Lot 1

Alberto Morrocco, R.S.A., R.S.W. (1917-1998) With an inquiring gaze and a fine Roman nose, Alberto Morrocco was a man of great charm, intelligence and humour. The Scottish son of Italian immigrants, he combined the best of Scottish directness with Italian warmth and generosity of spirit. These things were reflected in his painting, but were also quite tangible in the home that, with his wife Vera, he created in Dundee. It was full of the warmth and colour of his own and other people's paintings, but those qualities overflowed into sculpture and painted furniture, too. There were many influences on his work, of Bonnard and Picasso, perhaps especially, but he was always his own man even if he was also often self-deprecating. It was typical of him, for instance, that the clowns and harlequins he painted were frequently his own humorous self-image. A superb draughtsman, he painted best what he knew best. This was at first his own domestic scene, whether his family and the people around him, or the still life that furnished it and often both in combination in wonderful paintings of the domestic scene cluttered with children, toys and furniture. He also painted the Scottish landscape with great feeling. Later, however, he discovered Italy, the land of his ancestors, and increasingly his painting was filled with Mediterranean light and colour. The directness of his vision and his engagement with the world around him and the people in it also made him one of the finest portrait painters of his time. Here too intimacy counted for him, and so the portraits he painted of his wife and family are quite outstanding in their time. Duncan MacMillan. SOME CHILDHOOD MEMORIES Apparently the first time my father laid eyes on my mother was in the public swimming baths in Aberdeen. He reputedly turned to his swimming companion and said, 'Now she'd make a good model'. This, on the surface quite flippant remark, reveals something quite fundamental about him, as it highlights just how strongly the basic need to express himself as an artist underpinned everything that he did. Even when choosing a mate, and this partnership was to last over 50 years, his choice was heavily influenced by what he already knew would be needed in the coming years.This need never faded and he was painting until very near the end. I can remember times in childhood when there was hardly a place in our house which was not being used as a setting for an interior scene or a still life. Often several things were going on at the same time and as the family were constant targets for "model duty", one had to be careful not to wear a colour combination that might attract his attention or be caught in a particularly "interesting" posture. Even one's bed was not safe. To be fair, as a moody and lazy child, I often presented myself quite literally as a sitting target for his roving eye. My mother's life often revolved around the search for missing bowls, plates, jugs etc. that had been commandeered for a more important purpose than originally intended. It was difficult to appreciate, whilst growing up, how unusual our way of life was. Not that it was particularly bohemian, but in provincial Scotland in the 1950s and 1960s most people lived quiet and simple lives. My father would often turn up in the evening with friends he had met, often his students, and whom he had invited for dinner. My mother, who was an inventive and accomplished cook, always managed to produce something delicious out of thin air. At one period, our house became the local venue for fairly wild gatherings where artists and actors from the repertory theatre plus the local intelligentsia would congregate to relax, argue and exchange ideas on all topics artistic, political and philosophical, until late into the night. Things got quite lively when the actors arrived, high as kites after their nightly show had finished. As a boy I used to sit at the top of the stairs in my pyjamas mesmerised by the the noisy activities of all the exotic types that turned up. On some occasions, my mother cooked a two or three course meal for fifty or more, in a tiny kitchen by herself. ...I remember on one occasion arriving by car at Dover and being ordered by a very officious customs officer to unpack everything. My father, who was not a happy sailor at the best of times and used to spend the whole of the ferry crossing outside, wrapped in a blanket in a deck chair, was not amused. It took but a few minutes to unpack everything and a few bad tempered hours to put it all back together again. It is said that everyone possesses an individual "voice". My father's voice was in a way quite simple. Painting was his vocation. He was one of those rare people who does what they are. It was his way of saying who he was and it is impossible to imagine what else he could have done or been. Lawrence Morrocco. DAD When I think about my father and my childhood memories, the exhausting list of eccentricities brings a refreshing smile to my face. Here are just a few anecdotes that come to mind ... I recall the time when we arrived in Italy for our holidays and I realised I'd forgotten my doll at home, swiftly Dad was busy carving one out of wood for me and devoutly painting it. It even had articulating arms and legs. His patience for fine detail was admirable which leads me on to the tooth incident... He lost one of his teeth while we were on the island of Panarea, there didn't seem to be a dentist available but this wasn't a problem for Dad, he simply carved a new one, again out of wood, painted it exactly the same colour as his teeth, he even varnished it then neatly slotted it into place. You would never have known the difference and his custom made tooth resisted many plates of pasta until we returned home. Fairly soon after arriving in Spain or Italy it was normal practice to go rummaging around dumps and dried up river beds searching for interesting objects that could potentially be used in future constructions or sculptures. Old brushes, rusty pots, broken cooking utensils, wooden table legs etc, what was abandoned junk to others was inspiring material to Dad. I used to love helping him find things and felt honored when he accepted my humble offerings, I can still hear him say 'Oh hey that's a rare thing!'. Beach combing was also a favourite pastime, he especially loved old rope, floats and driftwood. He even found it amusing to discreetly take posession of bits of my toys against my consent, I only realised they were missing when I discovered them in another context! Dad never really stopped drawing or making things, even when we were on the beach if he wasn't constructing something, he was building me a dream sandcastle that would enchante me for hours. At supper time he would mould little objects out of compressed bread or use the red wax skin from edam cheese and roll it into all sorts of shapes. Often I would take these miniatures and add them to the objects in my dollshouse which of course had been entirely created and furnished down to the last detail by Dad! There was no end to his imagination. On our way home one summer after a productive holiday in Italy, Dad had meticulously packed up his wares, he had made a huge bird out of organic roots and dried palm and bound it up in brown paper and string to protect it in the plane, the only problem was that it strongly resembled a machine gun in disguise. Proud of his package, he didn't think twice about it until we were stopped at the customs and he was ordered by very suspicious looking officers to unpack the whole thing. I really don't think they had a clue why Dad was travelling with such an unusual souvenir but after lengthy heated discussions between the Italian guards with hands flying everywhere we were finally allowed to board the plane. Dad needed his dose of watermelon when we were in Italy, there was the occasion when we were driving through Lucca on our way back from the beach one stiflingly hot afternoon, in those days watermelon was sold in slices on ice in little stalls by the side of the road, Dad spotted one of these stalls on a busy intersection and insisted we stop the car, forgetting he was only wearing a pair of swimming trunks he bolted across the road with the hope of satisfying this urgent need, only to be whistled down by the Polizia and warned that This is Lucca! Not Viareggio! It wasn't unusual to find Dad dressed up as a clown or wearing a curiosity from his hat collection. We had a huge dressing up chest full of costumes that mum and dad had created for their various parties, I used to watch them passionatly prepare for these events, no details were omitted. In the 1970s a pair of his white bell bottom jeans shrunk in the wash and were a couple of inches too short so he glued strips of white curtain tassels along the hems, they looked very dapper with his white Italian loafers. Dad was great fun to be with except when you had him in your team while playing Pictionary! Usually anyone would've jumped at the occasion to have him in their team but he didn't quite catch the jist of the game, that you have to draw as quickly as possible for your team to guess your image. The game was just another excuse for him to draw, he would spend ages on all the details, the composition and intense concentration was always accompanied by tuneful whistling! Meanwhile the other team was winning! Dad was first and foremost a father to me but he wouldn't have been Dad if he wasn't an artist first. Annalisa Morrocco ON POSING FOR MY FATHER The children (and wives) of artists have always been used as convenient, more or less obedient models. Augustus John comes to mind - there are numerous portraits and figure compositions of his wife Dorelia and his many children. My father, in early career, a great admirer of John, was no exception to the rule and my siblings and I were often called upon to pose for him. In unguarded moments our childish pursuits would be halted abruptly by a request to "just hold that position for a couple of minutes." This could occur while playing in a rock-pool, climbing a garden fence, building a snowman or simply eating cornflakes. Of course two minutes inevitably stretched to half an hour or so as he worked to incorporate us into a landscape or domestic situation. As a seven or eight year old I remember these sessions as particularly painful, the minutes of required inertia dragged by and my infant mind seemed unable to provide me with any mental sustenance. Growing into my teens in the 1950s my posing became less of a freeze-frame moment of captured innocence - instead, my father either asked me to sit for a straight portrait or use me in some of his large figure compositions of the period. Either way the sessions became longer and more tedious and were only agreed to (I'm ashamed to say) with bad grace on my part. One such occasion occurred during work on his large painting "The Sunworshipers 1954." This was based on some fragmentary drawings done on the beach at Rosas on the Costa Brava. Having the basic idea, but not enough detailed figure drawings, I was called upon to pose for one of the central figures. I was positioned in the living room (wearing swimming trunks) as if kneeling on a sun-drenched Spanish beach, and surrounded by a battery of electric fans (it being mid-winter in Scotland). A large angle-poised lamp simulated the Iberian sun and provided a strong side light. The experience, extending over several evenings, I remember as physically quite difficult, although my father worked away intensely, I was allowed (pre-TV) to have the radio on. My posing took an unexpected public face when, as Head of Painting at Duncan of Jordanstone College of Art, my father asked if I would model for a portrait head for his evening class students. This was altogether more appealing, and as well as the numerous rests (I think 10 minutes every 30) I was paid for the effort. Adolescent inhibition prevented me agreeing to pose for a final year life class, and at 17 my posing career was over. My mother on the other hand (as undoubted muse) was a willing and enthusiastic collaborator and posed for innumerable paintings throughout their 56 years of marriage - ranging from "Baking Cakes" (1947), to the affectionately painted "Vera with Fan" (1971) [see lot 29]. She sat for countless portraits and figure studies and provided the female interest in domestic compositions and in large ambitious works such as "Sunbather" and "Watermelon and Bathers" 1967. In retrospect, my brother, sister and I are immensely grateful for being the subjects of many of our father's work (even as sometimes reluctant models) - they bring with them an evocative sense of time and place, and as such, provide us with poignant points of reference in our childhood. Leon Morrocco July 2012

ALBERTO MORROCCO, R.S.A., R.S.W. (1917-1998)

MELON SELLER

Details

ALBERTO MORROCCO, R.S.A., R.S.W. (1917-1998)
MELON SELLER
SIGNED 'MORROCCO' (UPPER RIGHT)
OIL ON CARD
18½ X 23½ IN. (47 X 59.7 CM.)
THIS LOT IS SUBJECT TO ARTIST'S RESALE RIGHT.

Sale room notice

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS LOT IS SUBJECT TO ARTIST'S RESALE RIGHT.

Lot Essay

'WHEN I FIRST STARTED GOING REGULARLY TO ITALY IN THE EARLY 1950S ... I USED TO WALK AROUND THE STREETS AND ANYTHING THAT CAUGHT MY EYE WHICH I REACTED TO, I JUST DREW ... I USED TO SEE THINGS LIKE MELON SELLERS WHICH ARE A FAVOURITE SUBJECT I HAVE USED QUITE OFTEN. ONE USED TO SEE IN ROME, IN PARTICULAR IN FRONT OF THE STATION - THE TERMINI- TWO OR THREE OF THESE MELON SELLERS WITH GREAT BLOCKS OF ICE AND THE MELONS ON TOP. I AM A GREAT LOVER OF MELON IN THE FIRST PLACE ... I SAW ONE OF THE MELON SITTERS HALF-DOZING, SITTING RELAXED IN FRONT OF HIS SLICES OF WATER-MELON. THAT GAVE ME THE IDEA, AND I HAVE SIMPLY JUGGLED AROUND THE MATERIAL FROM DRAWINGS MAINLY UNTIL I FOUND SOME SATISFACTORY PICTURE-MAKING THEME TO GET OUT OF IT' (C.YOUNG AND V. KELLER, ALBERTO MORROCCO 1917-1998, EDINBURGH, 2008, PP. 97-99).

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