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Foreword
Michael Portillo
I knew my grandfather John Waldegrave Blyth only when I was a child, and my only recollections of him are childish.
He was fond of his grandchildren and he played with us well, especially when we went to the linen factory (disused by
then) and he could wheel us around on the trolleys that had once moved product.
I have a clearer memory of his lifestyle than of him. My family’s home was a semi-detached in suburban London,
so my grandparents’ generously proportioned Wilby House in Kirkcaldy seemed to us a mansion, and its gardens a
vast playground. When we descended wearily from the overnight train from London, having spent the night in its
cheapest seats, a chauffeur in double-breasted coat, peaked cap and massive driving gloves, was there to whisk us in the
monogrammed Daimler to breakfast. Like other meals it was announced with a gong, and the table was laid with silver
cruets and sugar shakers, and stiff linen napkins.
Even then, the paintings were what most drew my naïve attention. I was struck by their subject matter: intensely
colourful flowers in vases; images that disintegrated as you came too close, but that magically revealed cows, houses and
fields as you withdrew; and children cowering on a beach being battered by wind and surf.
One of my ordeals was going to bed, because on the stairs hung the largest of the William McTaggarts, with the
youngsters who were evidently about to perish. More than that, with their heavy frames the pictures were amongst the
biggest objects I had ever seen, and I feared being crushed if they fell. I had to steel myself and then scamper by.
Luckily, my acquaintance with John Blyth’s collection did not end on the sad day that my brothers and
I accompanied my mother to clear out Wilby House following his death. My grandmother Alice May Blyth moved to be
close to us in the suburbs, sharing a house there with my aunts. She brought with her some of the outstanding Peploes,
Fergussons, McTaggarts, Wingates, Sickerts and Boudins. Rarely can such a modest dwelling have sheltered such a fine
and valuable collection. Certainly there was not room there even for the small number of works that remained with the
family, and so some superb pieces graced my parents’ walls too.
We were fortunate, too, that a large part of the collection passed to the Kirkcaldy art gallery where my
grandfather had been curator for 36 years. On many occasions when other business takes me to Scotland I make the
detour to re-visit those paintings, and I know that other family members do the same.
It is difficult for me to judge John Blyth’s taste because it has so deeply influenced my own. In my youth art was
what he had collected. Before I went much to galleries I lived amongst outstanding examples of Scottish, English and
French painting from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
Reviewing his purchases over many years it is clear that John Blyth had a passionate commitment to Scottish
artists. He collected them, befriended them and fought for them to be recognised. The Scottish Colourists, and many
Scottish artists who have appeared since, are widely acclaimed today and their work is instantly recognisable to a broad
discerning public. So it is hard to grasp that during my grandfather’s lifetime Scottish painters struggled to be taken
seriously. I like to think that he made a contribution to the radical change of perception that has occurred since his death.
Evidently, John Blyth was sometimes in the vanguard of taste. The Peploes that he bought are worth a fortune
now, and the Sickerts and Boudins command high prices. But, having enjoyed the Wingates, McTaggarts and Alexanders
over half a century, I am sorry that they are today less appreciated. This exhibition enables us to consider the so-called
lesser works that drew his discerning eye, and perhaps to re-evaluate them free from considerations of art fashion.
My family has had the extraordinary privilege of living with beautiful paintings thanks to John Blyth. The joy that
these pictures bring will now pass to others, which is a happy thought. My grandfather’s motives for collecting seem to
have been genuinely selfless. Nonetheless I hope that he would be cheered, or at least not annoyed, to know that fifty
years after his death an exhibition celebrates his taste and his advocacy of Scottish painting.
Left: Jack Blyth on board John Nairn’s yacht
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