I once caught a snippet of a radio programme where a man
was describing his job as a camouflage inspector. He described how he taught
troops effective camouflage methods, and detailed the sorts of things that they
could use to camouflage themselves. Then came the inspection: camouflaged units
of troops would be sent out to go to ground in the local countryside. They
would have to disguise themselves as best they could, deploying all the skills
they had and using the available resources around them. The camouflage
inspector would then go to the top of a nearby hill and look out to see if he
could see the troops. Failure was simple: if you were seen, then the camouflage
was not complete. Success, though, was much more precarious. If there was
nothing to be seen this meant that either the camouflage was completely
successful, or that the unit had wandered off in another direction or simply
taken themselves off to the nearest pub. I have always thought that the perils
of interpretation are glimpsed in the work of the camouflage inspector: all is
fine when there is something to see, where a location, a presence is given away,
but what is to be made of blankness, absence, and silence. Given that so much
of twentieth century art seems to want to avoid meaning and content, to
purposefully embrace the blank, then interpretation becomes a perilous task.
In the Second World War a group of English surrealists
ended up becoming camouflage instructors and camouflage designers. One of the
leaders of camouflaging was the English surrealist painter and ‘best-pal-of-Picasso’,
Roland Penrose, and he was responsible for training a slightly younger
generation of surrealist including the likes of Julian Trevelyan in camouflage
techniques. For Trevelyan the war was decisive in making the sorts of
surrealism that had seemed so dangerous and urgent in the 1930, appear both impossible
and ludicrous: how could the sort of surrealist juxtaposition (sewing machines
on operating tables) compete with real world juxtapositions produced by
high-explosive bombs that opened up houses, ripped apart bodies, and
concretised Marx’s sense that ‘all that is solid melts into air’. But in his
path from surrealism to something quieter Trevelyan worked as a camouflage
artists disguising small military instillations such as pill boxes with an
aesthetic straight out of the Romantic tradition: pill boxes became picturesque
ruins or Romany caravans. Presumably Luftwaffe pilots and navigators (or some
of them) saw an English landscape peppered with the quaint and evocative,
rather than a landscape in the grip of total mobilisation.
The task of interpretation may well be easier when one
thing is disguised as another. This is, after all, what allegory is. Perhaps
the English surrealists, during the war, became specialists in allegorical
camouflage.
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