Stephen Spender (1909–1995) 1938

Curator: This portrait, rendered in oil paint, captures Stephen Spender, the renowned poet, in 1938. It's the work of Wyndham Lewis, whose angular style brings a very particular energy to the piece. Editor: Oh, my. The mood… it’s strangely tense, wouldn’t you say? His hands are so tightly clasped. I wonder, what story are those fingers telling? Is it the weight of verse, or the quiet anxiety of the coming war? Curator: Well, let’s think about the artistic approach. Lewis wasn’t one for soft sentiment; his work, particularly in the 30s, frequently shows this angular precision. Spender, on the other hand, was known for his heartfelt socialist verse… It is as though Lewis wants to build Spender a bit like a machine, but that romantic shock of hair fights back. Editor: True. Looking at the layers of paint, the visible brushstrokes, one can sense Lewis wrestling with Spender's image, the struggle of materiality versus idealism. Was this commission perhaps a… reluctant undertaking? Did Lewis accept Spender at all? I note also that the other paintings on the wall seem abstract… Is he relegating poor old Stephen to being 'the representational man'? Curator: Intriguing, right? And if we consider the sociopolitical moment of 1938—Europe on the brink—this intense and rather stiff rendering perhaps reflects the unease of a generation, as if Spender’s self-doubt somehow turns sculptural, taking physical form in paint. The hands feel locked almost with the pain of premonition! Editor: Indeed! There's almost a sculpted feel, as if Lewis were determined to find not just the subject’s outward appearance, but the sheer matter of him as well – and he does, to some extent. Those broad planes of color seem designed to force Spender, and us the viewers, to see ourselves plainly, warts and all. And those blue, blue eyes bore right into you... they *know* the material truth. It all lends a certain… unease to what is usually a rather comfortable genre: portraiture! Curator: So while seeming objective, focusing on structure, on technique, on the simple presentation of a man in a chair, it paradoxically whispers of existential worry, doesn’t it? It's almost… tragic! A snapshot of a soul bracing itself. Editor: Right you are, let's move to happier pastures and let poor old Stephen rest.