Naked truth about the British Art Show | London Evening Standard

In 1979, the British Art Show (BAS), in spite of a slightly shaky start, seemed a sound and sensible idea. Every five years we were to stare into the goldfish bowl and distinguish between clear water and the mephitic fish-shit at its bottom. We knew then that we had a number of artists worthy of international reputation since the end of the war in 1945 and that London had trounced the School of Paris into oblivion, but there were grave uncertainties about the generation from which the new Moore and Sutherland must rise. The old certainties then lay in the hands of Caro, Freud and Auerbach, but even of those we were not quite sure, for the promise of Hockney had already proved fugitive, the promise of Procktor was quite gone, and far too many proudly presented as The Future by Bryan Robertson and John Russell in Private View, their seminal tome of 1965, had in the 14 years since, fizzled and sputtered to a standstill. A scrupulous survey of who was in, who out and who coming up on the outside might have clarified our hopes and opinions, but the very first BAS, with over a hundred artists in it, had the air of uncritical pluralism and inclusivity for its own sake, and proved to be just another rambling exhibition. As it was not shown in London, few saw it, fewer cared, and it had no influence.