The vibrant collages of Francis Davison

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In this elegant, illustrated survey, ‘Davison’s work does steal the show, as is intended, and as indeed it rightly should’, says Julian Freeman

Francis Davison by Andrew Lambirth

I remember being first made aware of Francis Davison by Julian Spalding, probably around the time of Davison’s 1983 solo exhibition at the Hayward Gallery, London. I didn’t see the show, but the little catalogue was a revelation; a true curiosity, and one in keeping with the spirit of re-assessment, re-evaluation, that had been running on oiled wheels for nearly a decade by that time, to the benefit of numerous half-known, half-forgotten artists, mothballed by the market, and heading for the cold night of affected disdain. What struck me at the time was not the absence of biographical information, noted by Andrew Lambirth and others in this relaxed and elegant survey, but the extraordinary vibrancy of the colours in Davison’s collages. Could these really be collages? You bet. Was this the only British-born major collagist? And did he only use coloured papers? Once more, correct. Now read on.

This autumn, the publishers Sansom have been doing remarkable things, and, if he were only better known, Francis Davison should be (pardon me) a no brainer: a splendid example of just how good affordable illustrated books can be when steered by a company using sympathetic authors. Lambirth’s informal delivery is exactly right, matching and informing Davison’s remoteness, his deep-seated belief in the supremacy of the work over biographical detail, to offer a compelling account of his career, afflicted as it was by his withdrawn and intensely competitive behaviour. Much of the narrative is left to second- or third-hand material delivered by Davison’s second wife, Margaret Mellis  (previously married to the painter-critic Adrian Stokes): her devotion to him is palpable, though for some years it caused her to set aside her own reputation. This doesn’t make for agreeable or comfortable reading, yet Lambirth steers his audience on, through veritable reefs of creative discomfort.

Nevertheless, this is an illustrated book, and Davison’s work does steal the show, as is intended, and as indeed it rightly should. His relatively short artistic life is fascinating, his severe self-criticism is presented as often fearsome, and Lambirth’s account of Davison’s switch to art is a compelling survey of a move against the grain.

Only when readers are faced with page after page of the most remarkable, often startling, reproductions of collages will they truly appreciate Davison’s profound awareness of colour and form, and of his extraordinary ability to intertwine both. The few illustrations from the Hayward catalogue return here, and remain as compelling. Newer plates introduce themselves, to reinforce Lambirth’s account of his subject, and to emphasize the richness of the coloured papers used by Davison. Unlike others, he used no letterpress, and did not cut or colour, but simply sought and used what he could discover, determining shapes and forms by tearing only.

Lambirth’s account of the gestation and eventual completion of these offerings is simple, stark and often intensely saddening, but in its illustrative content is deeply enriching and inexplicably rewarding in visual terms. Just how attractive this book will prove to be to the uninitiated is impossible to ascertain. If you can buy one at cost or less it will be much more than worthwhile, though if you can truly quantify the intrinsic value of the book you will be doing well. There are some secrets that may prove hard to find it yield. Remember: this is a man who so feared emulation that he had his stock of papers destroyed before his death. This was a determined act, wholly in keeping with what is known of his life. Therein may lie a tale. Or two.

Francis Davison by Andrew Lambirth is published by Sansom & Company, 2013. 160pp., fully illustrated in colour and mono, £25.00 (hbk). ISBN 978 1 908326 44 7