The curious rise of S.G. Boxsius

Clive Christie recently suggested to me that S. G. Boxsius was 'an artist for uncertain times'. Readers who have been round long enough will know that Clive can be relied on for such perceptive remarks. What he said certainly made me stop and think.  A part of the appeal of Boxsius is his sense of place and small scale sensibility. It doesn't matter where he goes, from St Paul's Cathedral to the quay at Looe, he tends to make it his own. It is always England and it is often momentary but whether it is a sudden shower or the heat of midday, there is always an ongoing conversation, sometimes literally.

This does not explain why Boxsius prints have been turning up first in Britain and now in the U.S. I heard only today from a relieved reader, telling me the proof of The black bull he had purchased had arrived at his home and turned out to be a loose sheet in good condition ( aside from a poorly attached hinge). But there is more. The same person tells me Ruins at Walberswick is coming up for sale at J. Garrett Auctioneers in Dallas on 10th September.  I have known about this print for quite a few years but until this year, I had never seen it. Now good images have turned up twice. As for The black bull, until this year, I don't believe any of us had even heard it. Suddenly there are two. As for the one in South Africa, how did that get to be there?

 

This doesn't look like a blip. If it means there is growing interest and that prices have risen, well, it has not been an overall disaster as both myself and readers have discovered in the past month or so. What all this means is there is an opportunity to buy and build a small collection and frankly it hardly matters what you buy. On the whole, what you pay will average out and although there is the odd dud, Boxsius was not only a proficient artist, he had a vision of England and its coast and buildings, holidays and days out that is coherent. This means everything you buy will fall into place and the more you have the more will be revealed.

As it happens, I was in Pershore in Worcestershire today and Ian Pugh the second-hand bookseller there mentioned Tenbury Wells which lies on the other side of the county. This was where Boxsius died and frankly nowhere could have been better. Like Winchelsea and Devon or Spitalfields and Kew, Tenbury Wells is Boxsius country. But then, every now and again, I look out from the train and there it is once more, Boxsius country, that curious land of uncertain light and certainty of purpose.