LONDON, AUGUST 1942
‘It is a problem, isn’t it, just showcasing the mechanics of this war?’ Eleanor overheard James Hazelton say to Louis Sepple. As an artist and the principal of the Royal College of Art, James was well placed to pass judgement, and since Louis was also an artist, and the keeper of the Royal Academy Schools, she knew that he too had been a shrewd inclusion on the committee.
‘There are simply too many churches and monuments—surely the public have seen enough of these casualties,’ Louis replied emphatically. ‘In spite of their symbolic value, I am in favour of some artworks that would humanise the exhibition.’
The oil painting in question was part of a triptych, a vast image of the navy’s best defensive warfare—frigates and aircraft carriers, including HMS Eagle before it was torpedoed—and its colossal twenty feet took up nearly the whole wall of the gallery. The hard lines and blunt edges of the machines tapered down to an intricate mesh of greys and blacks, crisscrossing until the perspective led her gaze into the distance.
The committee had assembled to preview the exhibition at the National Gallery before it opened in a few days’ time, but there was vigorous debate as they walked around, some members insisting that replacements should be made. Eleanor was drawn in by their conversation and she found herself trailing after them.
‘And what of these?’ James asked as he stepped in front of a series of portraits by Eric Kennington, the Air Ministry’s favoured artist for painting any person of note. Kennington’s portrait of an officer was unflinchingly lifelike: bloodshot eyes protruding from soft pouches, deep umber paint that gave the skin a reddish tone and the upturned nose its noble air.
Like all the exhibitions that the WAAC put on, this one was ostensibly designed to improve morale and inform the public—but Eleanor very much doubted that would occur on this occasion. She was confounded by the fact that there were no paintings of civilians: neither in the gallery nor on the calendars, postcards and bookmarks that she had helped to organise. These images of war were important, of course, but what about representing the people on the streets? More civilians had been killed at home than soldiers on the battlefronts so far. Where was their story being told?
The committee members continued to move around discussing the impact that the paintings might make. There were depictions of everything from mine-laying off the Norwegian coast to convoys at a Devon port, and in all sorts of mediums: watercolours and gum arabic on board, and studies made with carbon pencil on tracing paper. And the WAAC still couldn’t agree on which paintings should go and which ones to replace them with.
She’d grown used to the committee’s heated discussions, but until now none of them had been so fierce as the debate over Henry Moore’s underground pictures. Half of the members believed they were works of genius, while the other half thought they were tomb effigies and had no place being displayed as war art.
The current disagreement seemed similar in intensity, but this time Eleanor decided there was something she could do to help. She kept a portfolio of other submitted paintings that would work well as replacements: air raids and barrage balloons, the city under fire, a vista of London with a blood-red sky and searchlights intersecting.
She walked over to where Aubrey Powell and Sir Robert Hughes stood. Aubrey was saying, ‘Cliff Rowe is certainly another one to consider for—’
‘Excuse me,’ she said, interrupting her old professor before she lost her nerve. ‘I’ve been listening to your comments and, the thing is, we already have a great many paintings that you could use.’
Sir Robert raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that so, Miss Roy?’ He made the question sound rhetorical. She remembered how tall he was and how imposing he seemed, as he looked down at her.
Steeling herself, she said, ‘I can show you—right now, in fact. If you could just come over here.’ She led them towards an area that was screened off, behind which a number of paintings were set on easels or leaned against the walls. Several were of buildings on fire or the bombed-out shells of homes with denuded rooms, but all of them contained people. The largest was of a chief warden in uniform, furnished with an armlet and a silver badge, his white helmet painted in dark letters. He was a civilian, not one of the grand personalities from the Admiralty, but he seemed impressive and powerful nonetheless.
‘Most of these are from the Recording Britain artists,’ Eleanor explained. ‘They capture the life on the streets.’
The two men studied the paintings.
‘Impressive, but these are not the calibre of those that we believe will boost morale,’ Aubrey said. ‘However, I am sure there will be another occasion when we can use these, Miss Roy.’
She had navigated the difficult personalities on the committee thanks to Aubrey’s help, and her subsequent frank discussions with him. He understood the different natures and political allegiances of those men around the table, and he was able to tread the fine line between being supportive or assertive. And while it was in Eleanor’s nature to want harmony, if she had learned one thing from her father, it was that when forces were pitted against each other on these important matters, there was no place for defeatism.
‘I believe these paintings are what you agreed are missing from the exhibition,’ she persisted.
Sir Robert leaned over and grasped one of the paintings on the floor: Eleanor’s charcoal of the Bermondsey rescue. He studied the image. In the background were the tarpaulin homes that had been erected for dislodged families, their few possessions visible under the flimsy shelter; in the foreground, Rebecca bent down as she tried the donated shoes on her son, sombre lines detailing their anguished faces.
‘It’s the East End,’ said Eleanor. ‘There are streets and streets of people living this way.’
‘Well, I’ve certainly not seen anything quite like this come before the committee,’ Sir Robert exclaimed, still examining it.
‘There are lots of other scenes worthy of recording—there are families sleeping in disused drains, refugees in their own city—’
‘I know, Miss Roy, and it is a desperate state of affairs, but what is it that you are suggesting?’
‘That I can do more like this.’
Sir Robert looked at the painting again and then back to her. ‘Hold on, am I to understand that this is one of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am surprised, Miss Roy,’ Sir Robert said gravely.
She looked at Aubrey and waited for him to say something, but he just averted his gaze.
Sir Robert continued, ‘I would have thought your priority was the artists we represent, not promoting your own work.’
For a moment she couldn’t speak, she was so angry. She swallowed her pride and tried to explain. ‘But I wasn’t meaning to, sir. Most of these works are by other artists; it’s just a coincidence that you picked mine.’ Taking a deep breath, she decided to be completely honest. ‘I’ll make no excuses, though—I do want to paint.’
‘Miss Roy,’ he said, ‘we need men of experience who understand the medium, those who are free to move around. We need you here, my dear. You are doing such a good job of arranging things.’
She stared again at her old professor, still expecting him to support her.
‘He’s quite right,’ Aubrey said instead. ‘Our artists have seen active service and understand what is required of them. Look at this painting—’ he gestured to an oil painting of a brutalised landscape ‘—Albert Richards is a royal engineer.’
‘Yes,’ said Sir Robert, ‘it is an authentic experience for him.’
‘But—’
‘Miss Roy, we do not have the resources,’ Sir Robert said. ‘You are needed here. I’m sorry, but for the time being you will have to be satisfied with hanging your paintings at home.’
‘I see,’ she said, burning with humiliation.
She pressed her hands into her pockets, finding the sketchbook that Jack had given her and the strength to stay quiet and not say what she really thought: that the two men were wrong about everything. They had to be blind if they hadn’t noticed what was going on in the streets, and they were blinded by their beliefs about women’s capabilities.
‘I think it is commendable that you want to help, really I do,’ Sir Robert continued, ‘but these reproductions will be very important to us. You make a success out of these bookmarks and calendars, and we’ll see what we can do.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she muttered.
He was patronising her, and he was wrong: it was an authentic experience for her too. Aubrey knew that, but he just gazed at the floor, receding hairline now visible as he leaned forward, looking as if he was about to launch himself—strange how she’d never noticed his unusual posture before.
Eleanor didn’t want to hear any more about it, or from them. Jack would have been furious; he understood exactly where authenticity came from, she thought, remembering their conversation in Hyde Park: In short, there must be truth, integrity and splendour.
She followed Sir Robert and Aubrey back to the group, and the meeting continued without any mention of what had just transpired. A few replacements were made from the other pictures that were available.
When Eleanor was about to leave, Sir Robert caught up with her at the doorway, and she thought that he might have changed his mind.
‘I know it’s not in the job description, Miss Roy, but would you mind terribly picking up these few items for me? Hate to ask, but Lady Hughes is out of town for a few days, and, well…you ladies are so much more accomplished in these matters.’
A too-long moment passed as she looked at the slips of paper; it was long enough for him to know how she felt, and for her to register that she could do little about it. There was an order of cigarettes to be collected from Alfred Dunhill, a prescription to be collected from Boots, and some dry-cleaning. Sir Robert might just as well have torn up her painting.
‘Of course, sir,’ she said, managing to keep her voice even. ‘It would be a pleasure.’
Aubrey had been watching from the side of the room and followed her out into the hallway. ‘I think it’s a bloody good piece, Eleanor. You have captured the mother’s anguish superbly.’
She believed him; it was just a pity he couldn’t support her in front of anyone else.
‘You could have said something,’ she told him.
‘You won’t find Jack by gallivanting off to Europe,’ he said, placing an arm around her shoulders and leaning so close that she could smell the bitterness of stale tobacco on his breath. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’
Eleanor shrugged him off, speechless. As soon as she found her voice, she said with controlled anger, ‘That’s ridiculous. This isn’t about Jack. I want to be a war artist. Do you really think that’s because I want to find him?’
Aubrey studied her face. ‘I don’t know, Eleanor, but you must be patient. Jack will be back, you’ll see.’
Two months had passed and she hadn’t heard from Jack, but what was it to Aubrey, anyway? Jack was only an acquaintance of his. She didn’t want to discuss him with Aubrey and it was making her very uncomfortable, but she couldn’t let that show—Aubrey might be her only way in.
‘And what about a commission?’ she asked. ‘I only need one chance.’
‘You know, if it was up to me…’ He glanced towards the doorway, bravado vanishing. ‘But I’m sorry, Eleanor. If you want to get on the magic carpet, you need to get approval from the whole committee.’
She gathered herself; she wasn’t about to give up now. It had been enough for her to see art reach the masses through the British Restaurants, and then to bring artists to the committee and help make the exhibitions a success. But it wasn’t enough anymore.
She had always noticed things that other people didn’t. As a child she’d been able to draw different species of butterflies where her classmates had managed only one. And now she could provide her unique view of the war, one that the WAAC wasn’t exhibiting at the moment—and all she needed was that one chance.