The latest exhibition over at Nottingham Castle tells the story of Robert MacBryde and Robert Colquhoun, two Scottish artists, lovers, and outsiders, whose mark on mid-century Modernist art has largely been overlooked. Sophie Gargett caught up with curator and award-winning writer Damian Barr, whose fictional biographical novel The Two Roberts sheds light on a love story that was hidden for decades.
The year is 1933 and travelling from the rural town of Maybole, Ayrshire, a young aspiring painter called Robert MacBryde is on his way to art school. On the train he meets a dark curly haired boy – another Robert – who happens to share his destination. A crossing of paths that would go on to define their lives and work, from that day on the two men would never separate.
Author Damian Barr’s novel The Two Roberts follows MacBryde and Colquhoun through the highs and lows of their tumultuous life together; from their early attraction as struggling art students, the alluring days of commercial success in London’s creative demi-monde, to their later years of struggle and destitution. Accompanied by an exhibition of over one hundred works, Barr paints a rich picture of these two men, attempting to see what lies behind the easel.
They were so famous and briefly so rich. They were celebrated and very important to other artists at the time, but it's almost like they've been cut out of their rightful place in social, cultural, and art history
For Barr, the novel was a way of ‘righting a historical wrong’ by shedding light on a story largely hidden from time – while the Roberts were known as staunch companions and creative partners for the majority of their lives, their relationship was rarely referenced explicitly. Discovering more about them, Barr felt a “personal kinship”. Like him, the Roberts were gay, Scottish, and working class – so why hadn’t he come across two of the most prestigious artists in Scottish modern art, who lived only half a century before himself?
“There’s a joke about them being called ‘MacBraque and MacPicasso’ in their lifetime,” he explains. “They were so famous and briefly so rich. They were celebrated and very important to other artists at the time, but it's almost like they've been cut out of their rightful place in social, cultural, and art history.”
This erasure of Queer stories is nothing new – for centuries people in the LGBTQ community themselves have had to conceal their truth as a form of self-protection, and still often do. Moments within the novel highlight this, such as when the Roberts meet an older gay man who tells them “never write anything down, and never speak to the police.” The pair share love notes and sketch portraits of each other in the safety of their own home, but burn much of it for fear of being exposed. For many of their gay friends, detection would lead to ostracism at best, blackmail, violence, or imprisonment at worst.
From what remained – newspaper clippings, anecdotes, and a ‘coded acknowledgment’ of their relationship hidden in details of their paintings – Barr pieced together their story, imagining their lesser known early years and more private moments.
Acknowledging the element of creative license integral to writing such a story, Barr explains: “Their story is traditionally told as a tragedy, and I wanted to focus on it as a love story, so I want to show the beginning of that. So I had them meet on the train to Glasgow School of Art because I was so impatient for them to fall in love – but that's some of my romanticism slipping in.”
While inseparable from early on in the novel, there is a considerable amount of time before either of the Roberts act on their feelings. In these early years, we get to know their contrasting personalities which go on to define their relationship dynamic. MacBryde is upbeat, funny and curious while Colquhoun is cautious, testy and introverted. MacBryde acted as the homemaker and cheerleader, securing exhibitions and sales through his bubbly personality, while lovingly giving Colquhoun, the more successful of the pair, time to both paint and brood.
“Bobby makes less work because the circumstances aren't conducive. He's the domestic god that keeps everything happening, and the person that takes Robert's work out into the world, because Robert can't,” Barr says.
After their studies in Glasgow the pair travelled on a scholarship to European cultural centres such as Paris and Venice. They then found a home in London’s bohemian districts of Soho and Fitzrovia, mixing with other Queer painters such as Frances Bacon and John Minton, and writers including Dylan Thomas and Elizabeth Smart. In this midcentury cultural melting pot, fewer eyebrows were raised over two men living so closely, and as the Roberts hosted parties and explored their sexuality further, they found both friends and success in the city.
“A lot of the bohemians they met were Queer, and they were the engine of modernism of modern British art,” says Barr.
The exhibition walks attendees through the life and creative oeuvre of the Roberts, from their own paintings and sketches, to photographs and pieces by their contemporaries. Colquhoun specialised in portraits, while MacBryde was a master of still life – a rule they largely kept to for their careers. Despite the different subjects, there are similarities in their styles – a jauntiness in the playful movement and bright colours, and a conflicting sense of mystery present, as if something is lurking just out of the frame.
Barr likens MacBryde's paintings of food to social media posts of today, giving a glimpse behind closed doors, the domestic setting providing hints about a person’s life: “I see class, because these are humble vegetables. They're fresh, because they will be eating them and they don't have the luxury of waste. Then also he's making it for Robert. Robert's hovering off stage all the time in those still life paintings.”
A lot of the bohemians they met were Queer, and they were the engine of modernism of modern British art
Colquhoun on the other hand conjured “strange figures: sad women, beggars and boys – all figures broken by forces greater than them,” as Barr writes in the exhibition. The deep midnight blues and silvery masked faces of Women in Ireland (1958) give a stark and haunting representation of grief, while the truly imaginative Masked Figure Venetian Carnival (1950) is somehow both cheerful and unsettling in its distorted, indifferent presence.
In 1962 Colquhoun died in MacBryde’s arms, at age 47. The popularity of their work had declined as American pop art had begun to dominate the visual arts, and many of their friends had been lost to suicide and destitution. Neither lived to see homosexuality decriminalised in 1967 (and certainly not in Scotland where it took another thirteen years). “It’s very recent and painful, and it’s not purely history,” Barr explains, noting the homophobia he has encountered while touring with the book. “It’s not every event, but it doesn’t have to be to make you anxious. It’s a change I’ve seen, and it’s important for people to know.”
It seems like a precarious task to write a novel around two real-life figures, but Barr brings the Roberts to life with great care. Sharing a rare glimpse into Queer domesticity in the 20th century, he encourages readers to ask questions about our public and private selves, who is allowed the freedom to live authentically when less than a century ago, so many did not.
Robert MacBryde and Robert Colquhoun: Artists, Lovers, Outsiders is exhibiting at Nottingham Castle Museum & Art Gallery until Sunday 6 September.
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