by the National Trust is a fine new acquisition, a delightful Carlo Dolci that was owned by the family until recently. For all its prejudice against 'stuff', they still acquire good things.

What should we save?

Deliberate destruction of ancient remains by the Taliban and Islamic State force us to confront the tragic fragility of our cultural heritage. Fires have wrought terrible damage at Clandon Park and the Glasgow School of Art. And processes of decay and erosion take away more of what has survived. 'Saving' the past is a common trope among art historians. Art history is, after all, a history of objects. And psychologists tell us that we're predisposed to value what we already have more highly than what we might gain. But I can't always agree with the preservationist impulse, and a few very different recent examples have made me think about what we should save.

Picture: Telegraph

The National Trust tells us that Clandon Park (above) will be rebuilt 'in some form' following the recent fire. I'm not sure what 'some form' means, but Clandon Park has gone forever. Reconstruction now would be pastiche. Maybe it would be a pretty pastiche, and a fine backdrop for the contents that were saved. But the cost will be immense, and it would be downright irresponsible to squander money and expertise on constructing a fake when there are so many other real and pressing preservation projects that need funding. The Clandon fire was a dramatic tragedy that has naturally captured the public's attention. The myriad smaller projects that could be funded instead of rebuilding Clandon are less newsworthy and less exciting, but far more worthy.

Picture: Irish Times

The Irish Times is keen to 'save' a group of pictures from the Beit collection, which are up for sale next month. They're a motley bunch, but include the wonderful Rubens above. The pictures are privately owned, and were only moved to Ireland in the 1950s. The best of the Beit pictures, including Velazquez, Vermeer, Metsu's greatest masterpieces and an exceptional Ruisdael were given to the National Gallery of Ireland. The pictures they're selling have no longstanding connection to Ireland or to Russborough House, where they were hung. Indeed, the family were poor stewards of Russborough, ripping out original fittings to make room for their pictures. The only reason for campaigning to 'save' these pictures is that they happen to have been in Ireland at a particular point in time. The thing I find most odd about this is that if the cost of these pictures were given to the National Gallery of Ireland they could buy far better pictures that are more worthy of their collection. These surely aren't the pictures they would choose to buy if they had a free choice. But no one is campaigning to give them an increased acquisition budget.

Picture: Telegraph

Saving the Frick Collection is a slogan I can wholly endorse, and I'm delighted they've abandoned their dreadful expansion plan. Congratulations to all involved in the campaign against it. But the campaign quickly fixated on the small garden (above) that would have been lost. It's a lovely little oasis by a famous garden designer, and the Frick was despicably dishonest in claiming that it was a temporary feature. Nevertheless, the loss of the garden was for me the least harmful part of the Frick's plan. I was far more concerned that the intimate experience would be over-ridden by a gargantuan extension to allow them to put on mega-blockbusters and show more contemporary art. The Met, just across the street, is a universal museum with the space and resources for big exhibitions. Why must the Frick do exactly the same? For hundreds of years we've been able to enjoy different kinds of museums - universal museums, house museums, smaller and quirkier museums with more specialist or more eclectic collections. Today every museum seems to be trying to be exactly the same as every other museum, showing lots of contemporary art (alongside old masters if you want to be really hip) and plenty of big blockbusters alongside a great cafe and plenty of parties. Everyone loves parties.

 

Visitors don't benefit. Why should they care whether a mega exhibition is at the Frick, the Met or somewhere else in Manhattan? The beneficiaries are the trustees and the curators. They get to work on a cool new project. They get the kudos of big exhibition openings. It's a corrupting trend that concerns me more than the preservation of garden, however charming. So yes, save the garden. But more important, stop them obliterating the Frick with their crass new museum. Preserving the ambiance of the Frick seems rather ethereal and hard to politicise, but it's the most important thing about the place. 

Picture: Victorian Society

I'm also happy that King's College London has scrapped a hideous planned extension, right next to the Courtauld Institute. The buildings that they would have demolished (above) add variety and interest to the street, and they have their charms. But they really aren't anything very special. I don't think there is a strong claim to 'save' them. In this case I don't see a strong case for 'saving' these buildings. But I do see a strong case for saving - or indeed creating - interesting and humane streetscapes. My objection was more to the replacement than to the demolition. I like that cities can be palimpsests and I think it's important to preserve London's Victorian heritage, but that doesn't mean keeping all of it. The greatest threat today, in my view, is the almost uniformly ugly, boring and domineering new buildings that are being created, rather than the outstanding character of the buildings that are being lost.

Picture: Amazon

Psychology gives us an insight into the preservationist impulse. A famous experiment divided people randomly into two groups. In one group everyone was given a mug, and asked how much they'd sell it for. The other group was asked how much they'd pay for the mug. A classical economist would assume the number would be the same - in each case people are being asked to put a value on the same object that they didn't previously own. But actually the group that was given the mug put a significantly higher price on it. It's called the endowment effect - the extra value that we attribute to things we own. That's why marketers offer us free trials and free samples; once we have something, we don't want to give it up. But it's not a rational way of valuing things. What if we're given a mug that we like less than another we would have chosen if we had a free choice?

 

Shifting from mugs to heritage, the same effect is in play. Dowdy old buildings are valued because they are familiar rather than because they are good. We want to create a new fake Clandon Park rather than secure the preservation of important buildings that actually survive. Pictures that happen to be in the country already are valued more highly than ones we don't regard as our own. We keep trying to 'save' things for the nation, rather than going out and buying better things elsewhere. I share the impulse to preserve, and I recongise its power as a marketing slogan, but it's not always the right message.