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Histories of the Future:
The Institute of Contemporary Arts and the Reconstruction of Modernism in Post-war Britain

There is much misunderstanding of the historical basis of the modern movement which must be dissipated; there is much research to be done in diverse fields such as anthropology, sociology, the economic foundations of art, the scientific analysis of the materials of art. We do not exclude such tasks—indeed they will take on great dimensions as we proceed. But they are only the basis for a programme which projects itself onto the unknown art of the future.

The Institute of Contemporary Arts, The Institute of Contemporary Arts: A Statement of Policy and Aims of the Proposed Institute

History is our only guide to the future.

Peter Reyner Banham, “The History of the Immediate Future”

Both these epigraphs sound a decidedly contemporary note. Shorn of the confidence about projecting the art of the future, the first, from the 1947 founding policy statement of the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London (ICA), could stand as a declaration of intent for the kind of modernist studies that emerged toward the end of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first. Perhaps, however, the perceived relationship between a modernist past and the present moment is more of a motivation for such research than this hasty qualification implies. Tom Gunning’s belief that the “two ends of the Twentieth [End Page 193] Century hail each other like long lost twins” expresses an attitude surely not limited to him among historians of modernism.1 In this, the contemporary scholar might not be so different from a critic from the postwar period like Peter Reyner Banham, for whom it was, quite specifically, the history of modernism that was the guide to postwar Britain’s immediate future. That understanding modernism had become the historian’s task suggests just how quickly the origins, development, and hence contemporary relevance of modernism had become obscured.

But the ICA was not a university department, nor a specialized academic institute, even if it did come to play an increasingly important role as a mediator between academia and the art world in London’s tangled postwar ecology of cultural institutions. The most important consequences of its reconstruction of modernism in postwar Britain were felt by artists, architects, theorists, and also—though not immediately—writers. Recent scholarship has challenged earlier periodizations that treat modernism as a spent force even before the Second World War. Such work necessarily adopts a double focus in relating the cultural expression of one period to its transformed successor, both attending to specificities of reception and distinguishing among modernism as an institutionalized archive, a series of critical and intellectual formations, and a set of styles and techniques. These challenges have called forth a diverse range of theoretical formulations. For critics such as Urmila Seshagiri, Rebecca L. Walkowitz, and Matthew Hart, postcolonial and transnational geographies intersect and transform temporal models of simple continuation and rupture.2 For Tyrus Miller, Jed Esty, Marina MacKay, Jonathan Greenberg, and Hannah Sullivan, the concept of late modernism, drawn from Frederic Jameson, has been one way in which to approach the midcentury literature of Woolf, Waugh, West, Green, Ginsberg, and others.3 Yet the term “lateness” brings its own problems for postwar writing, as David James points out: it is “imperfect because it insinuates” that postwar writers “are sifting through the relics of high modernism and its residual goals.”4 Lateness in this sense implies that such goals are static, permanently definable, and not perceived to alter due to the historically changing perspectives of later writers.

James’s study of the “modernist futures” of contemporary fiction goes some way to capturing the sense of how an identification with modernism could be a way of moving forward by looking backward, often through combative, rupturing, and dissenting strategies. James explores modernism’s futures in the style and composition of contemporary fiction, whereas this article branches outward to institutions, archives, and other disciplines and backward to the earlier period of modernism’s postwar reception. It documents a moment when modernism was constructed not just as the future, but, in Banham’s phrase, as the “history of the future.” In doing so, it shows that the historicizing and periodization of modernism that James and Seshagiri have elsewhere traced in contemporary fiction has an earlier genealogy, suggesting that such historicizing and periodization is a defining chronotope of the postwar literary imagination.5 By introducing the distancing work of historical perspective, a formulation such as the “history of the future” does justice to modernism understood, as Laura Marcus and Peter Nicholls put it, as “not simply as a movement belonging to the early decades of the century, but [End Page 194] as a tendency that lives a rich and discontinuous life across the period as a whole.”6 This dialectical relationship between continuity and discontinuity is a movement particularly pertinent to postwar writing in Britain. It is the kind of movement theorized by one of Britain’s most influential reinterpreters of modernist art, one who had his own formative encounter with the ICA: John Berger. Writing on cubism in the sixties, Berger argued that it was a moment of “shock” and “incongruity” that existed in “an enclave of time, waiting to be released and to continue a journey that began in 1907.”7 In his novel G. (1972) modernism as a whole, whose true historical meaning can only be understood long after the fact, becomes a sort of delayed undertaking for the postwar era. Like the temporality that Freud ascribes to Nächtraglichkeit, it is something that cannot be formulated because it occurred “too soon.”8 And as Derrida has written in Archive Fever, Freud’s memories—in the double sense—are always bound up with archives and institutions.9 As such, they might then be one site for the production of Marcus and Nicholls’s continuous discontinuities of modernism.

This article argues that the founding of the ICA was an institutionalized expression of a distinctly British understanding of the relationship of modernism across the disciplines to the postwar present: an archive of the history of the future. The ICA is significant because it was, as my epigraph suggests, one of the sites for the reconstruction of modernism as an interdisciplinary phenomenon. This put its collective and far more fragmentary efforts at odds with the influential postwar theorizations of Clement Greenberg and Theodor Adorno that postulated that the potential of modernism could only be sustained through an isolated investigation of the formal laws of each respective artistic medium.10 For Jürgen Habermas, the institutional differentiation not just of artistic media but of “science, morality and art” as “realms of activity in which questions of truth, of justice, and of taste were autonomously elaborated, that is, each under its own specific account of validity,” defines modernity as a whole. Yet for Habermas the time consciousness of modernity is also that of “the epoch that lives for the future, which opens itself up to the novelty of the future.”11 The ICA attempted to diverge from this understanding of modernity as institutional and disciplinary differentiation precisely in order to remain open to the “unknown art of the future.” The ICA is also important in providing a model for the reconstruction and indeed the production of an interdisciplinary modernism as not just the history of the future but an archive of the future. The model of the archive that sees discovery as a product of delay and discontinuity is, I argue, characteristic of how modernism was reconstructed in Britain in the fifties, and it became a model for certain novelists in the early sixties. Indeed, when one considers the fascination with modernist historiographies and styles in the recent fiction of Tom McCarthy, Will Self, and Zadie Smith, it seems that contemporary British fiction still imagines modernism as an archive of the literary future.12

David Mellor has written that although its contribution to the development of the visual arts in postwar Britain is widely acknowledged, “a history of the ICA has yet to be written,” and the accounts that do exist emphasize its role as foil for the rebellion of the breakaway Independent Group.13 This was a loosely associated but extremely influential group of artists and theorists that formed at the ICA in the early fifties, [End Page 195] whose core members were Lawrence Alloway, Toni del Renzio, Richard Hamilton, John McHale, Eduardo Paolozzi, and Alison and Peter Smithson and whose chief critical cheerleader was Banham.14 The most detailed study thus far of the ICA was written by Anne Massey close to twenty years ago, and it too largely repeats the narrative of an “elitist” and “European avant-garde”-oriented ICA, stranded amid the “xenophobic atmosphere of Festival of Britain London,” acting as an oppressive Oedipal father figure for the America-focused Independent Group (Independent Group, 2). While Massey is correct in seeing the ICA as pivotal to the formation for the Independent Group and in identifying the ICA as a key site for the shifts in the “changing ideology of modernism in Britain”, modernist scholarship since her account has questioned problematic assumptions of the “European” foreignness of modernism in a “xenophobic” Britain, the “elitism” of the avant-garde versus the populist orientation of cultural studies, and indeed the assumption that there is a singular “ideology of modernism” (2).15 In relation to the supposed opposition between the ICA’s orientation toward Europe and the Independent Group’s focus on America, Irénée Scalbert convincingly argues that for the Smithsons and Paolozzi, at the time of the Parallel of Life and Art exhibition in 1952, the attraction of American popular culture was not its Americanness but its “‘as found’ quality, its proposition that art could result from an act of choice rather than an act of design.” Further, according to Scalbert, Peter Smithson maintained that he acquired this “‘materiality thing’ … from Paolozzi, and Paolozzi got it from Jean Dubuffet. Hence they were, he claimed, ‘the inheritors of Paris.’”16 The genealogy claimed by Smithson is an important intervention in the historiography of the Independent Group and of fifties British art more generally.

In what follows, I take up his suggestion that the interest of members of the early Independent Group in such things as the “as found” was heavily influenced by surrealism, although rather than tracing this, like Scalbert, to post–Second World War French surrealism, I instead follow the lines down through British surrealism, a pathway that the ICA made possible. Inflected by the recovery of the diversity of modernisms as well as the waning of belief in the idea that postmodernism was the culminating point of postwar culture, Scalbert’s work is representative of the recent surge of critical interest in the Independent Group, whether from theorists of the everyday such as Ben Highmore or art historians such as Hal Foster.17 In M. Christine Boyer’s words, the goal of Independent Group members like the Smithsons seems to have been “to keep the language of modern architecture alive and fresh.”18 One intent of this article is to use the ICA to bring this strand of recent research in art and architectural history together with the efforts of literary critics that I’ve outlined to trace the discontinuous relationship between modernism and postwar British writers such as B. S. Johnson, whose own highly anxious attempts to keep the language of modernism fresh in fiction were inspired by the Smithsons. My epigraphic juxtaposition is meant to indicate there is more than a superficial resemblance between the ICA’s reconstruction of the “historical basis of the modern movement” for the purposes of projecting the “unknown art of the future” and Banham’s later claim that modernist “history is our only guide to the future.” [End Page 196]

Surrealist Origins

The first discussion of proposals for what was to become the ICA took place in January 1946, when E. L. T. Mesens, Roland Penrose, and Herbert Read organized a meeting “of a few of those interested in the creation of a centre in London from which a Museum of Modern Art could be ultimately planned.”19 At a meeting on January 30, 1946, they were joined by J. B. Brunius, Eric Gregory, G. M. Hoellering, and Peter Watson.20 This initial list of names shows that, as Peter Smithson would later recall, “the ICA was founded by people whose commitment really was to Surrealism.” It was intended, he noted, “to be propaganda for that kind of art, and for Picasso.”21 Read, Penrose, and Mesens had organized the International Surrealist Exhibition at the Burlington Galleries in 1936, the same year that saw the appearance of Read’s edited volume Surrealism. In 1938, Mesens, originally from Belgium, had settled in London, taken over the management of the London Gallery, and launched the London Bulletin, providing a focal point for surrealist activity in Britain. From this institutional base, as Michel Remy recounts, Mesens in 1939 proposed his own museum of modern art, in a gesture of opposition to the plans of Peggy Guggenheim, who had approached Read to be the director of her planned museum.22 Both plans were abandoned with the outbreak of the war, but this latent conflict between Mesens and Read, and Mesens’s own intransigence, would lead to Mesens quickly breaking from the project in June 1948.23 The actor and filmmaker J. B. Brunius was another surrealist émigré; he had settled in Britain during the war to work with Alberto Cavalcanti in the Crown Film Unit. For all these figures, as Nanette Aldred has noted, it was first and foremost an understanding of surrealism “as a theoretical practice” that shaped the founding principles of the ICA (“Art in Postwar Britain,” 150). Many of the concerns guiding its establishment can be traced in the prewar and wartime writings of its founders, particularly those of Read, the ICA’s first president, who was to emerge as its dominant intellectual influence.

Many of the strands of Read’s distinctive understanding of modern art were developed in his critical writings of the 1930s, and many of these ideas would be taken up at the ICA, particularly his ideas concerning modern art’s relationship to other disciplines of knowledge. Central to his understanding of modernism was his concept of form, which he outlines in Form in Modern Poetry (1932): “The work of art has its own inherent laws, originating with its very invention and fusing in one vital unity both structure and content.”24 As Read remarks in Art Now (1933), form is always inseparable from content because “form is something given, an endowment, and always implies a recipient, a thing formed. But the thing formed—and this is the clue to the whole modern development of art—can be subjective as well as objective—can be the emergent sensibility of the artist himself.”25 This understanding of cultural forms as given, as shaping both the work of art and the sensibility of the subject, shows the influence of Read’s readings in the art history of Gottfried Semper, Alois Riegl, and above all Wilhelm Worringer, for whose Form and Gothic Read had written an introduction in 1927. In Form and Gothic, Worringer had revised Riegl’s concept of Kunstwollen, suggesting it was less an idealistic manifestation of the Hegelian Geist than a practice [End Page 197] involving the “translation of the objects belonging to the outer world which are to be portrayed in the vocabulary of the contemporary will to form.” The art historian, in his view, should search among popular forms such as ornament for the complete “grammar” of cultural representations, as “it is only after the grammar of artistic speech has thus been established, that man can begin to translate the objects of the outer world into this speech.”26 This understanding of artistic form as part of a broader cultural grammar or structure into which the artist articulates him- or herself entailed for Read a conscious rejection of T. S. Eliot’s strictures on impersonality: “Criticism must concern itself not only with the finished work of art, but also with the workman, his mental activities and his tools” (Form and Gothic, 8). In a foreshadowing of the ICA’s postwar policy statement, this also meant that a science of art must admit “evidence from many fields hitherto not associated with the philosophy of beauty—evidence from history and anthropology, from religion and psychology, from morphology and philology—from every science that deals with the spirit of man and the modes of its expression” (Art Now, 27).

In his 1938 “The Nature of Criticism,” Read sought to break away from the Kantian postulate of the autonomy of art, drawing on Alfred Adler’s theory that “the attraction of a work of art arises from its synthesis, and that the analysis of science profanes and destroys this synthesis” to argue that we need to relate criticism “to those systems of knowledge which have to a great extent replaced transcendental philosophy.”27 Michael Whitworth has noted that the theme of “intellectual specialization” appears frequently in Read’s poetry of the twenties and thirties.28 He argues persuasively that this must be understood as an engagement with the social reality of the differentiation of spheres of knowledge, which in Habermas’s revision of Weber defines modernity and about which there was increasing anxiety among intellectuals in Britain in the aftermath of the First World War. Read’s theory of the artwork’s role in modernity as synthesizing knowledge and necessitating a wide-ranging and interdisciplinary critical analysis responds to these anxieties concerning the differentiation of knowledge. In his introduction to Surrealism (1936), Read argues that the synthetic art object should be approached using the method of Freud’s interpretation of dreams, for on the level of signification, “the plastic objects which we find by the aid of our eyes correspond, on another plane of consciousness, to the images found in dreams.” This was because the means by which the objects of the material world are “reflected by the human mind, and translated into images,” as described by Marx’s analysis of the commodity fetish, was “infinitely complicated: a passage through a series of distorting mirrors and underground labyrinths.”29 Read’s writings, however, show little sympathy with Marxism as a political program. Rather, the destruction of war accentuated his long-standing anarchist sympathies. In 1943, he declared that

the whole of our capitalist culture is one immense veneer: a surface refinement hiding the cheapness and shoddiness at the heart of things. To hell with such a culture! To the rubbish heap and furnace with it all! Let us celebrate the democratic revolution with the biggest holocaust in the history of the world. When Hitler has finished bombing our cities, let the demolition squads complete the good work. Then let us go out into the wide open spaces and build anew.30 [End Page 198]

In “The Threshold of a New Age” (1944), Read prophesied that in the postwar “era of reconstruction,” those “individuals in which the spirit of modernism is embodied … will reemerge eager to rebuild the shattered world.”31 The foundation of the ICA was one such attempt at modernist reconstruction.

Read’s cofounders also shared his sense of the ICA as a project that arose from the epochal destruction of war. In April 1943, J. B. Brunius had written that the experience of war had left soldiers “rent apart by reason and instinct, between the conscious and unconscious” leaving them “shreds of men torn apart by two branches of dialectic.” What the war exposed was the “divergence between material technical progress and the relative moral and philosophic obscurantism of the human race” and the fact that the force human beings drew “from nature continued to be applied to the destruction of the species.”32 This was Brunius’s framing of what Horkheimer and Adorno were contemporaneously describing as the “dialectic of Enlightenment,” the regression during war of instrumental rationality into barbarism.33 Roland Penrose’s activities during the war, however, indicate the more engaged approach the ICA was to take toward the question of technology in the postwar era. Working at the War Office, Penrose in 1941 wrote The Home Guard Manual of Camouflage, in which, as he later recalled, he applied “the principles of cubism to the optical disruption of form obtained by covering a surface with patterns.”34 His designs for painted boiler suits were inspired by photographing his wife, Lee Miller, naked and covered in green paint in a garden in Highgate. Penrose also used surrealist techniques to camouflage the British Home Guard. His advice to recruits in The Home Guard Manual of Camouflage to imitate the deceptive behavior and mimicry of animals recalls his own practice in the painting Winged Domino (1938), a portrait of Valentine Penrose with her eyes shrouded by butterfly wings and her hair covered with birds, as well as Roger Caillois’s theories of insect mimicry.35 And his advice to populate the countryside with authentic-seeming “human dummies” and to paint pill boxes “to look like book stalls” evokes a home-front landscape peppered with his own surrealist objects made from mannequins, such as The Dew Machine (1937) (23–24, 71–72).

Penrose also translated Mesens’s collection of poems written in London during the Blitz, Third Front and Detached Pieces (1944), including the prose poem “Dream of the 10th of March 1943,” which offers a darker vision of war technology. The recollection begins with the dreamer walking through “interminable bombed streets, the walls powdered with plaster dust” until he comes to a vast hall full of women working some fifty “fragile metal constructions.” As the dreamer starts to play a rhythm on a table, Einstein appears to congratulate him on inventing this instrument, to which the dreamer replies, “No, the instrument was in existence, I merely discovered the way to use it.”36 It is difficult not to see this as an allegory of the wartime quest for the nuclear bomb: scientists at the time drew on Einstein’s theory of general relativity to discover how to use something that was already there. The Second World War had, according to Brunius, Penrose, and Mesens, forced together the realms of the aesthetic and technological avant-gardes. The ICA’s concern with synthesizing art, science, technology, and other disciplines of knowledge was born out of an attempt to utilize surrealism [End Page 199] as a theory and practice to come terms with the experience of shocks and traumas of wartime Britain but without giving into the idea that man was inevitably, in Brunius’s words, “torn asunder.”

“What is ‘normal’ … is change”: An Institute of Exhibitions

That the ICA emerged in reaction to the destruction of war offers one explanation as to why, in the initial meetings of its organizing committee, objections were quickly raised about the very concept of a “museum” for modern art. Mesens stressed any potential institution should be concerned not with the achievements of art but with the stimulation of production. Its goal, he thought, should be to bring together “all types of artists—poets, painters, film producers—to stimulate each other.” Brunius underlined this point, stating “it will not only be international, but inter-arts.” Therefore, he “wished that a less mauseoleumesque word than ‘museum’ could be found for the name.”37 Read, too, did not want to use the word in the name of their new institution owing to the failures he had seen in the Museum of Modern Art in New York when he had visited it. Minutes record his impression of the “too great importance taken by trustees and wealthy protectors” of the Museum of Modern Art and the “danger of static institution, danger of something too big.”38 As a consequence, they decided to name it the Institute of Contemporary Arts instead of the Museum of Contemporary Arts. This was no mere semantic quibble or calculated attempt at branding within the postwar institutional marketplace for art. Brunius’s association between museum and mausoleum, working with the logic of the surrealist pun, and the general awareness of the problematic centrality of the museum in the development of modernism, anticipates Adorno’s 1955 essay “Valéry Proust Museum,” in which he notes that “museum and mausoleum are connected by more than phonetic association.” In German “the word museal [museum-like] has unpleasant overtones. It describes objects to which the observer no longer has a vital relationship and which are in the process of dying.”39 André Malraux offered a more positive vision of the relationship between modern art, the museum, and mass culture in his 1947 Le musée imaginaire. For him, the museum gave birth to modern art. It was where Manet saw the “picturalisation du monde” (“the picturing of the world”), the complement of Mallarmé’s idea that “le monde est fait pour aboutir à un beaux livre” (“The world was made in order to result in a beautiful book”).40 The notion of the museum as a book informed Malraux’s own postwar proposal for his “imaginary museum”: color photography and reproduction would transform the limited museum into an infinite and beautiful book, in which all art could be placed in an eternal continuum.

The initial drafts of what was first called the ICA’s “manifesto” show the committee formulating its own position on these questions of modernism and the museum, acknowledging its role in shaping the public understanding of art and modes of spectatorship and association: “The fact is that the public has not learnt the idiom of modern art: its signs, symbols and verbal idiom are only incomprehensible because people will seek, through ignorance, to interpret them in the wrong way.”41 Both Adorno’s pessimistic [End Page 200] understanding of modernism’s deathly relation to the museum and Malraux’s optimistic placing of modernism within a universal book of art were to be rejected in favor of an art of permanent change: “What is ‘normal’ (in the arts as in everything else) is change, the perpetual evolution and alteration of style.” What was central to the local moment of postwar Britain was the conviction that “the spirit of the time speaks (not always consciously) through the mouths of all artists, … and therefore art must not be a luxury enjoyed only be the few.” Only if this was achieved could the proposed institute “make an essential contribution to the spiritual life of postwar England.” “Its function,” the draft continued, “would not be retrospective, or propagandist. Rather, it would be cooperative, creative and educational in the real sense of the world, and for the benefit of the community.”42 Exhibitions would not be confined to the traditional fine arts but would include “book illustration, mural decoration, theatrical sets, architectural models—everything which is visual” (Statement, 4–5). This populist attention to “everything which is visual” (the origin of which was Read’s study of Worringer) would prove to be the most prophetic description of the ICA’s contribution to artistic theory and practice.

Such populist statements make it difficult to accept Anne Massey’s claims that under Read’s direction, “the ICA pursued … an elitist and purist route by promoting European modernism in Britain,” a pursuit that she asserts was guided by a belief that “there was a Neo-Platonic essence to all ‘good’ art and design” and that was based on “Aristotelian philosophy” (Independent Group, 20, 19, 45). One needs to exercise caution and not take Read’s often contradictory later writings at face value or anachronistically interpret the early years of the ICA in terms of this admittedly muddled work. The art- and design-based framework of Massey’s account, wherein “modernism … refers to the achievements of the European avant-garde in the early part of the twentieth-century, … which had little acceptance during the interwar years … in Britain” (1) also occludes the perspectives obtained by considering modernism as a more interdisciplinary project. Massey claims as well that “the founders of the ICA, in particular Herbert Read, maintained that the role of the Institute should be to educate the public of the achievements of the European avant-garde—achievements which they never believed could be surpassed” (1–2). Yet the minutes of the committee’s discussions show repeatedly the desire not to be “retrospective,” the belief that there was much room for “experiment” across the arts in Britain, and that the goal of the ICA should be to produce the unknown art of the future. Such is what Read had in mind when he announced in a letter to the Times on June 26, 1947, that the ICA “will differ from existing institutions in that it will initiate definite projects, not merely collect and exhibit the chance productions of isolated artists.”43 This shows the ICA attempting to institutionally support a permanently developing modernism in ways that would break with what Lawrence Rainey has described as the previous generation of Anglo-American modernists’ use of capitalist patronage and market manipulation.44 The ICA was to be funded by annual subscription, available at different levels of contribution, but this quickly had to be supplemented with annual grants from the newly established Arts Council of Great Britain, accepted on a strict policy of noninterference and less [End Page 201] publicized “anonymous donations” from committee members such as Roland Penrose.45

Read’s hostility to the deadening effect of a permanent collection may have been an attempt to make a virtue of necessity. Whether through state support or private patronage, postwar Britain was hardly ripe with potential capital or donors. Nevertheless, as Read declared in 1948 at the opening of the ICA’s first exhibition, Forty Years of Modern Art 1907–1947, “we need an institution to protect the freedom of art.” “Capitalism,” he continued, “created entertainment industries, but the form of society which we call democratic has not evolved institutions which normally and naturally seek artistic expression.” The ideal was “not another museum, another bleak exhibition gallery, another classical building in which insulated and classified specimens of culture are displayed for instruction, but an adult play-centre, a workshop where work is joy, a source of vitality and daring experiment.”46 That December saw the launch of a second exhibition, 40,000 Years of Modern Art: A Comparison of Primitive and Modern. As the title suggests, this exhibition paid less mind to the ICA’s institutional position. The paradoxical title suggests, as Read points out, that “like conditions produce like effects, and, more specifically, that there are conditions in modern life which have produced effects only to be seen in primitive epochs.” These conditions, Read continues, “can be described as a vague sense of insecurity, a cosmic anguish (Angst, as the Existentialists call it), feelings and intuitions that demand expression in abstract or even naturalistic forms.”47 However, the exhibition was not only framed in terms of (to quote Massey) “such white, male, western attitudes to the art of the other” (Independent Group, 25–26). In their catalogue essay, Robert Melville and W. G. Archer offer a different understanding of the forms of the African and Melanesian masks and sculptures on show, calling them “not the result of a primitive will to form or of an exercise in romantic abstraction. They are in every case determined by the social functions of the mask or figure.” These social functions could be recovered by interpreting the artifacts as “uncanny signs” and “compound images,” and it is such a psychoanalytically informed method of interpretation, already demonstrated by Melville in his 1939 Picasso and the Phantom, that was used in the catalogue essay to analyze Melanesian totems, the paintings of de Chirico, and the sculptures of Henry Moore.48 This contradictory approach to the non-Western artifacts on show—existentialist angst versus social function-alism—reflects what Elazar Barkan and Ronald Bush have described as modernism’s appeal to the primitive as a means of contemplating “the prehistories of its future.”49 Subsequent lectures on contemporary Egyptian painting in October 1949 and exhibitions of new art from Haiti and lectures on the music of Nigeria in March 1951 are testimony that non-Western art and visual culture in its contemporary manifestations were not merely foils for the modernist primitivist imagination.

With respect to Western modernist painting, the curatorial attitude of these launch exhibitions was decidedly pluralist, ranging across styles and movements and encompassing the abstraction of Nicholson and Mondrian, the vorticism of Epstein and Lewis, the expressionism of Klee, Marc, Kokoschka, and Sutherland, as well the surrealism of de Chirico, Dali, Ernst, and of course Picasso. What was also notable was the conscious (and from the present perspective remarkably prescient) promotion of a new [End Page 202] generation of British and Irish painters, among them Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Louis Le Brocquy, and Paolozzi.50 In Ten Decades: A Review of British Taste, 1851-1951, one of the ICA’s contributions to the Festival of Britain, held from August 10 to September 27, 1951, artists heavily promoted by the ICA such as Moore, Bacon, and Paolozzi concluded the survey. As Becky Conekin has observed, the Festival of Britain was a “heterogeneous event” in which multiple attempts to define national identity overlapped and intersected: “Britishness” was defined by its difference from Europeanness, by the postwar welfare state settlement, by regional and local identities, or by its embrace of a forward-looking and technologically driven modernity.51 Concluding an exhibition on popular British taste with contemporary British modernist painters and sculptors (which the ICA had previously heavily promoted) suggests its intervention was part of what Conekin has argued was an explicit association during the festival of modernist art, design, and architecture with the Labour Party’s future-oriented social democratic agenda, indicating that the ICA’s promotion of a reconstructed modernism as the “unknown art of the future” was part of a much wider popular diffusion of modernism in postwar Britain.

The experience of the American poet and filmmaker James Broughton at the ICA further evinces its role in providing a home for populist artistic experimentation. In October 1951 the ICA hosted the first screenings of Broughton’s films Mother’s Day (1948), Adventures of Jimmy (1951), Loony Tom (1951), The Happy Lover (1951), and Four in the Afternoon (1951). Along with his friends Robert Creeley and Kenneth Anger, Broughton had left the oppressive atmosphere of McCarthy-era California for Britain, where his films were not only hailed at the ICA but also praised by the documentary filmmakers John Grierson and Paul Rotha. “After the glum indifference to my work in the U.S.A.,” Broughton later recalled, “the articulate approval of Britain exhilarated me”; he went on to make The Pleasure Garden (1953) with Lindsay Anderson, a playful tribute to the Crystal Palace terraces.52 The ICA became a channel for the introduction of American experimental cinema into Britain, showing films by Maya Deren in 1952 and Kenneth Anger in 1955 (Mellor, Fifty Years, 11).53 Thus even before the meetings of the Independent Group, the ICA was directing its attention to the populist, playful, and cinematic aspects of the American visual avant-garde.

Members of the Independent Group first began to participate in this program of exhibitions when the ICA moved to its first permanent home at 17–18 Dover Street in 1950. A permanent home facilitated a huge rise in activity. Minutes note “that the number of events arranged for any one month in the ICA’s program for 1951 is almost exactly equivalent to the number of similar events held during the entire year previously.” Membership rose too, from four hundred in 1950 to fourteen hundred in 1951.54 The new premises were opened with an exhibition that typified the ways in which the ICA connected the pre- and postwar artistic avant-gardes. James Joyce: His Life and Work presented Joyce portraits, letters, and manuscripts, but what prevented this from becoming an act of literary hagiography (one that risked placing Joyce’s work in the deathly grip of Adorno’s and Brunius’s “mausoleum”) was that Richard Hamilton, who was then studying at the Slade School of Art, curated the exhibition, designed the [End Page 203] foldout poster/catalogue, and displayed a series of preparatory drawings he had made for a projected illustrated edition of Ulysses. (His proposal was rejected by Faber and Faber when T. S. Eliot, who also opened the exhibition, pointed out to him the huge cost of resetting an already notoriously difficult typescript.)55 Hamilton had first read Joyce while serving in the army in 1947, and he remained an important influence on his work throughout his life. “Joyce,” he later said, “wanted to be all-inclusive,” and it was what Hamilton saw as Joyce’s attention to popular culture and the everyday that shaped his developing pop aesthetic. There is a clear Joycean ring to his declaration of purpose in 1962: “I would like to think of my purpose as a search for what is epic in everyday objects and everyday attitudes. Irony has no place in it except insofar as irony is part of the ad man’s repertoire.”56 Joyce as the creator of the original modernist adman was the Joyce presented to the ICA in 1950. The poster signals its approach to James Joyce by the layout of its blocks of text and photographs in newspaper columns, the design style alluding to the “Aeolus” episode set in the offices of the Freeman’s Journal. These columns are underlain with “Joyce” in bright yellow Futura, the typeface invented at the Bauhaus by Paul Renner in 1928, celebrating the modernity of Bloom’s role as an advertising salesman. In the drawing “In Horne’s House,” illustrating the “Oxen of the Sun” episode, Hamilton adopts cubist visual forms to express the episode’s flow of historical movement, anticipating his studies of Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase (1912), an approach he later revised in favor of a pastiche of styles: “Joyce’s readiness to ape the manner of other writers and genres had long since freed me from inhibitions about the uniquely personal mark that every painter is supposed to strive for” (Collected Words, 109). Hamilton’s reading of Ulysses’s modernity as lying in its embrace of popular culture, advertising, and the disposable world of print was at odds with the assessments of midcentury academics such as Harry Levin, for whom Joyce represented the “need to create a city of art, a Byzantium,” underscoring an institutional difference in Joyce’s reception: on the one side, he was seen as a chronicler of cultural transience and change, while on the other he was regarded as the creator of a timeless and autonomous aesthetic realm.57

The Joyce exhibit led to a closer relationship between Hamilton and the ICA, and in 1949 he proposed his own exhibition, Growth and Form, which was shown in 1951 as part of the ICA’s contribution to the Festival of Britain. While Growth and Form’s use of images from microscopic, biological, and geological worlds can be understood as part of the Festival of Britain’s wider public iconography of scientific progress, as Isabelle Moffat has shown, its impetus came very much from Hamilton’s own interests and readings.58 Joyce again was a decisive inspiration. In his proposal for the exhibition, Hamilton explained how the “initial stimulus” for the exhibition came from D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson’s On Growth and Form, a compendium of scientific images: “The visual interest of this field, where biology, chemistry, physics and mathematics overlap, was considered an excellent subject of presentation in purely visual terms. … [T]he painter and the sculptor have much to gain from the enlargement of their world of experience by an appreciation of the forms in nature beyond their immediate visual environment.”59 These images that new visual technologies made possible opened up [End Page 204] a “visual expression of the idea of periodicity in its relation to the individual and to historical patterns of species” for Hamilton, and he claimed that Thompson’s observations offered “a synopsis of Joycian philosophy”: “The differences of form, and changes of form, which are brought about by varying rates (or ‘laws’) of growth, are essentially the same phenomena whether they be episodes in the life-history of the individual, or manifest themselves as the distinctive characteristics of what we call separate species of the race” (Growth and Form synopsis).60

The resulting show saw the ICA’s exhibition space plastered with photographic reproductions and cinematic projections of examples of mathematical form, crystal structure, fluid forms, single-cell animals, and mollusks, presenting what might interpreted as a second, more abstract, visual analogue of Joyce’s “Oxen of the Sun” episode. The exhibition was a critical success and inspired a symposium on its ideas featuring Konrad Lorenz, Rudolf Arnheim, and E. H. Gombrich, the last of whom offered an early presentation of his famous “hobby horse” theory of artistic form as functional substitution.61 An important aspect of Growth and Form was that its form as an installation was as central to its meaning as the contents of the images and films exhibited; “the ‘exhibition,’” as Hamilton later noted, “was beginning to be understood as a form in its own right with unique properties” (Collected Words, 10). The exhibition was important to the early ICA, as it offered an ideal format for an institution that intentionally remained without a permanent collection but that was committed to reconstructing an earlier generation of modernist practice with a view to the future, allowing it to produce a fleeting, ephemeral constellation linking the art of a previous generation to the present without calcifying it or rendering it static, as Read maintained art at the Museum of Modern Art had been.

Histories of the Future

Hal Foster has written that “the principal legacy of the Independent Group might well be its ‘art’ of discussion, design and display.”62 Yet this, as the early years of the ICA show, did not develop sui generis but was in fact one of the ways in which the ICA as an institution shaped the practices of the Independent Group. The focus of ICA exhibitions soon changed from Picasso and Klee to the designs of new consumer technology products, yet carefully curated exhibitions continued to be used to link pre- and postwar avant-gardes. One such juxtaposition—between Klee and a television set—appeared in the exhibition Parallel of Life and Art, which took place at the ICA from September 11 to October 18, 1953, curated by Paolozzi, Henderson, and the Smithsons. Banham called this exhibition the locus classicus of New Brutalist architecture and the idea of the “as found,” and it played a catalyzing role in the theorization of pop art (quoted in Robbins, The Independent Group, 171). The term “as found” was first coined by the Smithsons in 1956; that it appeared in an essay entitled “But Today We Collect Ads” indicates the formative role of their collecting, curating, and exhibition of images.63 The exhibition presented a mass of photographic images, from football matches and Muybridge studies to the images of natural forms seen in Hamilton’s Growth and Form. [End Page 205] In his review, Banham compared it to Malraux’s imaginary museum, but one that contained “transient human occurrences like gymnasia and coronations, … worlds beyond human vision, as in ultra-microscopy or extreme range astronomy.”64 Indeed, Malraux was invited to the opening; his presence would have highlighted the transition from Brunius’s and Read’s earlier theorizations of the museum as mausoleum to an imaginary museum of mass culture. However, there were also important continuities between Read’s, Mesens’s, and Penrose’s “surrealism as a theoretical practice” and the strategies of Parallel of Life and Art, as Peter Smithson’s claim to be an “inheritor of Paris” suggests. Penrose’s blurring of the boundaries between art and life with his wartime mannequins, Read’s urge toward disciplinary synthesis, and above all the declaration of interest in “everything which is visual” were all given realization in the exhibition. The blurring of disciplinary boundaries through juxtaposition was particularly striking; close-ups of the comparable visual forms of Etruscan ceramics, fossils, cells, and Klee paintings suggested a common method of interpretation. Years later, the Smithsons also stressed the “continuity” felt by themselves, Paolozzi, and Henderson at the time with “the Bloomsbury Group, [as they moved] from Paris of the 1930s and 1940s, from Marcel Duchamp, from early Dubuffet, and so on.”65 A photograph of Dubuffet’s Corps de dame (1950) did indeed appear tacked up in the exhibition.

Parallel of Life and Art, then, was a highly influential event for the development of many strands of postwar visual art and theory, but what has so far has escaped notice is, once again, the influence of Joyce. In their exhibition notes, the Smithsons state that Stephen’s “moment,” which they refer to as “epiphany,” defined as “a reality behind the appearance,” inspired the presentation of ordinary visual material that had “sunk below the threshold of conscious perception.” Reintroducing the spectator to these “visual by-products of our way of thinking” would reveal the epiphanic potential of the images of everyday life.66 Joyce appeared again in their theorization of pop art, in the wry observation that “to understand the advertisements which appear in the New Yorker or Gentry one must have taken a course in Dublin literature” (“But Today,” 49). Their appropriation of the model of the Joycean epiphany—an appropriation that transplanted a literary trope to the visual realm, with the inevitable change in meaning that entails—gives one indication, then, of what the Smithsons, at least, saw as the function of the exhibition. The world of images, sunk below conscious perception, formed a variation on what Walter Benjamin termed the “optical unconscious.”67 The archive of mass imagery had become a form of collective postwar British unconscious, and the role of the didactic curator in juxtaposing and recontextualizing images was to bring them back to consciousness, liberating their potential to create new modes of perception for the subjects of the future. Alison Smithson would in particular develop this form of the training of consciousness in her “sensibility primers,” such as those written for the architectural collective Team 10, and her later sensibility primer for car travel, AS in DS: An Eye on the Road (1983).68 In this photo-novel, she compares herself to a latter-day Virginia Woolf, who rather than seeking to alter her perception though walks around London attempts to discover new modes of perception and mobility—especially those that might be offered to a mother—by driving around Britain’s motorway network. [End Page 206]

M. Christine Boyer has recently begun to draw attention to Alison Smithson not only as an architect and theorist but also as a writer who produced decades’ worth of polemical, often pseudonymous, but always highly crafted and poetic essays (see “The Team 10 Discourse”). Smithson, however, was also a novelist: A Portrait of the Female Mind as a Young Girl was published by Chatto and Windus in 1966 (and a number of her other works remain unpublished in her archive), although the gestation of this novel came much earlier and was directly bound up with her activities in the ICA in the fifties. Indeed, as the title suggests, her Portrait was a direct response to and female rewriting of Joyce. As she later recalled, it was in the years between the exhibitions Parallel of Life and Art (1953) and This Is Tomorrow (1956), when she was reflecting on the “sort of ‘nonsensical’ explosion in use of images and words that was happening,” that she began the “the ‘as-found’ manuscripts” of the novel (Smithson and Smithson, “The ‘As Found’ and the ‘Found,’” 202). This novel has completely dropped off the radar of accounts of British postwar fiction, but to reintroduce it to literary history and recognize it as one of as one of the most original literary outcomes of the ICA’s early years—bound up as the novel is with the “as found,” with continuing modernism through its transformation, and with popular culture—would alter our understanding of a period still approached in the self-validating terms of the (largely male) Movement and new wave.69

Smithson’s work certainly stands out in comparison with the other, comparatively meager, attempts of the ICA to promote literature and literary interactions with the other arts. True, under Read’s direction the ICA did attempt to sustain the “impetus of the Modern Movement” in literature through poetry readings, lectures, and exhibitions, but they had much less success in this field than they did in visual art and culture. In 1953 Banham organized a series of seminars on aesthetic problems in contemporary art. Speakers and topics included Banham himself on the impact of technology, Hamilton on new sources of form, Toni del Renzio on nonformal painting, and Lawrence Alloway on the human image (Robbins, The Independent Group, 23–26). Noting the popularity of the seminars and how they were stimulating the work of the Independent Group, Dorothy Morland, then the ICA’s director, proposed the idea of a similar series on influences on contemporary literature whereby specialists in other fields, such as philosophy, anthropology, and physical science would be asked to discuss whether contemporary writers were aware of new developments in their respective disciplines.70 Stephen Spender and Kathleen Raine sent out letters to potential speakers asking whether they felt that modern writers were “sufficiently aware of contemporary ideas in his particular field” and if so, whether they were aware “in the right way.”71 Proposed speakers were Conor Cruise O’Brien on Catholicism, Iris Murdoch on existentialism, and Gilbert Ryle on logical positivism, but the only talk that in fact took place was one by John Heath-Stubbs on poetic symbols and techniques in March 1954. His admission that the present was a time of “consolidation” in poetry was criticized by David Jones, who said that in shying away from experimentation and the legacy of modernism, contemporary poets “were merely side-stepping the problems because they were afraid to face them.”72 [End Page 207]

But perhaps David Jones simply did not know the right poets, or rather, perhaps he didn’t know the right novelists. In Alison Smithson’s Portrait, these problems are neither sidestepped, nor confronted head on, but nimbly negotiated and made part of the fiction itself. The novel is made up, according to the opening of its third section, of “freewheeling, dredging, seaweed slinging, kind of stories.” “Thus,” the narrative continues, “she had told herself one long story, over and over again until it was perfect,” the story of “that very strange formation, called ‘her upbringing.’”73 But in fact the novel doesn’t tell stories about the unnamed protagonist’s upbringing; rather her upbringing is a practice of storytelling. In the first section of the novel, a fifteen-year-old girl goes to bed over and over again in order to enter the world of dreams and escape the life she faces, summed up as “‘Get married.’ ‘Have a baby’” (31). These dreams are romantic stories, set in a Victorian Britain more Barbara Cartland than the Brontës. But they are not parody or pastiche; through them the protagonist charts growing up in the suburbs of the fifties ruled, in a nice period touch, by Bakelite television sets (90). These stories are her erotic life—“she always reached out for herself eventually”—and the frustration of one is the frustration of the other. Her dream stories, however, are not only frustrated by the limitations of her suburban life but also by the kind of Victorian narratives that she knows: “The girl could never quite finish her stories because once it was fixed for her to marry it rather took the story away” (68, 89). Looking out a window, she has intimations of her limitations: “Modern art and literature was very good at remaking in one’s own image this kind of situation. ‘But what is my own image?’” (93). Modern art, here conceived as an archive on which the postwar woman can draw in order to escape the patriarchal narratives of the past, remains closed off for the girl of the novel’s first section. The second section is one long story, set in North Africa. Here, the protagonist Robin’s decision to seduce and marry an older French officer takes on a Pinteresque dimension when the officer ends up making love to a young man, leaving Robin reduced to a pregnant asset. The third and final section comments on these attempts at stories while giving fleeting glimpses of the life of a woman of the present, married to a race car driver. The freedom represented by the car recurs throughout the novel: “I love moving … [in] whatever polemical car”; “this love-life of movement was always”; “This dreaming—this movement—hard to keep with it. My mind sways like a tart like a car on English road” (232, 274). As early as 1957, the Smithsons had called for an “aesthetics of change,” an idea that echoes the ICA’s belief that what is normal in the arts is perpetual change, symbolized in Smithson’s novel by the automobile.74 There are parallels here too with the contemporaneous novels Between (1968) by Christine Brooke-Rose and In Transit (1969) by Brigid Brophy, where the movement opened up by new technology becomes an emblem for women’s intellectual liberation, as well as the motivation for a repetitious, flickering, blurred narrative style. Indeed, Brophy’s novel alludes to the Smithsons when the narrator nominates “that sort-of-pop-brutalistic tabbying” as the nearest thing to a twentieth-century style.75 Yet in all three novels the freedom achieved by the female protagonist is limited and provisional. In the latter stages of A Portrait, the protagonist reflects that she “never felt this thrill of women’s freedom.” In love with “the middle half of [End Page 208] the twentieth century,” she is “under the generation of the trained women acting as a house wife,” encumbered with “half-accepted freedom, house floundered cut-off from society half explored” (228, 263). Perhaps the novel’s most prescient moment is its anticipation of the intersection in the late sixties and early seventies of the political struggles of a generation of women, poised on the cusp of second-wave feminism, with the recovery of the strategies of the aesthetic avant-garde as a means of “remaking one’s own image,” manifested, for example, in the work of Mierle Ukeles, Mary Kelly, Judy Chicago, and Adrian Piper.76 At her husband’s car rally, the narrator reflects that “the ‘elders’ see nothing but disagreement among the avant-garde: not the proper spirit. Meanwhile the middle, by-passed generation, alternatively give advice to both sides, manoeuvre both sides into position and tell tales out of it” (272). This mediation between the “elders” and a new avant-garde could stand as a description of Alison Smithson’s position at the ICA in the fifties and of the midcentury reconstruction of modernism. The novel ends, however, on a discordant note: “Born myself again in my own image; still I am not satisfied” (288). If in this novel of dreaming and memory, modern art is figured as a tool for creating the potential self-image of a new generation of women, the disjointed narrative and abrupt conclusion that sees the “girl” ends up married and living in a “Council street,” suggests—appropriately enough, coming from an architect—that imagined self-fashioning through art means little without a corresponding transformation in economic and material reality.

Brophy was not the only novelist to take inspiration from the Smithsons’ “popbrutalistic tabbying.” In B. S. Johnson’s Christie Malry’s Own Double Entry (1973) the narrator opines that the novel should be “Funny, Brutalist and Short.”77 As Jonathan Coe observes, the Smithsons mattered to Johnson not only as architects but also as polemical theorists—that is, as writers. Johnson’s description of them as having to “not only overcome the opposition of reactionaries to a previous generation, but also to have ideas accepted which are an extension and development of that generation” is indeed, as Coe writes, a description of Johnson’s own position in the mid-sixties.78 Johnson sent a copy of his second novel, Albert Angelo (1964), to the Smithsons, writing that “my position in the avant-garde of my profession resembles that of yours in architecture” (quoted in Coe, Fiery Elephant, 286). Johnson’s adulation of the couple culminated in his production of an awkwardly hagiographic documentary about their theories of urbanism for the BBC in 1970. In light of this, Albert Angelo can be read as Johnson’s attempt at the task outlined in Smithson’s A Portrait: to maneuver between the elders, represented in the novel by an epigraph from Beckett’s The Unnamable (1953), and the new avant-garde Johnson aspired to join. As scholars have developed ever more detailed historical accounts of the institutionalization and transformation of modernism in postwar Britain, Johnson has emerged as one of the most compelling British writers of the 1960s, with critics drawing attention to his aesthetic investigations of chance and the ontology of fiction, the working-class perspective of his novels, and his attempts to promote a renewed modernist avant-garde through mass cultural television broadcasting.79 Another reason for Johnson’s increasing contemporary resonance lies in Albert Angelo’s depictions of a multicultural city populated by Greek Cypriots, [End Page 209] West Indians, Somalis, and West Africans, all “Londoners like us,” anticipating later London novels such as Zadie Smith’s White Teeth (2000) and Monica Ali’s Brick Lane (2003).80 Refracted through the thoughts of the eponymous protagonist, a struggling architect working as a temporary teacher in order to get by, the novel explores and analyzes the urban fabric of London, attending, in a manner that recalls the Smithsons’ theories of urbanism, to the patterns of life and built fabric that already exist in the city, rather than imposing a preexisting form on it. Attending to the centrality of the Smithsons and their successors such as Archigram in twentieth-century architectural history could perhaps help literary scholars situate Johnson within narratives of British literary history, as well as within interdisciplinary accounts of postwar British culture as a whole. There are, for example, important similarities between Archigram’s advocacy of a “plug-in” architecture of “open-ends” and Johnson’s The Unfortunates (1969), a book consisting of twenty-seven unbound sections that the reader puts together in whatever way she sees fit, constructing her own path.81

In his 1967 statement of principles, “Aren’t You Rather Young to be Writing Your Memoirs?,” Johnson emphasizes that “the architects can teach us something,” quoting Louis Sullivan’s dictum that “form follows function,” and Mies van der Rohe’s statement that “to create form out of the nature of our tasks with the methods of our time—this is our task.” The function of the novelist, as Johnson saw it, was to “evolve (by inventing, borrowing, stealing or cobbling from other media) forms which will more or less satisfactorily contain an ever–changing reality.” For Johnson, “change is a condition of life[;] … change simply is” (16–17). This was his version of the ICA’s belief that “what is normal … is change” and the Smithsons’ demand for “an aesthetics of change,” positions that were generated out of a specific interpretation and reconstruction of modernism. Johnson’s borrowing from architecture is clear in Albert Angelo. Like the Smithsons, who had few of their projects actually built, but who became famous for their writings and unrealized plans, Albert is introduced as a paper architect, designing buildings that will not be built now, but in the future: “Like poets, after they’re dead” (Omnibus, 13). The novel opens by sounding one of its major themes, positing Albert as the creator of an archive of the future. Albert as an architect also draws on the past as an archive, a file of drawings and novels from which he tries to design buildings for the future. His bookshelf contains “Mies, Corbu, Bannister bloody Fletcher … Beckett, O’Brien, Sterne—oh what the hell. My problems are my problems” (110). That interjection expresses the concern of Albert Angelo as a novel: how to look back and borrow from other disciplines in order to advance the project of novelistic experimentation after Beckett and O’Brien.

One of the novel’s formal strategies in attempting this is, as Philip Tew has established, Johnson’s incorporation of verbatim copies of essays he collected while working as a teacher, which he presents as the work of Albert’s pupils. Tew sees this tactic as “adapting or extending the notion of the object trouvé,” but it might more accurately be described as manifesting the “as found” strategy that Alison Smithson used in her own literary work.82 As in the curatorial practices of Parallel of Life and Art, surrealist [End Page 210] practice is repurposed into a strategy of postwar writing. Johnson draws on another key tenet of the Smithsons’ architectural theory, one that stands as a metaprinciple for the novel’s relationship toward modernism. In one of the novel’s typographically innovative double column sections, events in a classroom being reported in one column and Albert’s thoughts in another, Albert rejects the technique of cladding on the grounds that “form should be honest, should be honestly exposed” (Omnibus, 81). In this he alludes to a key principle of New Brutalism, extended, as we have seen, from the earlier modernism of Sullivan and Mies: the necessity of exposing, for moral and ethical reasons, of the materials used to construct a building. For Banham, this was the “ethic and aesthetic” of the New Brutalism’s welfare state, and it is also the conjoined “ethic and aesthetic” of Johnson’s fiction.83 Johnson’s fiction is utterly honest about its will to experimentation, about its predecessors and influences and its technical strategies, as the holes cut through the pages of Albert Angelo, which reveal future events in the novel in a very obvious way, suggest. Johnson stressed this point in “Aren’t You Rather Young,” revealing the motivations behind his formal strategies, technical devices that “are clear enough to the reader who will think about them.” If such an intervention departs from one modernist ideal, that of the author as “invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, pairing his fingernails,” then it does so to express a different conjoining of ethics and aesthetics: the belief that the reader will be more receptive to experimentation if she sees the form “honestly exposed.”84 This is one of Johnson’s most important critical principles, one that emphasizes the ethical role of theories of fiction in postwar justifications of literary innovation. Yet this exposure is that of artifice rather than autobiography. As he wrote of his later novel Trawl (1966), “The publisher wished to classify it as an autobiography, not as a novel. It is a novel” (“Aren’t You Rather Young,” 14). The ethic and aesthetic of exposure lie behind Albert Angelo’s famous concluding “almighty aposiopesis.” After utilizing the techniques of first-, second-, and third-person narration and of presenting material “as found,” the text explodes: “Fuck all this lying look what im really trying to write about is writing not all this stuff about architecture” (Omnibus, 167). Yet this very rejection of “covering up covering up covering up” echoes Albert’s earlier call for architectural honesty, thus ironizing a passage that might otherwise be read as voicing the desire for authenticity. What is being exposed is the form of the novel, and this exposure of artifice is the novel’s truth, thus making sense of Johnson’s statement that “I choose to write truth in the form of a novel” (“Aren’t You Rather Young,” 14). As we have seen, Albert’s architectural honesty emerges out of specific historical conjuncture, a distinctly British moment in the reception of modernism. It is not by accident that Albert remembers taking Jenny, his ex-girlfriend, to “a lecture on modern architecture at the ICA” (Omnibus, 49). That allusion signals the institutional reconstruction of modernism that took place across the arts in the 1950s and also the complex way in which in this very process of reconstruction, modernism becomes an archive for Johnson’s writing of the future of the postwar novel. [End Page 211]

Conclusion

In 1955, Lawrence Alloway became assistant director of the ICA, an ascension that marked the end of the Independent Group’s activities. After the 1956 exhibition of This Is Tomorrow, its members dispersed. At the end of the 1950s the ICA’s program moved on and began exploring situationism, cybernetics, and structuralism and conducting homegrown investigations into mass cultural product design that saw little continuity with the products or theoretical strategies of what Banham defined as “the First Machine Age.”85 Indeed, it is Banham who offered the most succinct analysis of the Janus-faced attitude of the artists associated with the ICA in the 1950s. As early as 1955, he noted the role of institutionalization and historicization in producing the “modernism” with which artists and writers of the 1950s were wrestling. In his account of New Brutalism, he observes that the work of architectural historians such as Siegfried Gideon had “created the idea of the Modern Movement … and beyond that offered a rough classification of the ‘isms’ which are the thumb-print of Modernity.”86 His point is obvious, but it is worth repeating. The idea of the “modern movement,” that is, the belief that the proliferating, opposed, and contradictory developments across the arts in the first half of the twentieth century are united in bearing (in a lovely turn of phrase) “the thumb-print of Modernity” is the retrospective construction of the midcentury. In this sense, the Smithsons and Johnson as much as Gideon and Read were historians of modernism, producing the past in claiming it as the source for the future, whether in order to show, in Read’s words, the “perpetual evolution and alteration of style” or, as the Smithsons put it, an “aesthetic of change.” In a 1961 address to the Royal Institute of British Architects entitled “The History of the Immediate Future,” Banham looked back on the previous decade’s historical reconstructions of an interdisciplinary modernism, distinguishing two divergent results. There was a “modern movement historicism” that he traced to the Smithsons and the New Brutalists—“at least in some of their works and particularly in the early and middle ’50s.”87 This “neohistoricism,” what he called “the delights of do-it-yourself modern movement history,” threatened to result in an attitude to modernism that was merely “aesthetic”—and there was no worse insult than this from Banham (253, 255). And then there was another approach to the history of modernism, one that he embraced, that saw its reconstruction as a guide to the future; such a reconstruction is needed “not because history repeats itself—it is, fortunately, impossible to make the same mistake twice”—but because “history is to the future as the observed results of an experiment are to the plotted graph” (252). The constant reobservation and reconstruction of the past—of the modernist past—continually alters our predictions of its future. Banham’s analogy yokes this distinctive midcentury temporality to the progressive, technological and utopian understanding of modernism he advocated.

Banham was a glorious essayist, a woefully understudied and distinctive literary stylist—perhaps the equivalent in British letters to American Tom Wolfe, a writer he was one of the first to praise.88 Here is his dismissal, in a 1957 essay in the Architect’s Journal, of the Italian craze of the period: “Once upon a dreadful day, a tall dark neo-Palladian yawned at the mention of ‘Divina Proporzione,’ and the panic was on. It had [End Page 212] been a terrible season: a ranking Brutalist had been rude about Alberti, a man at the ICA had described Bicycle Thieves as ‘creep,’ Vogue had spoken up for ordinary coffee, and old Astragal had treated an exhibition of Italian industrial design with what sounded like tolerant amusement, instead of the loutish self-abasement required by protocol” (A Critic Writes, 24). Irony was his characteristic tone, and it dominated a poem he wrote for the This Is Tomorrow catalogue in 1956, a mock history of two sorts of modernist aspiration: “HIS / authoritarian hegelian metaphysical / dream of gesamtkunstwerk great union of / all disciplines total art,” which is contrasted with “HERS … libertarian rousseauistic mediaevalising … wills and hands in free association.” The fusion between the two is seen in “architecture painting sculpture / discipline / seen as one” and in his vision of the future is one where only an

undifferentiated environment remainseven within the space frame opens outways beyond the arts.

The poem closes with “you / end product / you” (quoted in Robbins, The Independent Group, 10). Of course, the poem’s tone mocks the aspirations it describes, but it also simultaneously discards this irony in imagining a utopian democratic future in an undifferentiated world beyond the arts. What perhaps was lacking in the history of the future that ICA and its descendants produced was an awareness of the irony entailed in their appropriation and transformation of literary modernists such as Joyce. Acts of appropriation across media always involve a loss of those formal qualities that define a work’s meaning in the first place; without an ironic awareness of this loss, such acts remain only partially understood. These appropriations by and transformations of literary and visual modernisms were one way through which modernism was transformed in postwar Britain, and to properly understand this transformation we need a modernist historiography that moves between media and across the twentieth century as easily as the Independent Group did themselves. The ICA’s aspirations to create the “art of the future” in postwar Britain were ultimately realized, even if the work of the Independent Group, the Smithsons, and Johnson was hardly what Read initially expected—although that development itself is of a piece with the ICA’s founders’ assertion that the results of modernist histories of the future are always unknown.

Kevin Brazil

Kevin Brazil is a lecturer in 20th and 21st century British Literature at the University of Southhampton. He is the author of articles on Samuel Beckett, Doris Lessing, and coeditor of Doris Lessing and the Forming of History, forthcoming from Edinburgh University Press. He is currently working on a book on the relationship between the postwar novel and visual art.

Notes

1. Tom Gunning, “Re-Newing Old Technologies: Astonishment, Second Nature, and the Uncanny in Technology from the Previous Turn-of-the-Century,” in Rethinking Media Change: The Aesthetics of Transition, ed. David Thorburn and Henry Jenkins (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003), 51.

2. Urmila Seshagiri, “Modernist Ashes, Postcolonial Phoenix: Jean Rhys and the Evolution of the English Novel in the Twentieth Century,” Modernism/modernity 13, no. 3 (2006): 487–505; Rebecca L. Walkowitz, Cosmopolitan Style: Modernism Beyond the Nation (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006); Matthew Hart, Nations of Nothing but Poetry (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010).

3. Tyrus Miller, Late Modernism: Politics, Fiction and the Arts between the World Wars (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999); Jed Esty, A Shrinking Island: Modernism and National Culture [End Page 213] in England (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003); Marina MacKay, Modernism and World War II (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Jonathan Daniel Greenberg, Modernism, Satire, and the Novel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Hannah Sullivan, The Work of Revision (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013).

4. David James, Modernist Futures: Innovation and Inheritance in the Contemporary Novel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 16.

5. David James and Urmila Seshagiri, “Metamodernism: Narratives of Continuity and Revolution,” PMLA 129, no. 1 (2014): 87–100.

6. Laura Marcus and Peter Nicholls, introduction to The Cambridge History of Twentieth-Century English Literature, ed. Laura Marcus and Peter Nicholls (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 4.

7. John Berger, “The Moment of Cubism,” New Left Review 1, no. 42 (1967): 76.

8. John Berger, G. (London: Bloomsbury, 2012), 104.

9. Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, trans. Eric Prenowitz (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996).

10. Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor (London: Athlone, 1997), 139–46; Clement Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” in The Collected Essays and Criticism, vol. 4: Modernism with a Vengeance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 85–93.

11. Jürgen Habermas, The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity: Twelve Lectures (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1987), 5, 19.

12. Tom McCarthy, C (London: Jonathan Cape, 2010); Will Self, Umbrella (London: Bloomsbury, 2012); Zadie Smith, NW (London: Hamish Hamilton, 2012).

13. David Mellors et al., Fifty Years of the Future: A Chronicle of the Institute of Contemporary Arts (London: Institute of Contemporary Arts, 1998), 1. Short accounts of the ICA can be found in James King, The Last Modern: A Life of Herbert Read (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1990), 235–49, Anne Massey, The Independent Group: Modernism and Mass Culture in Britain, 1945–1959 (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 1995), 19–32, Nanette Aldred, “Art in Postwar Britain: A Short History of the ICA,” in British Culture of the Postwar: An Introduction to Literature and Society 1945–1999, ed. Alan Davies and Alan Sinfield (London: Routledge, 2000), 148–68, and Anne Massey, ed., “Themed Issue: The Independent Group,” Journal of Visual Culture 12, no. 2 (2013). Detailed documentation of early ICA exhibitions is offered in Anne Massey and Gregor Muir, Institute of Contemporary Arts, 1946–1968 (London: Institute of Contemporary Arts, 2014).

14. David Robbins, ed., The Independent Group: Postwar Britain and the Aesthetics of Plenty (Cambridge, MA; London: MIT Press, 1990).

15. A similarly simplistic opposition between a “patriarchal … modernist art history” focused on high culture, and “popular culture[,] … [its] feminine other,” is posited in Anne Massey, Out of the Ivory Tower: The Independent Group and Popular Culture (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2013).

16. Irénée Scalbert, “Parallel of Life and Art,” Daidalos 75 (2000): 65.

17. Ben Highmore, “Rough Poetry: Patio and Pavilion Revisited,” Oxford Art Journal 29, no. 2 (2006): 1–22; Ben Highmore, “Richard Hamilton at the Ideal Home Exhibition of 1958: Gallery for a Collector of Brutalist and Tachiste Art,” Art History 30, no. 5 (2007): 712–37; Hal Foster, The First Pop Age: Painting and Subjectivity in the Art of Hamilton, Lichtenstein, Warhol, Richter, and Ruscha (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012); Max Risselada, ed., Alison and Peter Smithson: A Critical Anthology (Barcelona: Poligrafa, 2011). See also two special issues of October: “The Independent Group” (2000) and “New Brutalism” (2011).

18. M. Christine Boyer, “The Team 10 Discourse: Keeping the Language of Modern Architecture Alive and Fresh,” in Team X: In Search of a Utopia of the Present, 1953–1981, ed. Max Risselada and Dirk van den Heuvel (Rotterdam: NAi, 2006), 264–70. See also Sarah Williams Goldhagen, “Freedom’s Domiciles: Three Projects by Alison and Peter Smithson,” in Anxious Modernisms: Experimentation in Postwar Architectural Culture, ed. Sarah Williams Goldhagen and Réjean Legault (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2000), 75–96. [End Page 214]

19. Letter from Herbert Read, Roland Penrose, and E. L. T. Mesens to Roland Penrose, January 26, 1946, Tate Gallery Archives (hereafter TGA), 955.1.2.1 1/158.

20. Minutes, January 30, 1946, TGA, 955.1.1.1 3/102.

21. Beatriz Colomina and Peter Smithson, “Friends of the Future: A Conversation with Peter Smithson,” October 94 (2000): 4.

22. Michel Remy, Surrealism in Britain (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1999), 164–66.

23. Christiane Geurts-Krauss, E. L. T. Mesens, l’alchimiste méconnu du surréalisme (Brussels: Labor, 1998), 138–39.

24. Herbert Read, Form in Modern Poetry (London: Sheed and Ward, 1932), 3.

25. Herbert Read, Art Now (London: Faber and Faber, 1933), 74.

26. Wilhelm Worringer, Form in Gothic, ed. Herbert Read (London: Alec Tiranti, 1964), 62.

27. Herbert Read, “The Nature of Criticism,” in Collected Essays in Literary Criticism, 2nd ed. (London: Faber and Faber, 1951), 125, 126; emphasis in original.

28. Michael H. Whitworth, “Herbert Read and the New Metaphysical Poetry,” in Re-Reading Read: New Views on Herbert Read, ed. Michael Paraskos (London: Freedom Press, 2007), 213.

29. Herbert Read, Surrealism (London: Faber and Faber, 1936), 64, 42.

30. Herbert Read, The Politics of the Unpolitical (London: Routledge, 1943), 66.

31. Herbert Read and J. R. M. Brumwell, “Threshold of a New Age,” in This Changing World (London: Routledge, 1944), 12.

32. J. B. Brunius, “Man Torn Asunder,” in Free Unions–Union Libres, ed. Simon Watson Taylor (London: Express Printers, 1946), 36–37.

33. Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans. John Cumming (London: Verso, 1997).

34. Roland Penrose, The Home Guard Manual of Camouflage (London: Routledge, 1941), 99.

35. Roger Caillois, “Mimicry and Legendary Psychasthenia,” trans. John Sheppy, October 31 (1984): 16–32.

36. E. L. T. Mesens, Third Front and Detached Pieces, trans. Roland Penrose (London: London Gallery Editions, 1944), 41–43.

37. Minutes, January 30, 1946, TGA, 955.1.1.1 4/102.

38. Minutes, May 21, 1946, TGA, 955.1.1.1 42/102.

39. Theodor W. Adorno, Prisms, trans. Samuel Weber and Shierry Weber (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981), 175.

40. André Malraux, Psychologie de l’art, vol. 1: Le musée imaginaire (Geneva: Albert Skira, 1947), 72, 76. The English translation of this text is based on Malraux’s extensively revised 1965 edition, and thus I have preferred to quote from the 1947 text. See André Malraux, Museum without Walls, trans. Stuart Gilbert and Francis Price (London: Secker and Warburg, 1967).

41. Minutes, January 30, 1946, TGA, 955.1.1.1 6/102; “Statement of Policy (Second Draft),” April-May 1946, TGA, 955.1.1.10 1/27.

42. Institute of Contemporary Arts, The Institute of Contemporary Arts: A Statement of the Policy and Aims of the Proposed Institute by the Members of the Organising Committee (London, Institute of Contemporary Arts, 1947), 3.

43. Herbert Read, “Contemporary Arts,” Times (London), June 26, 1947, 5.

44. Lawrence S. Rainey, Institutions of Modernism: Literary Elites and Public Culture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998).

45. In 1949, the first full year of operation, 277 paying members brought in £796.13.0 in nonrecurring income; over the next seven years, these members brought in £729.7.6 in recurring income. This was supplemented with a £2,000 loan from Penrose and an initial £500 grant from the Arts Council of Great Britain (advisory committee, minutes, annual general meeting, September 6, 1949, TGA, 955.1.1.3 1/43). Grants from the council increased to £1,000 in 1951, and £1,250 per annum for 1952–55 (TGA, 955 1.1.3 6/43).

46. Herbert Read, introduction to 40 Years of Modern Art, TGA, 955.1.12.8 7/9.

47. Herbert Read, preface to 40,000 Years of Modern Art: A Comparison of Primitive and Modern (London: Institute of Contemporary Arts, 1948), 5–6. [End Page 215]

48. W. G. Archer and Robert Melville, Primitive Influences in Modern Art (London: Institute of Contemporary Arts, 1948), 14, 36.

49. Elazar Barkan and Ronald Bush, introduction to Prehistories of the Future: The Primitivist Project and the Culture of Modernism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995): 1–22, 19.

50. These painters’ works were shown at an exhibition titled London–Paris: New Trends in Painting and Sculpture from March 7 to April 4, 1950, at the New Burlington Galleries, and at another an exhibition titled 1950: Aspects of British Art, which ran from December 13, 1950, to January 11, 1951 at the new Dover Street headquarters of the ICA (memorandum for London–Paris exhibition, November 30, 1949, TGA, 955.1.2.1 152/158).

51. Becky E. Conekin, “The Autobiography of a Nation”: The 1951 Festival of Britain (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003), 2–26.

52. James Broughton, Coming Unbuttoned: A Memoir (San Francisco: City Lights, 1999), 105.

53. Film program, March 24, 1952, TGA, 29/34.

54. Advisory council, minutes, annual general meeting, June 20, 1951, TGA, 955.1.1.3 5–6/43.

55. Stephen Coppel, ed., Richard Hamilton: Imaging James Joyce’s Ulysses (London: British Council, 2001), 5.

56. Richard Hamilton, Collected Words, 1953–1982 (London: Thames and Hudson, 1982), 37.

57. Harry Levin, James Joyce: A Critical Introduction (London: Faber and Faber, 1944), 22; Cheryl Herr, Joyce’s Anatomy of Culture (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1986); R. B. Kershner, Joyce, Bakhtin, and Popular Culture (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1989). As Joseph Brooker points out, this was not New Criticism; nevertheless, Levin’s reading “partakes of a characteristic mid-century modernism in which art strives for stillness in a world that shuns it” (Joyce’s Critics: Transitions in Reading and Culture [Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2004], 91).

58. Isabelle Moffat, “‘A Horror of Abstract Thought’: Postwar Britain and Hamilton’s 1951 ‘Growth and Form’ Exhibition,” October 94 (2000): 89–112.

59. Richard Hamilton, Growth and Form synopsis, TGA, 955.1.12.26 36/36.

60. Walter Benjamin, “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility (Third Version),” in Selected Writings, vol. 4 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003), 266.

61. Lancelot Law White, ed., Aspects of Form: A Symposium on Form in Nature and Art (London: Lund Humphries, 1951).

62. Hal Foster et al., Art since 1900: Modernism, Antimodernism, Postmodernism (London: Thames and Hudson, 2004), 385.

63. Alison Smithson and Peter Smithson, “But Today We Collect Ads,” ARK, no. 18 (November 1956): 48–50.

64. Peter Reyner Banham, “Parallel of Life and Art,” in The Independent Group, 170.

65. Alison Smithson and Peter Smithson, “The ‘As Found’ and the ‘Found,’” in The Independent Group, 201.

66. Alison Smithson and Peter Smithson, “Texts Documenting the Development of Parallel of Life and Art,” in The Independent Group, 129.

67. Walter Benjamin, Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, vol. 3 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 117.

68. Alison Smithson, ed., Team 10 Primer (London: Studio Vista, 1968); Alison Smithson and Peter Smithson, AS in DS: An Eye on the Road (Baden: Lars Muller, 2001).

69. See, for example, the introduction by Tracy Hargreaves and Alice Ferrebe to “Literature of the 1950s and 1960s,” ed. Tracy Hargreaves and Alice Ferrebe, special issue, Yearbook of English Studies 42 (2012): 1–12.

70. Lectures subcommittee, minutes, October 13, 1953, TGA, 955.1.7.1 14/17.

71. Stephen Spender and Kathleen Raine, “Influences on Contemporary Literature,” TGA, 955.1.7.7 6/87.

72. John Heath-Stubbs, “Notes on ‘Poetic Symbols and Techniques,’” lecture, March 11, 1954, TGA, 955.1.7.22.

73. Alison Smithson, A Portrait of the Female Mind as a Young Girl (London: Chatto and Windus, 1966), 208. [End Page 216]

74. Alison Smithson and Peter Smithson, “The Aesthetics of Change,” Architects Year Book 8 (1957): 14.

75. Brigid Brophy, In Transit: An Heroic-Cyclic Novel (Evanston, IL: Dalkey Archive Press, 2002), 23.

76. For a recent history of this intersection in British art, see Siona Wilson, Art Labor, Sex Politics: Feminist Effects in 1970s British Art and Performance (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015).

77. B. S. Johnson, Christie Malry’s Own Double Entry (London: Quartet Books, 1974), 106.

78. Jonathan Coe, Like a Fiery Elephant: The Story of B.S. Johnson (London: Picador, 2005), 201–2. Johnson saw himself as trying to convince a British reading public of the value of the modernism of Joyce and Beckett and as at the same time continuing that revolution by innovating with fictional form, the latter being a necessity since “the novelist cannot legitimately or successfully embody present day reality in exhausted forms,” (“Aren’t You Rather Young to Be Writing Your Memoirs?” (1967), in Aren’t You Rather Young to Be Writing Your Memoirs? (London: Hutchinson, 1973), 16.

79. Recent years have seen new editions of Johnson’s prose (B. S. Johnson, Well Done God! Selected Prose and Drama of B. S. Johnson, ed. Philip Tew, Julia Jordan, and Jonathan Coe [London: Picador, 2013]) and films (B. S. Johnson, You’re Human Like The Rest Of Them: The Films of B. S. Johnson, DVD [British Film Institute, 2013]), and the foundation of a scholarly society and a journal titled BSJ.

80. B. S. Johnson, Omnibus (London: Picador, 2004), 54; Zadie Smith, White Teeth (London: Hamish Hamilton, 2000); Monica Ali, Brick Lane (London: Doubleday, 2003).

81. Quoted in Simon Sadler, Archigram: Architecture without Architecture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005), 94; B. S. Johnson, The Unfortunates (London: Panther Books, 1969).

82. Philip Tew, “Moving beyond Modernism in the Fiction of B. S. Johnson: Charting Influences and Comparison,” in The Legacies of Modernism: Historicising Postwar and Contemporary Fiction, ed. David James (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 54.

83. Peter Reyner Banham, The New Brutalism: Ethic or Aesthetic? (London: Architectural Press, 1966).

84. James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (London: Jonathan Cape, 1964), 219.

85. Peter Reyner Banham, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age (London: Architectural Press, 1960).

86. Peter Reyner Banham, A Critic Writes: Essays by Reyner Banham (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 7.

87. Peter Reyner Banham, “The History of the Immediate Future,” RIBA Journal 3, no. 68 (1961): 252.

88. Peter Reyner Banham, “Kandy Kulture Kiterone,” New Society, August 19, 1965, 25–26. [End Page 217]