Road to Recovery @ the National Army Museum

‘Rehabilitation starts the moment a life is saved. From that moment we start to consider life beyond survival.’
Major Peter Le Feuvre MBE (Physiotherapist, Royal Army Medical Corps)

‘Road to Recovery’ is a fairly small but well laid-out and very powerful exhibition at the National Army Museum. It describes the modern treatment of soldiers who have experienced life-changing battlefield injuries, both physical and mental, and paints a vivid picture of the journeys of rehabilitation and recovery which each injured soldier has to take.

Installation view of ‘Road to Recovery’ at the National Army Museum

The exhibition is staged in one medium-sized room. In the centre is a starburst-shaped set of panels which present the stories of five particular soldiers who suffered life-changing injuries. They are:

  • Captain Harry Parker – double lower-limb amputation
  • Simon Brown – traumatic facial injury and severe visual impairment
  • Dave Henson – double lower-limb amputation
  • Gemma Morgan – complex post-traumatic stress disorder
  • Johnson Beharry – severe head and brain injury

Each panel gives the facts of their injury and their battlefield treatment, details of subsequent operations, and the physical and mental legacy. Then they describe the rehabilitation process. All of this is stated in a kind of bureaucratic summary, a standardised list of fields and very clipped text descriptions, their brevity making them all the more powerful. Here’s an example:

Harry Parker

Rank and regiment: Captain, The Rifles

Dates of service: 2006 to 2013

Operational tours: Iraq 2007, Afghanistan 2009

Present occupation: Writer and artist

Injury: Double lower-limb amputation (right leg above knee, left leg below knee); lost a finger of left hand

Cause of injury: Stepped on an IED (improvised explosive device) while leading a patrol

Impact: 18 minutes from point of injury to Camp Bastion hospital; resuscitated three times; right leg amputated after 10 days due to fungal infection; 10 days in intensive care unity; 6 weeks and 11 operations in Selly Oak Hospital; 10 weeks after injury standing on prosthetics; in and out of Headley Court Defence Medical Rehabilitation Centre (Epsom) for six years

Treated: Camp Bastion Hospital, Afghanistan; Selly Oak Hospital Birmingham; Headley Court Defence Medical Rehabilitation Centre

The details of each injury are harrowing enough, but each of the five case studies also has an interactive panel accompanied by headphones, where you press a tab and can watch and listen to the person in question being interviewed. The three short videos address the same topics, namely 1) the incident, 2) rehab, 3) the legacy.

Placed around the central panels describing the five specific stories, are more general panels describing different aspects of modern rehabilitation and how it’s changed and improved in recent decades. There’s a case showing a selection of prosthetic limbs, there are several artworks – three paintings and a bust associated with other survivors – and there’s a video in which occupational therapists, nurses and specialists explain the details and thinking behind modern rehabilitation treatment.

Unexpected survivors

In the last 20 years, particularly during the long conflicts in Iraq (2003 to 2011) and Afghanistan (2001 to 2021), huge improvements in battlefield medical care have led to many soldiers surviving physical injuries that only a decade or so earlier would have been fatal. In the jargon of the trade these soldiers are referred to as ‘unexpected survivors’. The wall panels indicate the extraordinarily skilled and sophisticated medical procedures which saved their lives on the battlefield and then at the rear area medical facilities in the first minutes and hours after the injury.

Respect to all the medical staff involved, but what really impresses is the resilience, bravery and determination of the patients themselves. The medics saved the soldiers’ lives but then, as the soldiers and physiotherapists and counsellors all make abundantly clear – that’s when the real journey to recovery begins, marking the start of the psychological journey to recovery.

The determination and bravery of the five selected soldiers is awe-inspiring. Would I be that brave and determined if my legs were blown off, if half my brain were permanently damaged, if I was blinded by a shell exploding a few feet from my face?

Here’s a painting done by Harry Parker, whose story I outlined above. He had studied art before joining the army. This is the first painting he did after his injury and, according to the wall label, painting it made him realise that he had more options in life than just being a soldier.

‘Legs’ by Captain Harry Parker (2013)

Harry realised there was more to him than obeying orders in the Army, that he had a lot more to contribute and live for. In its way this painting epitomises the fat that the key to recovery for most injured veterans is regaining their independence and finding a fulfilling alternative career.

PTSD

The exhibition is at pains to point out that soldiers suffer not only physical injuries but can suffer from severe mental trauma, too. The best known condition is post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The symptoms of this include nightmares and flashbacks, trouble sleeping, being hypervigilant and angry, or, at the other extreme, becoming completely emotionally detached from your surroundings. As well as hurting the sufferers, PTSD can obviously also have a devastating impact on family and loved ones, struggling to cope with a loved one who, in extreme cases, becomes a complete stranger.

In the past the Ministry of Defence was guilty of failing to screen soldiers back from active service adequately, failing in its ‘duty of care’ as the jargon has it. Nowadays everyone is much more aware of the seriousness of the condition and soldiers can be referred to the NHS or to charities which offer help and support. Treatment usually takes the form of a combination of therapy and medication.

Four of the five detailed profiles laid out on the wall panels are of soldiers who suffered horrific physical injuries, but one of the five is devoted solely to psychological damage, the case of Gemma Morgan.

Gemma Morgan

Rank and regiment: Royal Logistics Corp

Dates of service: 1996 to 2002

Operational tour: Kosovo 1998 to 1999

Present occupation: Speaker and Leadership Consultant; ambassador at Help for Heroes

Injury: Complex post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)

Cause of injury: Observing and verifying instances of ethnic cleansing in Kosovo (a further wall label explains that Gemma witnessed acts of ethnic cleansing but, due to the nature of the mission was unable to intervene; it was this inability to help the innocent which caused her mental anguish)

Impact: Nightmares and flashbacks; alcohol abuse and emotional withdrawal; suicidal tendencies; wrongly diagnosed with moderately affective disorder, not attributable to her military service; three years after leaving the Army diagnosed with severe PTSD attributed to her service in Kosovo; seven weeks as an in-patient and over a year as an out-patient at a private clinic

Treated: Department of Community Mental Health, Aldershot; NHS; the Priory

As Gemma’s story indicates, the mental wounds are often harder to diagnose, harder to identify, and so harder to treat than physical ones. There’s an interactive panel which lets you listen to Gemma herself explaining her journey through the three steps of: incident, rehabilitation, and legacy. God, the poor woman.

Another wall label tells us that local villagers in Kosovo called Gemma ‘Djamelia’. At first she thought this was a local pronunciation of her name but then learned that it was a local word meaning ‘bringer of hope’, and this meant a lot to her later on, during her recovery. You can imagine how something like that must answer the need for purpose and meaning to events which otherwise just seem too horrific to process.

‘Rehabilitation for me has been about learning to find new meaning, learning to find new purpose to my life and finding a tribe that I belong to.’ (Gemma Morgan)

Jaco

The exhibition tells three or four more inspiring stories. Jaco van Gass lost his arm and suffered other life-changing injuries when he was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade in Afghanistan in 2011. After years of rehabilitation he became a para-cyclist and won two gold medals at the 2020 Paralympic Games.

Jaco van Gass by Caroline de Peyrecave (2017)

Snippets

At the peak of the war in Afghanistan, 2009 to 2010, Headley Court Defence Medical Rehabilitation Centre in Epsom was the largest centre for prosthetics in the UK with 11 full-time prosthetists.

There are over 2,000 Armed Forces charities in the UK, from well known ones like Help for Heroes and the Royal British Legion to more specialised ones like Blesma, Combat Stress, KartForce or Waterloo Uncovered.

The Invictus Games were set up in 2014 under the patronage of the Duke of Sussex, to give injured veterans a platform to compete at sports against their peers. Many have gone on to compete in the Paralympic Games.

Kings College London leads research into military mental health. As a result of its work, early screening and treatment for PTSD are being implemented.

Although there is more institutional help than ever before, more understanding, more therapeutic approaches and more charities working in the area of soldiers’ mental health, some still slip through the net. Surprisingly, maybe, the suicide rate among veterans is lower than the general population, but in 2018 75 veterans took their lives.

Best wishes

This is a very moving and often upsetting exhibition. Best wishes to all the veterans injured, either physically or psychologically, in all the stupid wars our politicians have sent them to fight. And huge respect to all the professionals – the medics and physiotherapists and psychotherapists and counsellors – who help put them back together again.


Related links

Charities mentioned in the exhibition

Related reviews

More National Army Museum reviews

The Double Helix by James Watson (1968)

The short paper by James Watson and Francis Crick establishing the helical structure of the DNA molecule was published in the science journal, Nature, on April 25, 1953. The blurb of this book describes it as the scientific breakthrough of the 20th century. Quite probably, although it was a busy century – the discovery of antibiotics was quite important, too, not to mention the atom bomb.

James Watson and Francis Crick with their DNA model at the Cavendish Laboratories in 1953

Anyway, what makes this first-person account of the events leading up to the discovery such fun is Watson’s prose style and mentality. He is fearless. He takes no prisoners. He is brutally honest about his own shortcomings and everyone else’s and, in doing so, sheds extraordinarily candid light on how science is actually done. He tells us that foreign conferences where nobody speaks English are often pointless. Many scientists are just plain stupid. Some colleagues are useless, some make vital contributions at just the right moment.

Watson has no hesitation in telling us that, when he arrived in Cambridge in 1951, aged just 23, he was unqualified in almost every way – although he had a degree from the University of Chicago, he had done his best to avoid learning any physics or chemistry, and as a graduate student at Indiana he had also avoided learning any chemistry. In fact the book keeps referring to his astonishing ignorance of almost all the key aspects of the field he was meant to be studying.

The one thing he did have was a determination to solve the problem which had been becoming ever-more prominent in the world of biology, what is a gene? Watson says he was inspired by Erwin Schrödinger’s 1946 book, What Is Life? which pointed out that ‘genes’ were the key component of living cells and that, to understand what life is, we must understand what genes are and how they work. The bacteriologist O.T. Avery had already shown that hereditary traits were passed from one bacterium to another by purified DNA molecules, so this much was common knowledge in the scientific community.

DNA was probably the agent of hereditary traits, but what did it look like and how did it work?

Our hero gets a U.S. government research grant to go to Copenhagen to study with biochemist Herman Kalckar, his PhD supervisor Salvador Luria hoping the Dane would teach him something but… no. Watson’s interest wasn’t sparked, partly because Kalckar was working on the structure of nucleotides, which young Jim didn’t think were immediately relevant to his quest, also because Herman was hard to understand –

At times I stood about nervously while Herman went through the motions of a biochemist, and on several days I even understood what he said. (p.34)

A situation compounded when Herman began to undergo a painful divorce and his mind wandered from his work altogether.

It was a chance encounter at a conference in Naples that motivated Watson to seek out the conducive-sounding environment of Cambridge (despite the reluctance of his funding authorities back in the States to let him go so easily). John Kendrew, the British biochemist and crystallographer, at that point studying the structure of myoglobin, helped smooth his passage to the fens.

Head of the Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge where Watson now found himself was Sir Lawrence Bragg, Nobel Prize winner and one of the founders of crystallography. The unit collecting X-ray diffraction photographs of haemoglobin was headed up by the Austrian Max Perutz, and included Francis Crick, at this stage (in 1951) 35-years-old and definitely an acquired taste. Indeed the famous opening sentence of the book is:

I have never seen Francis Crick in a modest mood.

followed by the observation that:

he talked louder and faster than anybody else, and when he laughed, his location within the Cavendish was obvious.

So he had found a home of sorts and, in Francis Crick, a motormouth accomplice who was also obsessed by DNA – but there were two problems.

  1. The powers that be didn’t like Crick, who was constantly getting into trouble and nearly got thrown out when he accused the head of the lab, Bragg, of stealing one of his ideas in a research paper.
  2. Most of the work on the crystallography of DNA was being done at King’s College, London, where Maurice Wilkins had patiently been acquiring X-rays of the molecule for nearly ten years.

There was a sub-problem here which was that Wilkins was being forced to work alongside Rosalind Franklin, an expert in X-ray crystallography, who was an independent-minded 31-year-old woman (b.1920) and under the impression that she had been invited in to lead the NA project. The very young Watson and the not-very-securely-based Crick both felt daunted at having to ask to borrow and interpret Wilkins’s material, not least because he himself would have to extract it from the sometimes obstreperous Franklin.

And in fact there was a third big problem, which was that Linus Pauling, probably the world’s leading chemist and based at Cal Tech in the States, was himself becoming interested in the structure of DNA and the possibility that it was the basis of the much-vaunted hereditary material.

Pauling’s twinkling eyes and dramatic flair when making presentations is vividly described (pp.37-8). Along the same lines, Watson later gives a deliberately comical account of how he is scoffed and ignored by the eminent biochemist Erwin Chargaff after making some (typically) elementary mistakes in basic chemical bonding.

It is fascinating to read the insights scattered throughout the book about the relative reputations of the different areas of science – physics, biology, biochemistry, crystallography and so on. Typical comments are:

  • ‘the witchcraft-like techniques of the biochemist’, p.63
  • ‘In England, if not everywhere, most botanists and zoologists were a muddled lot.’ p.63

In a typical anecdote, after attending a lecture in London given by Franklin about her work, Watson goes for a Chinese meal in Soho with Maurice Wilkins who is worried that he made a mistake moving into biology, compared to the exciting and well-funded world of physics.

The physics of the time was dominated by the aftershock of the massive wartime atom bomb project, and with ongoing work to develop both the H-bomb and peacetime projects for nuclear power.

During the war Wilkins had helped to develop improved radar screens at Birmingham, then worked on isotope separation at the Manhattan Project at the University of California, Berkeley. Now he was stuck in a dingy lab in King’s College arguing with Franklin almost every day about who should use the best samples of DNA and the X-ray equipment and so on. (Later on, Watson tells us Wilkins’ and Franklin’s relationship deteriorated so badly that he (Watson) was worried about lending the London team the Cambridge team’s wire models in case Franklin strangled Wilkins with them. At one point, when Watson walks in on Franklin conducting an experiment, she becomes so angry at him he is scared she’s going to attack him. Wilkins confirms there have been occasions when he has run away in fear of her assaulting him.)

It’s in this respect – the insights into the way the lives of scientists are as plagued by uncertainty, professional rivalry, and doubts about whether they’re in the right job, or researching the right subject, gnawing envy of more glamorous, better-funded labs and so on – that the book bursts with insight and human interest.

Deoxyribonucleic acid

By about page 50 Watson has painted vivid thumbnail portraits of all the players involved in the story, the state of contemporary scientific knowledge, and the way different groups or individuals (Wilkins, Franklin, Pauling, Crick and various crystallographer associates at the Cavendish) are all throwing around ideas and speculations about the structure of DNA, on bus trips, in their freezing cold digs, or over gooseberry pie at their local pub, the Eagle in Cambridge (p.75).

For the outsider, I think the real revelation is learning how very small the final achievement of Crick and Watson seems. Avery had shown that DNA was the molecule of heredity. Chergaff had shown it contained equal parts of the four bases. Wilkins and Franklin had produced X-ray photos which strongly hinted at the structure and the famous photo 51 from their lab put it almost beyond doubt that DNA had a helix structure. Pauling, in America, had worked out the helical structure of other long proteins and had now began to speculate about DNA (although Watson conveys his and Crick’s immense relief that Pauling’s paper on the subject, published in early 1953, betrayed some surprisingly elementary mistakes in its chemistry.) But the clock was definitely ticking very loudly, rivals were closing in on the answer, and the pages leading up to the breakthrough are genuinely gripping.

In other words, the final deduction of the double helix structure doesn’t come out of the blue; the precise opposite; from Watson’s account it seems like it would have only been a matter of time before one or other of these groups had stumbled across the correct structure.

But it is very exciting when Watson comes into work one day, clears all the clutter from his desk and starts playing around with pretty basic cardboard cutouts of the four molecules which, by now, had become strongly associated with DNA, adenine and guanine, cytosine and thymine.

Suddenly, in a flash, he sees how they assemble the molecules naturally arrange themselves into pairs linked by hydrogen bonds – adenine with thymine and cytosine with guanine.

For a long time they’d been thinking the helix had one strand at the core and that the bases stuck out from it, like quills on a porcupine. Now, in a flash, Watson realises that the the base pairs, which join together so naturally, form a kind of zip, and the bands of sugar-phosphates holding the thing together run along the outside – creating a double helix shape.

The structure of the DNA double helix. The atoms in the structure are colour-coded by element and the detailed structures of two base pairs are shown in the bottom right. (Source: Wikipedia)

Conclusion

I am not qualified to summarise the impact of the discovery of DNA has had on the world. Maybe it would take books to do so adequately. I’ll quote the book’s blurb:

By elucidating the structure of DNA, the molecule underlying all life, Francis Crick and James Watson revolutionised biochemistry. At the time, Watson was only 24. His uncompromisingly honest account of those heady days lifts the lid on the real world of great scientists, with their very human faults and foibles, their petty rivalries and driving ambition. Above all, he captures the extraordinary excitement of their desperate efforts to beat their rivals at King’s College to the solution to one of the great enigmas of the life sciences.

The science is interesting, but has been overtaken and superseded generations ago. It’s the characters and the atmosphere of the time (the dingy English rooms with no heating, the appalling English food), the dramatic reality of scientific competition, and then the genuinely exciting pages leading up to the breakthrough which makes Watson’s book such a readable classic.

Rosalind Franklin

I marked all the places in the text where a feminist might explode with anger. Both Watson, but even more Crick, assume pretty young girls are made for their entertainment. They are referred to throughout as ‘popsies’ and Crick in particular, although married, betrays an endless interest in the pretty little secretaries and au pairs which adorn Cambridge parties.

It is through this patronising and sexist prism that the pair judged the efforts of Franklin who was, reasonably enough, a hard-working scientist not at all interested in her appearance or inclined to conform to gender stereotypes of the day. She felt marginalised and bullied at the King’s College lab, and irritated by the ignorance and superficiality of most of Watson and Crick’s ideas, untainted as they were by any genuine understanding of the difficult art of X-ray crystallography – an ignorance which Watson, to his credit, openly admits.

Eventually, Franklin found working with Wilkins so intolerable that she left to take up a position at Birkbeck College and then, tragically, discovered she had incurable cancer, although she worked right up to her death in April 1958.

Franklin has become a feminist heroine, a classic example of a woman struggling to make it in a man’s world, patronised by everyone around her. But if you forget her gender and just think of her as the scientist called Franklin, it is still a story of misunderstandings and poisonous professional relations such as I’ve encountered in numerous workplaces. Watson and Crick’s patronising tone must have exacerbated the situation, but the fundamental problem was that she was given clear written instructions that she would be in charge of the X-ray crystallography at King’s College but then discovered that Wilkins thought he had full control of the project. This was a management screw-up more than anything else.

It does seem unfair that she wasn’t cited in the Nobel Prize which was awarded to Crick, Watson and Wilkins in 1962, but then she had died in 1958, and the Swedish Academy had a simple rule of not awarding the prize to dead people.

Still, it’s not like her name has disappeared from the annals of history. Quite the reverse:

Impressive list, don’t you think?

And anyone who hasn’t read the book might be easily persuaded that she was an unjustly victimised, patronised and ignored figure. But just to set the record straight, Watson chooses to end the entire book not with swank about his and Crick’s later careers, but with a tribute to Franklin’s character and scientific achievement.

In 1958, Rosalind Franklin died at the early age of thirty-seven. Since my initial impressions of her, both scientific and personal (as recorded in the early pages of this book), were often wrong, I want to say something here about her achievements. The X-ray work she did at King’s is increasingly regarded as superb. The sorting out of the A and B forms [of DNA], by itself, would have made her reputation; even better was her 1952 demonstration, using Patterson superposition methods, that the phosphate groups must be on the outside of the DNA molecule. Later, when she moved to Bernal’s lab, she took up work on tobacco mosaic virus and quickly extended our qualitative ideas about helical construction into a precise quantitative picture, definitely establishing the essential helical parameters and locating the ribonucleic chain halfway out from the central axis.

Because I was then teaching in the States, I did not see her as often as did Francis, to whom she frequently came for advice or when she had done something very pretty, to be sure he agreed with her reasoning. By then all traces of our early bickering were forgotten, and we both came to appreciate greatly her personal honesty and generosity, realising years too late the struggles that the intelligent woman faces to be accepted by a scientific world which often regards women as mere diversions from serious thinking. Rosalind’s exemplary courage and integrity were apparent to all when, knowing she was mortally ill, she did not complain but continued working on a high level until a few weeks before her death. (p.175)

That is a fine, generous and moving tribute, don’t you think? And as candid and honest as the rest of the book in admitting his and Crick’s complete misreading of her situation and character.

In a literal sense the entire book leads up to this final page [these are the last words of the book] and this book became a surprise bestseller and the standard source to begin understanding the events surrounding the discovery. So it’s hard to claim that her achievement was ‘suppressed’ or ‘ignored’ when this is the climax of the best-selling account of the story.


Related links

Reviews of other science books

Chemistry

Cosmology

The Environment

Genetics and life

Human evolution

Maths

Particle physics

Psychology

Maggi Hambling: War Requiem and Aftermath @ Somerset House

The Inigo Rooms at Somerset House are hosting an exhibition of recent work by one of Britain’s most established artists, Maggi Hambling CBE. (The Inigo Rooms are reached through a doorway in the East Wing of the main quad of Somerset House – which is itself accessed either via a grand archway from the Strand or via the river terrace, linked directly to Waterloo Bridge by a sloping ramp.)

Aftermath

To see the exhibition you have to climb down an atmospheric old winding staircase to a long, narrow, darkened corridor with five rooms off it. Each room is sealed by a heavy wooden door giving an eerie Alice in Wonderland effect. But on pedestals the length of the corridor you can immediately see some of the 30 or so Aftermath works, all about human head-size, sitting on four-foot-high pedestals, spotlit in the darkness.

Hambling was born and raised in East Anglia and the sea is a big presence in her work. Probably her most famous – and controversial – piece is the four-metre-high steel sculpture of a seashell, Scallop, unveiled at the north end of Aldeburgh beach in 2003.

Aftermath is the name she’s given to a series of relatively small sculptures, begun in 2013. She’s taken driftwood from the shore, carved and reformed the pieces, coated them in plaster to soften the outlines and to create a dripping, molten look – and then cast them in bronze, and painted and repainted them with thick gloopy layers of paint. They’ve been subject, in other words, to quite radical transformations.

Installation view of the Aftermath sculptures

Installation view of the Aftermath sculptures

What is art if not an act of attention – the creation of an object or sounds or series of words – which themselves command attention? Quite how much attention is entirely up to the strolling viewer.

Walking down the corridor past ten or so of these strange, melted gargoyle shapes painted purple or blue-white or yellow – and then into a room full of twenty or so more – their sheer abundance liberates the viewer to window-shop and alight on this or that object as whims of light, angles or curves, catch your fancy.

Because one hanging on the wall at the start is shaped like a pig’s head, and the next one is a bright yellow glutinous object with tubes protruding which could be a heart, I wondered if they were going to be visions from an abattoir, and that that would be the link with the overall war theme of the exhibition.

But as I explored further I realised that they are far more diverse than that, in shape and colour and intention. I liked:

War Requiem II

The sign on the heavy wooden door advises that only one visitor at a time should enter the War Requiem II room, so I turned the handle and entered with trepidation.

It is a small room made smaller by four wall-sized panels of rough hardboard, on which are hanging about 20 abstract oil paintings all using the same thick swirls of Indian yellow and jet black oil paint to create tortured gashes. Maybe – I thought – they are the fires burning up out of the oil deliberately released by Saddam Hussein during the First Gulf War. In fact they have titles like Victim XXX and Battlefield XVIII, from which I realise they are intended to be much more figurative than at first appeared.

Battlefield XVIII by Maggi Hambling

Battlefield XVIII by Maggi Hambling

From loudspeakers overhead comes the haunting, swooning sound of the soprano singing the Lacrymosa from Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem.

The room contains an old wooden chair to sit on and also two mirrors, all three objects lightly flecked with the same colours as the paintings.

Maybe as we walk round the small space we are meant to catch our reflection in the mirrors and think these victims of atrocity could be us.

You are the sea

At the end of the long dark Alice in Wonderland-style corridor is another heavy door with a minatory sign on it warning entrants to be prepared.

Inside another small room is a two-metre-wide concrete drainage pipe, placed on its side to form a circular seat. The mouth of the pipe is covered with a metal grille and the whole thing is a recreation of a vent from one of the many drainage systems which cover Hambling’s native East Anglia. Apparently, this one is a replica of part of the sluice at Thorpeness, built to prevent the sea flooding the river Hundred and, more metaphorically, from rushing in to overwhelm the land.

There’s a loudspeaker in the pipe and from it comes a recording of the seasounds, the remote booming and breaking of waters far below, which you can hear in the real vent. And mixed into the swashing, crashing sounds are fragments of speech, phonemes torn from Hambling’s 2009 poem You Are The Sea.

Dominating the wall is one of her very large Wall of water paintings – as so often she’s painted a series on the same theme – thick garottes of oil paint depicting the unruly element which threatens to wash us away.

Figurative

Those were the highlights. In other rooms are more obviously representational works. A vivid charcoal copy of a detail of Manet’s The Execution of Maximilian stands as their mascot, reopening the possibility of an immediately understandable figurative art. They include:

  • A large striking painting of a line of women in black burqas holding rocket launchers – Gulf women prepare for war – taken from a photograph, a snapshot of the absurdity and incongruity of a war which is still raging.
  • Cuddling skulls evocative depiction of a timeless theme for moralists.

In the 1990s Hambling created a series of bronze sculptures titled War coffin – consisting of small frames with fragments of metal dangling down – and the figurative room contains a TV on a pedestal showing a video which features the sound of the metal pieces knocking each other like wind chimes – an eerie tinkling which echoes down the darkened corridor.

Thoughts

For me the Requiem room didn’t really work, much though I liked the individual paintings: they felt too samey hung together, their similitude drained them of impact.

By contrast the walls of water paintings seemed to me to successfully vary a theme or subject and a style, ensuring visual consistency by the use of the same palette of whites and greys, but producing lots of new and fresh images.

They were helped by their scale. Whereas the victim paintings are all small and close to each other in the viewer’s field of vision, and so have a similar affect, the big walls of water had more space in which to express the variety of the canvases. You had to physically turn to address each one individually, which involved a slight but important mental adjustment as well.

But in my opinion it is worth visiting the show just to see the Aftermath pieces, to wander among these strange combinations of accident and artifice, and let the shapes and colours and configurations sink in, striking chords in your mind, opening visual and tactile possibilities. God, I wish artists let you touch their sculptures!


Related links

More Somerset House reviews

%d bloggers like this: