Window, Dartmouth Row, Blackheath 1956

John Bratby’s painting, Window, Dartmouth Row, Blackheath, is a riot of browns, yellows, and reds, all churned together like a delicious, albeit slightly overripe, fruitcake. I can imagine Bratby attacking the canvas, wrestling with the scene before him. It’s all there – the window frame, the buildings outside, even a box of cornflakes – but rendered with such impasto that everything feels immediate, like a snapshot taken with a tube of oil paint. I feel an affinity with Bratby, who, like me, embraced the messiness of painting. The way he layers the paint, thick and gloppy, speaks to a desire to capture the visceral quality of seeing. Notice how the light struggles to penetrate the gloom, how the colors vibrate against each other, creating a sense of unease. It's not just a window; it's a portal into the artist's psyche. Think of him as a link in a long chain of painters, each riffing on the other, pushing the boundaries of what paint can do. And isn’t that what art is all about?