IN THE INSTRUCTIVE TALE OF ERIC RAVILIOUS’S posthumous reputation, three events stand out.
The first occurred in September 1942, when an RAF Lockheed Hudson took off from its base in Iceland across the sparkling waters of the North Atlantic, and never returned. On board were the pilot, three airmen and an observer — war artist Eric Ravilious. Aged 39, Ravilious was having the time of his life. His friend and fellow artist Edward Bawden called Ravilious “The Boy”, a nickname reflecting his Peter Pan-like character. At worst this could play out as désinvolture — at best, a gift for finding wonder in the most unpromising situations.
His work as an official war artist sent him off on adventures, exposing him to different ways of working, new qualities of light. Best of all, at least for his art, war gave him access to all the shiny boys’ toys of conflict: ships, submarines, aircraft. His death was tragic, not only for personal reasons — he left behind a terminally ill wife, his own 85-year-old father and three young children — but for its brutal termination of a career so full of promise.
Lost at the height of his powers, “The Boy” never grew old. Unlike his contemporaries, he never had to negotiate a market dominated by abstract expressionism or pop art, nor indeed confront the marginal nature of Britain’s post-war art scene more generally. It was as if his sudden, enigmatic exit — not even a crash site, not even a
