There is a heartaching melancholy in Paul Nash's landscapes, haunted by his experience as an artist of two world wars.
He painted winter seas that are like splinters of ice in the soul.
He died young, having suffered a breakdown after WWI. I wondered if he woke sweating from nightmares. When he paints a ploughed English field, it echoes with the cratered landscapes of Ypres. It is all strangely beautiful; he makes a dump of shattered German aircraft look like billowing waves of the sea.
I was glad that I caught this exhibition just before it closes.