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After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
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This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
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Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
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‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
After her debut in 1957, Jean Cooke exhibited at the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition every year until her death. Yet, the artist is often overlooked in the history of post-war British art. Indeed, the (few) previous exhibitions which feature her work have typically centred on her abusive relationship with her husband and fellow painter, John Bratby – much as her treatment in the time of her life.
But Ungardening takes a more nuanced approach, focussing on how the artist asserted and expressed herself through her practice. We get hints of her complex positions as a woman, a mother, and an artist, and how her attitudes affected her practice.
Born in 1927, Cooke lived and later pursued her arts education in south London. Though best known for her later Sussex seascapes, the Garden Museum claim that their leafier terrains were too a 'key component' from her early practice.
It's less convincing than their recent show of Cooke's contemporary, Lucien Freud. Where Freud's plants and people were almost interchangeable in personality and temperament, here the human/nature binary persists. Cooke's painted portraits of people remain her most compelling works; the foliage almost incidental.
This only encourages more creative curation by Andrew Lambirth, whose previous Garden Museum exhibitions include more predictable subjects, as the well-known 'artist plantsman' Cedric Morris. Lambirth's respect for Cooke is evident in his captions; her peek-a-boo plant paintings 'exquisitely yet robustly painted'.
Lambirth acknowledges the abuse but doesn't obsess, limiting to focus on how it impacted her practice. In this sense, it is the opposite of shows like Soutine | Kossoff, which try to cut out the violence altogether.
When Cooke met and married John Bratby in 1953, he immediately disapproved of her interest in pottery and pushed her towards the canvas. The same year, she accepted a position to study painting at the Royal Academy. Nomadic in their early marriage, moving between friends' homes and artist residencies, Bratby's control and manipulation worsened when they settled in Blackheath.
Some of Cooke's paintings are signed with both surnames – Cooke and Bratby – evidence of his ever-changing mind and mood. 'You belong to me!'; Cooke re-enacts his first frightening line, in one of few video interviews with the artist. She almost casts it off, perhaps a sign of how such treatment was internalised, and near-normalised, at the time.
Bitterly jealous of her becoming better-known, and conscious of the competition, Bratby soon insisted Cooke relinquish his name and exhibit under her own. He would often storm into her room and seize her works, painting over the canvas when he required new materials of his own. Though Cooke had a 'crazy sense of humour’, as remarked by her playwright pal, Nell Dunn, there was no denying the artist’s devotion to her practice, ‘she sees herself as a comic character in a comic world, with the only serious thing being painting.' In this context, perhaps Cooke would have found her husband’s actions crueller still.
He permitted her to work only in the early morning and often forbade her to leave the house – seen here in paintings of interior settings, views of the outside through windows, and a wealth of imagined subjects. The wild 'Hortus Siccus' was 'very much an indoor painting' for the artist, one she submitted ‘Very Wet' to the Summer Exhibition.
Well-known works are seen with fresh perspectives. 'Self-Portrait' (1958) – with the artist's pronounced black eye – is typically reduced as evidence of how her paintings recorded their 'turbulent marriage'. But Lambirth reads into the work, and around the limited sources. The bedroom scene underscores that she likely didn't have her own studio, rather a spare room with a leaky roof. The oval wardrobe mirror, in which she traps her own image, suggests a 'prison for herself'. It's a hint at the complexity of her situation, how she perceived and also perpetuated her own suffering.
The pair portrayed each other in ever-more unflattering ways. Fortunately, just a single portrait of John is put on display. It's described more for its interesting perspectives, serpentine composition which suggests an awareness of William Hogarth, and detailed feet, 'admired' by her contemporary Francis Bacon. Her husband's head is the last focal point. Indeed, her son, David Bratby, explains away his father's skewed and towering stature as the product of her tininess, replacing the typical narrative of intimidation with something more instrumental.
Cooke mothered their four children and, with Bratby, contributed to the 1950s' kitchen sink' movement of domestic realism. When put in conversation, their works undermine the notion of post-war peace. A recent Barbican exhibition highlighted how once bare tables began to heave with uncomfortable excess, reflecting the burden – not relief – some felt with the end of rationing, and post-war consumer boom. When they finally separated in the 1970s, Bratby's behaviour then too beastly to bear, the fence that separated their houses (and gardens) was nicknamed the Berlin Wall. Cooke's life, again, contextualised by conflict.
Bratby ultimately became better-known for his work, both then, and now. But Ungardening also suggests how she was respected at the time; following solo exhibitions in 1963 and 1964, 'Grassland' (1963) was bought by the Government Art Collection. The pocket book which accompanies the show speaks of her ardent backing by the writer Carel Wright, who called her the ‘fourth Brontë sister’, an artist with the ‘sensitivity’ of Gwen John, another woman whose history has often been obscured by focus on her relationships.
The artist is also one of five women in the 100-strong Ruth Borchard Collection of self-portraits. Piano Nobile’s Robert Travers reveals how she demanded double the pay for improving gender representation. (One nod to her agency, where otherwise, we hear of her naivety and personal desire for ‘discipline’). The Collection continues to award prizes, the first to Celia Paul, whose aspect, history, and link to Lucien Freud, shares much in common with Cooke.
‘Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris’ (1972), the painting submitted when she was elected RA, is here planted as her survivor’s portrait. A fire in 2003 destroyed most others. (It’s unclear if any of her early, pre-Bratby ceramics remain.)
Still, the extent to which the artist has suffered posthumous obscurity – even for a woman – is shocking. Other than a few YouTube videos, there’s little online about her - no documentaries, nor podcast episodes, or even lectures. The only consolation being that the same can be said of John, in retrospect.
It makes the diverse media on display in Ungardening even more important, almost regardless of the theme. From the precise markmaking of her drawings, to pastel works influenced by Japanese prints, this variety reflects her own plurality, her serious attitude to work, her humour, and her warmth as a human being.
From this, much more must grow.
Jean Cooke: Ungardening is on view at the Garden Museum until 10 September 2023.
Make sure to collect your Yamos on the gowithYamo app when you visit!
