Acrylic on board
45 x 61 cm
Signed and dated '71' lower right
Alongside being an artist Fleur Cowles was a socialite, writer, diplomat and fashion editor. She was the founder of the influential but short-lived magazine Flair in 1950, known for its bold design and opulent production, which propelled her into the high echelons of New York society. For a period, her A-list-only connections (Cary Grant was her husband’s best man) made her useful in Washington, becoming a roving ambassador and special correspondent for the Eisenhowers, including attending the Queen's coronation and visiting troops during the Korean War.
She had a keen interest in the arts, Georges Braque and Salvador Dali were both friends, and a sharp eye for younger talent, championing both Peter Blake and Lucian Freud early in their careers. Having retired as editor of Look magazine she moved to England, where she began to paint seriously, in the late 1950’s, having been encouraged and instructed by the young Italian painter, Domenico Gnoli.
Her paintings behold a mysterious, otherworldly quality and her striking design and strong colours give them a hyper-reality; a kind of truth and purity that suggest a land untouched by any human presence. Speaking on her work she commented:
‘I paint what has been packed away in my computer-memory, those animals, flowers and scenes which wait for my brush to give them life. My paintings seem to make people happy. They represent my private world, a peaceful one that rejects the unpleasant, the ugly and the frightening, and dredges up no horrible dreams...I am continually asked why I paint these jungle beasts. I don’t think there is anything more to it than a vivid memory I have of them as a child at zoos, but my husband has a different answer and I agree that he’s partially right. He once gave me an Abyssinian cat; a most unlawful act as the 18th century national monument in which we live in London still heeds its ancient rules: no animals or children are allowed. We gave the cat away very soon but the sleek animal stayed long enough for me to absorb him and his ways in my mind’s eye. He used our home as a jungle, prowling (never strolling) through and round the furniture, and never in a straight line. He would fly to the top of a high armoire in our bedroom, to stare down at me intently. Sometimes he would jump into my office wastebasket to continue to stare, a friendly beast but no house cat, he. I obviously did mentally photograph his jumps, his walk and his eyes.’
