The Barber Institute of Fine Arts: The Foundations of a Collection

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David Ecclestone reports on a London show of works from Birmingham University’s nationally significant collection

This small but distinguished collection of works has been gathered together at the National Gallery to celebrate the 80th anniversary of the foundation of the Barber Institute of Fine Arts at Birmingham University.

The generous bequest that enabled the creation of the Institute in 1932 was made by Lady Barber in memory of her husband who died in 1927.  This was the era of the foundation of the Courtauld Institute and comparisons were inevitably invited.  There was one key difference: the Courtauld was established around an existing collection, while the Barber involved the building of the Institute in Birmingham and the acquisition from scratch of a collection to fill it.  Lady Barber’s remit was for the acquisition of works of ‘that standard of quality required by the National Gallery and Wallace Collection’. The history of the Institute has been comprehensively documented in the lavish catalogue for the exhibition.

The man charged with the task of finding the ‘fabulous jewels to fill’ an ‘empty jewel box’ (to quote the catalogue essay by James Hamilton) was Thomas Bodkin, the first director from 1935 to 1952.  Bodkin’s application for the post was supported behind the scenes by Kenneth Clark, the brilliant young director of the National Gallery, himself appointed to his post only two years earlier at age 30.  While the Barber gallery was taking shape in Birmingham in the years immediately preceding the war, most of the paintings were displayed or stored at the National Gallery.  These works have now been reunited there.

Room 1 at the National Gallery is small, square and restrained: every inch of wall space has to tell and with this exhibition it does.   The exhibition is arranged largely chronologically and, if jewels were being sought, the first two works fit the bill.  A late 13th-century crucifixion from Tuscany was recognized for its value by Kenneth Clark, who said of it ‘in many ways I should have been glad to buy it for the [National] Gallery’.  Next to it, separated by about 50 years and a few Italian miles to Siena, is Simone Martini’s St John the Evangelist.  The the blue and red of his robes, even after all this time, are remarkably intense. 

The last image on this first wall moves away from the devotional to the historical: Nicolas Poussin’s Tancred and Erminia (c.1635).  Tancred is looking a bit poorly, slumped in the foreground having just despatched the giant Argantes.  Tancred is in good hands, those of Erminia, a Saracen princess who has rather fallen for the Christian knight.  Her ministrations are helped by the light cast by two hovering putti.   This throws the good soldier’s pecs and abs into delightful relief and the story ends well, with Tancred being restored to both health and Erminia.  This is a visual retelling of a poem of the previous century by Tasso (1544–95), recounting a story of the crusades and adding to the temporal vertigo of this delightful show by dressing his figures in classical garb.

It is interesting to note that Clark’s actions over this picture were influenced by an even younger star in the art world firmament: Anthony Blunt, later better known for his spying activities.  Blunt cast doubts on the attribution and this was enough to stop Clark from exhibiting the picture.  Blunt later admitted a serious misjudgement. 

Two stunning portraits start the next wall.  The first is by Franz Hals: Portrait of a Man Holding a Skull (c.1610/14).  The man faces to his left a quarter turn, which gives us a clue to the origins of the canvas.  It is part of a pair with a portrait of the sitter’s wife that is currently at Chatsworth.   This is one of only four Hals oils in public collections outside London. 

The next portrait is for me the high spot of the show: another black-garbed figure, three-quarters turned to his right to face the previous one.  But this is no sombre burgher worried about his salvation.  He is a vital and assertive young man.  A sword hangs from his belt on one side, a purse on the other. Obligatorily dressed in black (a colour asserting luxury and wealth) it runs against the painter, Tintoretto’s reputation as the great colourist.  As well perhaps: nothing should detract from the character in the face.

We could pass a rather lacklustre J.M.W. Turner seascape from 1809 with allusions to the Napoleonic war.   This slightly dowdy canvas is thrown into relief by the brilliance of a river scene painted by Richard Wilson on his return from Italy in 1759. 

And so onto the prime spot in Room 1: the wall to the left of the door as we face it.  This is given over to a Manet portrait of Carolus-Duran (1876), unfinished but of better quality than much of the similar material at the recent Royal Academy show of Manet's portraits.

This is a small group of paintings whose current monetary value makes the eyes water – an amazing testament to the judgement and prescience of Thomas Bodkin.