My son Bartholomew Beal, who has died aged 30 of a brain tumour, was a figurative painter who exhibited at home and internationally.
He had five solo shows of his work, the first in Derby City art gallery and museum in 2013, three at the Fine Art Society in Mayfair, London – he was the youngest artist to have been granted a solo show there since its foundation in 1876 – and the latest at Trinity House gallery, also in Mayfair, in November.
His work habitually grew out of literature – Eliot, Beckett, Shakespeare, Heaney – working on frozen moments in narratives that suggested so much more going on in the emotional and intellectual hinterland. Solitary figures, often ageing and bearded, were to be found in indeterminate surroundings, amid over-arching giant vegetation or floating images suggestive of a life, in rich colours.
Those figures would seem absorbed in some secret or task that they were reluctant to share but sensed that they were being watched, as of course they were.
Born in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, to me and my wife, Amanda Silk, who like me is a teacher, Bartholomew attended Pate’s grammar school in the town. Inspired by his art teacher, Rod Ashman, he moved to Wimbledon College of Art, in London, to study for a fine arts degree after a productive foundation year at the University of Gloucestershire.
Immediately upon graduating in 2012 he was awarded the Jonathan Vickers residency in Derby, where, for a year, he worked with the museum and the Derwent Valley Mills World Heritage Site to produce a solo exhibition that grew out of engagement with the history and characters of that part of Derbyshire.
Moving back to London, he went on to have three shows at the Fine Art Society, in 2014, 2016 and 2019. His work was also sold and exhibited in Europe and further afield, a show in Essen, Germany, in March last year being particularly successful. His final show with Trinity House gallery was still running when he died.
Despite living with a brain tumour for the past nine years, Bartholomew had an extraordinary zest and energy, hurling himself at every opportunity with an alarming indifference to his condition. Such was his approach that many with whom he worked closely had no idea of his illness.
For the last four years of his life Erica Murray, an Irish playwright, was his partner. They were engaged in November. Bartholomew is survived by Erica, Amanda and me, and his brothers, Joseph, Tobias and Theodore.
