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| Brian Sewell obituary: ‘cruel, kind and always loyal’ | Brian Sewell obituary: ‘cruel, kind and always loyal’ |
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| Brian Sewell, who has died aged 84, was for many years the best-known, most outspoken and most widely read art critic in Britain. His column in the Evening Standard was loved by London’s strap-hangers, even when they knew nothing about the artists he was laying into. In recent times, he wrote with equal fury on a vast range of other subjects, particularly the postures of political leaders, which eventually won him the George Orwell prize for political writing. | Brian Sewell, who has died aged 84, was for many years the best-known, most outspoken and most widely read art critic in Britain. His column in the Evening Standard was loved by London’s strap-hangers, even when they knew nothing about the artists he was laying into. In recent times, he wrote with equal fury on a vast range of other subjects, particularly the postures of political leaders, which eventually won him the George Orwell prize for political writing. |
| In and out of the art world, Sewell was a controversial figure, but he excited huge affection from those who knew him – including me, as his next-door neighbour for 10 years. However, he also incurred the wrath of museum curators and art dealers, many of whom thought him thoroughly disagreeable. On 5 January 1994 a group including Sir Eduardo Paolozzi, George Melly, Bridget Riley and Marina Warner wrote a letter of protest to the Evening Standard claiming that its art critic was “deeply hostile to and ignorant about contemporary art” and that the capital deserved better than Sewell’s “dire mix of sexual and class hypocrisy, intellectual posturing and artistic prejudice”. | In and out of the art world, Sewell was a controversial figure, but he excited huge affection from those who knew him – including me, as his next-door neighbour for 10 years. However, he also incurred the wrath of museum curators and art dealers, many of whom thought him thoroughly disagreeable. On 5 January 1994 a group including Sir Eduardo Paolozzi, George Melly, Bridget Riley and Marina Warner wrote a letter of protest to the Evening Standard claiming that its art critic was “deeply hostile to and ignorant about contemporary art” and that the capital deserved better than Sewell’s “dire mix of sexual and class hypocrisy, intellectual posturing and artistic prejudice”. |
| The fracas proved much to Sewell’s advantage. The following day, he and his opponents traded insults on television and within weeks he had been named the Press Association’s critic of the year. He later posed naked on the cover of his unrepentant book, The Reviews That Caused the Rumpus (1994). | The fracas proved much to Sewell’s advantage. The following day, he and his opponents traded insults on television and within weeks he had been named the Press Association’s critic of the year. He later posed naked on the cover of his unrepentant book, The Reviews That Caused the Rumpus (1994). |
| The sharpness and vitality of Sewell’s pen were complemented by his ultra-posh voice. Even he would admit his speech had “some of the intonations of Vita Sackville-West”. Much sought-after as a broadcaster, often for Any Questions and Question Time, he was affectionately and ferociously lampooned by French and Saunders on TV, and by the Dead Ringers on radio. Although Sewell gave as good as he got, memorably dressing up as the art-loving nun Sister Wendy for a TV Christmas special, he was always a reluctant “personality”. He did not enjoy being mocked by Paul Merton on his second appearance of Have I Got News for You. Though his six-part Channel 4 series, The Naked Pilgrim: The Road to Santiago (2003), attracted millions of viewers, his broadcasting career ended with Brian Sewell’s Grand Tour of Italy (2005), which he described himself as an “incompetent failure”, and a one-off TV film, Dirty Dalí: A Private View (2007). | |
| Brian was born in Market Bosworth, Leicestershire, and brought up by his mother, Jessica, and future step-father, Robert Sewell in Kensington, west London. Almost half a century later, he discovered that his real father was the composer Philip Heseltine – pen-name Peter Warlock – who had killed himself seven months before his son’s birth. He described his mother as “an artist of sorts”, and at the age of four he was taken to the National Gallery and found himself spellbound by Murillo’s The Heavenly and Earthly Trinities and Dürer’s The Madonna With the Iris. | |
| At 11, he became a day boy at Haberdashers’ Aske’s, an independent school in Hampstead, too late to have the corners knocked off his accent but in good time to indulge his “rampant sexual nature”. In later life, he boasted that he had had sex with every member of the school’s football team. | |
| On leaving school, he toyed with the idea of becoming an artist – he received lessons from his mother’s former lover, William Coldstream – or a violinist. On Desert Island Discs he would describe his national service (1952-54) as one of the happiest times of his life. There he learned how to get on with people and formed deep non-sexual fondness for his fellow soldiers. | On leaving school, he toyed with the idea of becoming an artist – he received lessons from his mother’s former lover, William Coldstream – or a violinist. On Desert Island Discs he would describe his national service (1952-54) as one of the happiest times of his life. There he learned how to get on with people and formed deep non-sexual fondness for his fellow soldiers. |
| In 1955, Sewell became a star pupil at the Courtauld Institute of Art, London, and a particular protege of the newly knighted director, Sir Anthony Blunt. In later life, Sewell dismissed the idea that he and Blunt had been lovers as “unthinkable”, though in 1958 it was partly through Blunt’s influence that he sailed into a senior job at Christie’s. Though his knowledge and eye were never disputed, many of his colleagues found him waspish and impossible to deal with. To console himself, Sewell had secret lunches with the young Bruce Chatwin, who was suffering in his own way at Sotheby’s. | In 1955, Sewell became a star pupil at the Courtauld Institute of Art, London, and a particular protege of the newly knighted director, Sir Anthony Blunt. In later life, Sewell dismissed the idea that he and Blunt had been lovers as “unthinkable”, though in 1958 it was partly through Blunt’s influence that he sailed into a senior job at Christie’s. Though his knowledge and eye were never disputed, many of his colleagues found him waspish and impossible to deal with. To console himself, Sewell had secret lunches with the young Bruce Chatwin, who was suffering in his own way at Sotheby’s. |
| In 1966, he resigned from the auction house and became a freelance art adviser or “errand boy”, making long trips across Europe. | In 1966, he resigned from the auction house and became a freelance art adviser or “errand boy”, making long trips across Europe. |
| The turning-point in Sewell’s life came in 1979 when his mentor, Blunt, was exposed as a Soviet spy. Mobbed and door-stepped outside his house, Sewell became a household name overnight – and indeed his face and voice created such a powerful impression that he seemed to have upstaged Blunt himself. | The turning-point in Sewell’s life came in 1979 when his mentor, Blunt, was exposed as a Soviet spy. Mobbed and door-stepped outside his house, Sewell became a household name overnight – and indeed his face and voice created such a powerful impression that he seemed to have upstaged Blunt himself. |
| When, in 1994, the actor James Fox represented Blunt in Alan Bennett’s television play A Question of Attribution (based on a one-act play first seen at the National Theatre in 1988) he chose to play the role in Sewell’s voice; the Queen was played by Prunella Scales. Among those whose attention was caught by Sewell’s remarkable persona was the new editor of Tatler, Tina Brown, who quickly conceived the idea that he should become her up-and-coming magazine’s art critic. | |
| Sewell’s first Tatler column appeared in June 1980, focusing on the work of his friend Dalí. Four years later he was approached by the Evening Standard’s editor, Louis Kirby, and invited to become the paper’s art critic, a post which he seized upon. | Sewell’s first Tatler column appeared in June 1980, focusing on the work of his friend Dalí. Four years later he was approached by the Evening Standard’s editor, Louis Kirby, and invited to become the paper’s art critic, a post which he seized upon. |
| Sewell took pleasure in his writing, using baroque language and sentences of spellbinding length, rich in sexual and scatalogical terminology, to attack those contemporary practitioners of art whom he saw as derivative. He complained that most contemporary art – with the notable exception of the Chapman Brothers – was of “scatterbrained triviality” and even at its best “merely a puzzle to be solved, of no aesthetic value”. What was needed, he thundered, was a united opposition to all this rubbish. | Sewell took pleasure in his writing, using baroque language and sentences of spellbinding length, rich in sexual and scatalogical terminology, to attack those contemporary practitioners of art whom he saw as derivative. He complained that most contemporary art – with the notable exception of the Chapman Brothers – was of “scatterbrained triviality” and even at its best “merely a puzzle to be solved, of no aesthetic value”. What was needed, he thundered, was a united opposition to all this rubbish. |
| He was equally dismissive of many of the 20th-century’s most hallowed masters. Ben Nicholson was a “minor craftsman”, Gwen John “an extreme example of the archetypal silly woman”, LS Lowry “tedious, repetitive, lacklustre and stereotypical”. He mocked Lucian Freud for “allowing his paintbrush to crawl into a woman’s crotch with the insistence of a caterpillar into a cabbage heart”. | He was equally dismissive of many of the 20th-century’s most hallowed masters. Ben Nicholson was a “minor craftsman”, Gwen John “an extreme example of the archetypal silly woman”, LS Lowry “tedious, repetitive, lacklustre and stereotypical”. He mocked Lucian Freud for “allowing his paintbrush to crawl into a woman’s crotch with the insistence of a caterpillar into a cabbage heart”. |
| In Sewell’s view, Picasso produced in his dotage “some of the saddest, most degraded, most humiliating, repetitive, tedious, uninspired, obsessive and crudely painted banalities that have ever masqueraded as art”. He lashed out at Andy Warhol – “Few able men had more destructive influence on art” – and showed no mercy for his old teacher Coldstream: “As a painterly influence, the harm he has done is extensive.” | In Sewell’s view, Picasso produced in his dotage “some of the saddest, most degraded, most humiliating, repetitive, tedious, uninspired, obsessive and crudely painted banalities that have ever masqueraded as art”. He lashed out at Andy Warhol – “Few able men had more destructive influence on art” – and showed no mercy for his old teacher Coldstream: “As a painterly influence, the harm he has done is extensive.” |
| In the 1990s, Sewell began to write on a host of other subjects. His boyish interest in cars had already found expression in a regular feature in the Evening Standard. Now he claimed that vivisection had achieved nothing in terms of a cancer cure, lambasted viewers of Cilla Black and readers of Jeffrey Archer, dismissed the Princess of Wales as “a silly young woman killed in the pursuit of pleasure” and complained that while travelling in Gascony and Aquitaine he was never once offered proper mayonnaise. | In the 1990s, Sewell began to write on a host of other subjects. His boyish interest in cars had already found expression in a regular feature in the Evening Standard. Now he claimed that vivisection had achieved nothing in terms of a cancer cure, lambasted viewers of Cilla Black and readers of Jeffrey Archer, dismissed the Princess of Wales as “a silly young woman killed in the pursuit of pleasure” and complained that while travelling in Gascony and Aquitaine he was never once offered proper mayonnaise. |
| He continued to be sincerely outrageous. Political subjects excited him most. He believed the Iraq war was throughouly immoral, and when Tony Blair asked people to trust his government, Sewell responded, “Trust them? I would sooner trust ferrets to feed a pet rabbit lettuce.” | He continued to be sincerely outrageous. Political subjects excited him most. He believed the Iraq war was throughouly immoral, and when Tony Blair asked people to trust his government, Sewell responded, “Trust them? I would sooner trust ferrets to feed a pet rabbit lettuce.” |
| As a neighbour, though, he was kind-hearted, offering advice on cars, leaking gutters and problematic cisterns. He loved animals devotedly and was particularly attached to the dogs he had picked up abroad or in a rescue centre, even those with disagreeable personalities. When I first met him, he owned a Jack Russell called Mrs Macbeth. “I dislike Mrs Macbeth intensely,” he confided. “She’s horrid. She’d been taken to the vet to be put down for generally unpleasant behaviour – she’d bitten a baby – and the vet asked if I could take her. Within minutes, she had bitten me.” When he moved house, he methodically dug up the remains of eight dogs and reburied them in his new garden. “I wanted them with me,” he explained. “If they’d been humans, I wouldn’t have cared a fig.” | As a neighbour, though, he was kind-hearted, offering advice on cars, leaking gutters and problematic cisterns. He loved animals devotedly and was particularly attached to the dogs he had picked up abroad or in a rescue centre, even those with disagreeable personalities. When I first met him, he owned a Jack Russell called Mrs Macbeth. “I dislike Mrs Macbeth intensely,” he confided. “She’s horrid. She’d been taken to the vet to be put down for generally unpleasant behaviour – she’d bitten a baby – and the vet asked if I could take her. Within minutes, she had bitten me.” When he moved house, he methodically dug up the remains of eight dogs and reburied them in his new garden. “I wanted them with me,” he explained. “If they’d been humans, I wouldn’t have cared a fig.” |
| In recent years a serious heart condition did not restrain Sewell from driving his gold Mercedes at 140mph, drinking record-breaking quantities of coffee, falling in love or expressing ever more risky views in print. But he grew increasingly wistful about the course his life had taken. “In emotional terms I’ve made a mess of my life,” he said. Being an art critic, he believed, had destroyed his private life. “I try to stand apart. Nothing matters more than intellectual probity. The critic must be prepared to sacrifice even his closest friends.” | In recent years a serious heart condition did not restrain Sewell from driving his gold Mercedes at 140mph, drinking record-breaking quantities of coffee, falling in love or expressing ever more risky views in print. But he grew increasingly wistful about the course his life had taken. “In emotional terms I’ve made a mess of my life,” he said. Being an art critic, he believed, had destroyed his private life. “I try to stand apart. Nothing matters more than intellectual probity. The critic must be prepared to sacrifice even his closest friends.” |
| Perhaps it was in this spirit that he eventually produced his best-selling two volumes of autobiography, Outsider and Outsider II (2011 and 2012), which began with his ramshackle childhood, unhappy time at school and the epic sex-sprees he enjoyed as a young adult, and went on to present Christie’s in the 1950s as “a den of amateurism and low-level corruption”. In Outsider II he retells the Blunt affair and ends describing himself as “a Cassandra bewailing the end of the ancestral arts that have served mankind so well since his beginning”. The books are full of salacious material – or “pure filth” as one reviewer put it. | Perhaps it was in this spirit that he eventually produced his best-selling two volumes of autobiography, Outsider and Outsider II (2011 and 2012), which began with his ramshackle childhood, unhappy time at school and the epic sex-sprees he enjoyed as a young adult, and went on to present Christie’s in the 1950s as “a den of amateurism and low-level corruption”. In Outsider II he retells the Blunt affair and ends describing himself as “a Cassandra bewailing the end of the ancestral arts that have served mankind so well since his beginning”. The books are full of salacious material – or “pure filth” as one reviewer put it. |
| In 2013, he published Sleeping with Dogs, a book celebrating a lifetime of canine attachments.Here he confessed he often slept with four dogs at a time and revealed that the once hated “Mrs Macbeth” had eventually become a pillar of the community. | In 2013, he published Sleeping with Dogs, a book celebrating a lifetime of canine attachments.Here he confessed he often slept with four dogs at a time and revealed that the once hated “Mrs Macbeth” had eventually become a pillar of the community. |
| He claimed to hate his celebrity status and remained wry about his homosexuality, a condition he described as “an affliction” and “a disability”. Asked if his writing had done any good, he replied, “None whatever. I haven’t had the slightest effect on anything in politics or the arts.” | He claimed to hate his celebrity status and remained wry about his homosexuality, a condition he described as “an affliction” and “a disability”. Asked if his writing had done any good, he replied, “None whatever. I haven’t had the slightest effect on anything in politics or the arts.” |
| Despite these brave admissions and an ever-worsening heart condition, Sewell was high-spirited to the end: passionate, cruel, kind, far-sighted, puffed up, self-hating – and, the author of many secret acts of kindness, always loyal to old friends and new. | Despite these brave admissions and an ever-worsening heart condition, Sewell was high-spirited to the end: passionate, cruel, kind, far-sighted, puffed up, self-hating – and, the author of many secret acts of kindness, always loyal to old friends and new. |
| • Brian Sewell, critic, born 15 July 1931; died 19 September 2015 | • Brian Sewell, critic, born 15 July 1931; died 19 September 2015 |