Beryl Cook: a homely, round name for a woman we imagine is also round and jolly and homely. Her art depresses me. I thought I would be able to summon some sort of enthusiasm for its Englishness, its playfulness, its sauciness. But I can't. The best that can be said is that Cook celebrates ordinariness - large women with large appetites, broad-shouldered men, hen parties, booze-ups, dances, dinners, shopping, sunbathing, a bit of slap and tickle. At least ordinariness in Cook's art is more various than one might think: the bloke next door is a shoe fetishist, and even Saga members like a bit of kinky sex. All the girls, and some of the boys, like a sailor. Cook's is an art without any pretentions other than to please.
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I suppose the word for Cook's work is "affirmative". Another word would be "cliched": Cubans smoke cigars and drive wrecked 1950s cars. Argentinians like to tango. There are sleazy bars and prostitutes at the harbour end of the Ramblas in Barcelona. Cats like fish. Women sometimes get riotously drunk and bawdy. We know because Cook's paintings show us. We knew anyway, and so feel comforted in our view of the world. It is all as cloying as a cup of Ovaltine.
I don't know what Ms Cook has done to offend Mr Searle. Perhaps it is because, as well as being a great and original artist, she is popular. Or perhaps it is that the exhibition is in Gateshead, far from the usual metropolitan stamping ground.
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