This summer, two excellent retrospective exhibitions, one of which is currently being staged at the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, as well as the performance of a new play, Underwood Lane, have confirmed John Byrne’s status as a Scottish national treasure beyond doubt. The appeal of Byrne’s astounding early works, which he produced as the naïve artist “Patrick” to widespread acclaim, is as strong as ever. But as Douglas Erskine writes, they are deserving of more serious treatment within Byrne’s body of work.

Boy with Jabberwock - c.1971 - watercolour on paper - image courtesy of The Fine Art Society

John Byrne’s “Patrick” pictures – the faux-naïve artworks which he signed with the name of his father in a ploy which took advantage of the 1960s vogue for untrained or “innocent” artists – are among his most compelling works. Successful shows with London’s Portal Gallery from 1967 onwards fostered a clientele who were enchanted by Patrick’s haunting, dreamlike images, often depicting troubled-looking children with their exotic pets, and helped Byrne to gain a foothold in the commercial art world which had, up until that point, excluded him. The gradual public realisation that these works were not created by the hand of a genuine naif, but by a remarkably talented graduate of the Glasgow School of Art did little to deter collectors. The popular appeal of the Patrick style grew as the 1960s turned into the 1970s, and these naïve but beautifully crafted images became alternative pop landmarks of the era when they came to adorn album covers by the likes of The Beatles, Gerry Rafferty and Donovan.

The Patrick pictures might continue to be widely admired today, but they are deserving of more serious, considered treatment as a key part of Byrne’s mature oeuvre. These works, created between 1967 and circa 1972, occupy something of an awkward position in Byrne’s body of work because they are understood to have been produced, in large part and at least in the first instance, to satisfy market demand for naïve artwork. The Patrick style was a means for Byrne to pay sincere homage to the perceived authenticity of naïve art, but he was nevertheless set on adopting the guise of Patrick to make money in order to support his young family. This troubling implication might be the reason as to why the works are not, in my opinion, treated with the seriousness they deserve – why Marina Warner once suggested they could be viewed as “facile, repetitive and shallow” - while their immediate and direct style and subject matter might at once explain their widespread popularity and the reason as to why critics and commentators have not generally studied them with care.

Two retrospective exhibitions of Byrne’s work - A Big Adventure at Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum and Ceci N’est Pas Un Autoportrait at the Fine Art Society – have been staged in Glasgow and Edinburgh respectively this summer. Both have included several fine examples of work produced in the Patrick style. Visiting these excellent exhibitions, I was reminded of the ways the Patrick pictures anticipate and illuminate the concerns of Byrne’s wider body of work, and how closely they correspond to its central themes. The text which follows offers some food for thought regarding the importance of these deceptively simple masterworks.

It is worth noting, first and foremost, that the Patrick pictures offer the first serious indication of Byrne’s enormous artistic versatility. The pictures which Byrne produced as “Patrick” from 1967 to c.1972, it seems to me, are usually discussed in terms of a congruent body of work, but the degree of variety within the paintings of this period is quite remarkable. While the chameleonic character of Byrne’s art school practice marked him out as a very special talent, it is perhaps worth noting that this desire to experiment widely is not in itself particularly noteworthy: most developing artists will flirt with many different styles. Crucially, while working under the guise of Patrick, Byrne continued to develop and experiment with his style quite drastically.

Jock and the Tiger Cat - c.1968 - pen, ink and gouache on board Courtesy of Perth Museum & Art Gallery, Perth & Kinross Council

The earliest Patrick pictures from 1967 are invariably simple, direct and rather flat studies of children and animals, painted crudely in a style largely derived from the work of Alfred Wallis, the renowned naif. Within only a year or two, Byrne had leapt far beyond such influences and was developing a distinctive style and a rich visual language which endeared the Patrick pictures to collectors and the wider public. In works from c.1970, the cheap gouache is replaced with expensive oils, painstakingly worked over – as in Jock and the Tiger Cat – with exceptionally fine linework to create the lustre of silk or the animated surface texture of animal fur. While the earliest pictures are domestic in scale, later works like The American Boy (1972), measuring around eight feet across, were so massive as to make storage impossible (Byrne cut The American Boy in two in order to store it in his home, restoring it some years later). Further, following a long artistic hiatus from 1975 to 1991 when Byrne channelled his energy into writing for the stage and screen, he again came to sign work as “Patrick” but radically altered his approach. These later works evidence a rather more graphic, linear treatment, far removed from the Rousseau-esque, fairytale-like imagery of the 1960s and 1970s and much more aptly suited to the process of printmaking, which Byrne has enthusiastically taken advantage of since the early 1990s.

The degree of variety within the Patrick pictures is significant because it demonstrates clearly the strength of Byrne’s gift for invention. His eagerness to continually develop the style of the Patrick pictures, even after having seduced the Portal Gallery with work which pleased their clientele, is a key indicator of his approach. It is a reflection of his genuine artistic sense: to continually develop and experiment, potentially to the detriment of his livelihood. This degree of experimentation anticipates the nature of his succeeding work which, as any visitor to this summer’s exhibitions will appreciate, is dazzling in its variety. Byrne’s need to paint what he wishes and as he wishes without compromise, evidenced obviously and initially in the Patrick pictures, marks him out as a remarkable figure.

In attempting to articulate the importance of the Patrick pictures, it is interesting to consider them in line with a steam of works which Byrne has fleshed out over the past 25 years or so: his images of 1950s Paisley. Byrne’s images of imagined Paisley streets populated with gallus Teddy Boys and “dolls” are among his best-known works. Informed by his upbringing in Paisley’s Ferguslie Park, they are nourished by Byrne’s continuing infatuation with the life-giving music and startling sense of style which, in the mid-to-late 1950s, suddenly replaced the austerity of the immediate post-war period. This intensity of feeling lends a vibrancy and sincerity to the works, and their undeniable importance is further confirmed by the richness of their social commentary and by the way these works correspond to the central themes of Byrne’s visual and literary work, which include the pains of love and the threat of death. It would be wrong to align these images closely with the Patrick pictures, but the experience of seeing both styles on the same walls at the Kelvingrove exhibition reminded me, perhaps quite surprisingly, that these later works can serve to greatly illuminate the Patrick pictures.

Both the Paisley pictures and the Patrick pictures, although seemingly poles apart, contain elements which can shed light on Byrne’s practice. Although neither stream of work is ever merely nostalgic, Byrne’s continuing interest in the concerns of his own young life is plain to see in each. While the Paisley pictures evoke the skiffle and rock-and-roll eras of the 1950s, which Byrne became totally invested in, the toys and props in the Patrick pictures bring to mind the games which Byrne played as a child: when I interviewed Byrne in 2019, he spoke at length about playing with the marbles which figure in so many Patrick pictures. Although it seems to be overlooked, the Patrick works are replete with reasonably subtle references to Byrne’s young life. I sense it might be the inclusion of certain personal details such as this which stopped Byrne from feeling that he had to consciously adopt a persona when he painted as Patrick: while he might have painted under a different name, these paintings came from a “genuine source” and came quite naturally to him, Byrne has said, which in itself aligns them more closely with his images of Paisley.

Further, if the Patrick children play the games which Byrne enjoyed as a child, if they have names like “Jock” and “Jojo”, and if creatures like “Gong” - the great Bullmastiff which was kept by Byrne’s neighbours in Ferguslie Park - feature as I believe they do in the Patrick pictures, we can deduce that Paisley is at the centre of Patrick’s world; indeed, Patrick’s world might be imagined version of Paisley. Can the Patrick pictures be called “Paisley pictures” in themselves? It would be dangerous to extend the comparison between the two different streams of pictures too far, but I am tempted to think of the Patrick pictures as being inverted Paisley pictures. The characters in both works inhabit imagined worlds, although the nurseries, groves and meadows of the Patrick pictures are much more fantastical than the streets of Byrne’s Paisley; class concerns are obvious in each of the works, although the Patrick children are safely installed in the middle-classes while the Paisley teens are staunchly working-class; the Patrick children and the Paisley teens are each dressed exquisitely, although in Victorian garb and brilliantly-coloured drape jackets respectively; and they both smoke, although the bubble pipes held by the Patrick children are replaced with Gold Leaf and other sundry tobaccos in the Paisley pictures. The points of divergence are many, in short, but these central themes – imagined, Paisley-centric worlds; class concerns; dress and style; smoking – are unmistakable markers of Byrne’s work, and the themes themselves remain constant between the Patrick pictures and the Paisley pictures.

It is helpful to consider these very different streams of work together for a moment because it helps us to appreciate the totality of Byrne’s vision and concerns. By drawing attention to the fact that the concerns of the Patrick pictures figure in the Paisley pictures, I have hoped to highlight what I believe to be neglected but telling facets of the Patrick works and to stress that they ought to occupy a similarly prominent position in any serious discussion of Byrne’s work.

Ceci N'est Pas Un Autoportrait - oil and mixed media on board - 2003 - image courtesy of The Fine Art Society

It is also very revealing to consider how the concerns of Byrne’s self-portraiture are reflected in the Patrick pictures. Byrne has been drawn to self-portraiture throughout his career, and the 40 self-portraits included in the Kelvingrove exhibition attest to the central position they occupy within his body of work. For him, the self-portrait is the most satisfying means of getting to the heart of the matter – of exploring the weightiest themes, personal and universal – on his own terms. Ceci N’est Pas Un Autoportrait, an image of the artist holding a board inscribed with the picture’s Magrittian title which lays bare the essential deceit of any self-portrait, is a tour de force which suggests that layers hide yet more layers in Byrne’s work. By masquerading as myriad characters which include sailor, Highlander and the figure of the archetypical artist himself and by nurturing a complex and ambiguous visual language (are the thorns in later self-portraits protecting or threatening the artist, and is the smoke from his ubiquitous cigarette revealing or concealing?), Byrne seeks to articulate certain truths while, we sense, he keeps others tightly hidden.

I feel quite confident that a similar device is in evidence in the Patrick pictures. They are worthy of close interrogation as works of art which allow the artist to express personal feelings and, indeed, episodes from his own autobiography in veiled terms; like his self-portraits, at least at first glance, they appear quite straightforward and “open”, and yet a very latent subtext exists in a significant number of examples.

Byrne is a naturally shy man with a complex personal history which he has found difficult to resolve, and yet he is also blessed with the true artist’s need to create and express, to cathartic effect. He likely felt that the fantastical world he was creating in the Patrick works, far removed from his own reality, and the guise of the naïve artist itself - even though he did not enjoy total anonymity for long; he came clean just before his first exhibition and the news slowly reached the public – the guise offered him the ideal means of addressing personal matters with the degree of removal which he sought.

The Pink Boot - c. 1970 - pen, ink and gouache on paper - image courtesy of The Fine Art Society

Fantastical as they are, close study of the Patrick pictures reveal that certain details relate closely to elements from Byrne’s own life. Although the animals which appear in the Patrick pictures undoubtedly reference the work of artists as diverse as Uccello and Edward Hicks, Andrea Kusel has noted that they also recall the stuffed animals which Byrne saw in Paisley’s museum as a child. He has often spoken about the museum, which was something of a Mecca for the would-be artist, and a particular incident resurfaces time and again: Byrne’s father would regularly point out a fierce-looking stuffed tiger on display in the museum, and would then draw his son’s attention to a pistol in a nearby case which, he lied, he had used to slay the beast. Mr Byrne was unaware that the gun had been swapped for another model when he retold the story to his son one day, and his son noticed the swap, and his lie was found out. It is an amusing story, but it left the young John Byrne heartbroken. The image of the sharp-toothed tiger figures as something of a motif in the Patrick pictures. It stretches its mouth wide to receive the boy in Child with Rabbit and, in The Pink Boot, on show in the Fine Art Society, fixes its stare on the child with over-large eyes which instantly recall the glass eyes of stuffed animals. The hunched, sharp-toothed primate in Girl with Monkey, the only Patrick print from this period, also betrays roots in Byrne’s young life: it might refer to the creature which Byrne’s uncle had promised him on his return from Burma in 1945, but had failed to deliver.

It is easy to dismiss these suggestions as details which perform a purely narrative function, but I suspect that Byrne’s early, formative experiences played a role in the creation of the Patrick pictures. These works likely allowed him to express pent-up or unresolved feelings of disillusionment; they might be vehicles which allowed Byrne to come to terms with a childhood which, although it was often very happy, was also fraught with trauma. When we consider the well-known social codes of the uber-masculine culture in mid-century west of Scotland, it is no wonder that Byrne admits that he “never wanted to tell anybody anything”: to many men of Byrne’s generation, to open up emotionally was to open oneself to ridicule. But also, perhaps quite surprisingly, Byrne has also spoken quite openly about his practice of painting to cathartic effect in this period. He had a habit of “exorcising” his dislike and fear of animals like cows and cats by painting them within the Patrick world. It is an admission which appears to lend weight to the notion that the foci of disillusioning experiences are articulated and “exorcised” in these works, and that they serve a similar function to his self-portraits: to express personal truths while keeping the viewer at arm’s length.

In this same vein, while it might be telling to focus on individual details within the Patrick pictures, it is equally interesting to consider the pictures in their totality. As menacing as works like The Pink Boot might be, on closer inspection a curious sense of serenity is also in evidence: the child looks at the salivating tiger with a steady, even indifferent gaze. This puzzling duality is immediately apparent in any of the “mature” Patrick pictures because in any example, a naïve and childlike vision is realised through the incredibly sophisticated hand of an adult. It is especially striking in a range of specific examples, including Boy with Jabberwock, a fine watercolour of a child by the seaside on a polite scale, realised in a muted sandy tones. At first glance, it would not necessarily look out of place on the walls of any polite, middle-class drawing room, yet the picture hinges on the drama of a child being stalked by a monster. Pictures such as this strike a balance between two seemingly conflicting responses. The exquisite detail and uncomplicated figural compositions of the Patrick pictures charm and comfort the viewer, while the sad eyes and downturned mouths of the children and the barely-controlled menace of their exotic pets, let alone the monsters who often figure in Patrick’s world, serve to disturb the viewer. Otto Bijali Mehrin has commented on this striking dynamic, writing that the Patrick children recall “Alice in Wonderland and at the same time of Beckett’s tale of hopelessness in Waiting for Godot”.

This compelling sense of duality, apparent just below the surface of a given picture, might have its roots in Byrne’s own upbringing. Scotland is a country marked by deep-rooted contrasts and divisions which undoubtedly affected Byrne’s world view as a child. The religious divide in the west of Scotland had a lasting effect on the artist, who was raised a Catholic, as did a pronounced linguistic division: Byrne recalls speaking to his friends in a strong Paisley dialect, then switching back to more proper English when speaking to his mother. There can be no doubt that the effect Byrne’s mother had on the young artist’s imagination was profound: a diagnosed schizophrenic, her psychotic episodes were tempered by periods of calm and normality. It would be crass to suggest that her mental illness somehow lent a literally “schizophrenic” quality to Byrne’s Patrick pictures, but such close contact with the illness must have brought the running theme of duality in Byrne’s imagination into sharp focus. Importantly, although he was raised in unenviable circumstances – Ferguslie Park was once famously described as the worst slum in Europe - with a home life which was dogged by mental illness, Byrne maintains that his early life was often very happy indeed.

The theme of duality in Byrne’s Patrick pictures deserves greater attention, I maintain, because it is absolutely key to his early life and development. Whether consciously or unconsciously, it occurs to me that Byrne presents his own view of life in the Patrick pictures, which are as layered as his finest self-portraits.

The large proportion of Patrick pictures on display in Edinburgh and Glasgow this summer, not to mention very healthy sales of Patrick works at the Fine Art Society, again confirm their popularity, but they undoubtedly remain worthy of closer, more serious critical attention. In this text, I have attempted to articulate the importance of the Patrick pictures, individually and more broadly, by considering them in line with Byrne’s wider body of work – by connecting them with the versatility of his practice, with the themes outlined in his acclaimed Paisley pictures and with the concerns which permeate through his self-portraits – and by offering insights which hint at the sort of considered conclusion which the Patrick pictures deserve. This summer’s exhibitions have done a great deal to further cement Byrne’s reputation as one of our nation’s finest artistic talents; as such, they worthy of generous praise. My hope, though, is that the next exhibition will unpack his remarkable Patrick pictures with the care they are so deserving of.

Note on references – In preparing this text, I relied heavily on Robert Hewison’s excellent monograph John Byrne: Art and Life (Lund Humphries, 2011) and on many interviews, conducted over a long period. I would be very happy to provide a full list of references to anyone who might wish to get in touch.