One of the fascinating aspects of the four huge paintings that make up the bulk of the Frederick Cayley Robinson exhibition is the title, Acts of Mercy, which captures the attitude of society towards medical care at the beginning of the 20th century. At a time of little or no state provision for healthcare, hospitals had to rely on charity and sponsors, among other income sources, in order to survive. The four major paintings were commissioned by a wealthy benefactor to enhance the entrance hall of the Middlesex Hospital, one of London’s leading institutions.
As his theme, Robinson aimed for a quasi-religious setting that, while not immediately apparent, infuses a sense of piety and slight melancholia. Until five years ago, the paintings were on show in the Middlesex until it merged with its neighbour, University College Hospital, and the building, shamelessly, was pulled down. Only after an active public outcry were the paintings saved.
As a student in Paris, Robinson became enthralled by the work of Puvis de Chavannes, the dream-like artist who carried out numerous large-scale commissions for public buildings, favouring subdued colour and understatement. Sadly, the National Gallery has only one modest-sized de Chavannes, which is included in the exhibition. As a traditionalist, Robinson looked as much to the past as the present, particularly to the work of the early Italian artists such as Piero della Francesca. Robinson responded to the static quietness of such work rather than the vigour of the post-Impressionists.
Painted between 1916 and 1920, Acts of Mercy combines altruism with charity. Two related canvases, Orphans, depicts a group of young female orphans sitting demurely on one side of at a long table or queuing up to collect their bowl of milk. All are identically dressed in neat blue uniforms and white bonnets, definitely part of the institution in which their individually is subsumed within the whole. The picture composition, with the long table, recalls The Last Supper, an illusion that lightly evokes the worthy atmosphere.
The two other related images, The Doctor, may have been influenced by the distant horror of the Great War rumbling across the Channel. In one, a group of wounded stand on the steps outside the hospital, with one man wearing a sling on his arm. All stand around smoking, seemingly with little interaction between them. An imposing equestrian statue is a reminder of war. The other painting is also set outside the hospital and shows two groups. In one, a mother nurses a baby, surrounded by a scholar, the group self-contained and silent. Only a pug has its face turned towards the viewer. On the right, a woman kneels in an attitude of prayer to thank the doctor for treating her young daughter. In response, the bearded doctor holds up his arm as if he is bestowing a blessing.
The four images, painted as static tableau, are set within the streets of Fitzrovia – a reminder of the real world, but not one that intrudes unduly. These are self-contained images, their allegory addressing care and healing with little or no sentiment. Greeting patients and visitors in the Middlesex for some 90 years, their quiet, meditative air may have offered solace and reassurance, while also establishing the power of the institution and its ability to do good.
