This sounds like a collection of Thelwell cartoons - gruesomely devoted to a gymkhana vision of the world in which the universe rests on four iron-shod hooves - and it perfectly captures the doom Stubbs feared for himself: to be consigned to history as a mere trader in horseflesh. These would seem to be the ultimate distillation of the art of the horse - pictures which suggest that anything other than a nag can safely be dispensed with as mere distraction from the only interesting theme. And despite the fact that the National Gallery has harnessed up a whole stud-farm of horses to pull back in the other direction, even in this exhibition it's possible to see what makes Stubbs such a distinctive and durable painter.Oddly enough, that is even true of the paintings in the exhibition in which absolutely nothing is depicted but horses - namely the frieze-like paintings Mares and Foals, in which the main subjects are seen against a plain greeny-beige background, marked only by vestigial flecks of shadow at the hooves. If they'd had T-shirts in those days, there's little doubt that he would have produced those, too.A lot of admirers have been tugging hard to pull Stubbs free of the horses ever since - and they've done pretty well. One of the things you learn from the National Gallery show is that Stubbs cashed in on the horse-racing craze by establishing a kind of horsey hall of fame, in Conduit Street, called The Turf Gallery, which featured paintings of famous racehorses. That he brought it on himself wouldn't be any kind of consolation.
He had to cope with that knowledge when he was still alive, and it pricked him like a burr caught between saddle and skin. "Mr S repents much his having established a character for himself," his friend Josiah Wedgewood wrote, "I mean that of horse painter, & wishes to be considered as an history & portrait painter." The problem for Stubbs was that he spotted a niche in the market, wedged himself into it with enormous energy and talent, and then found it virtually impossible to wriggle out again. So it must be just a matter of time before they are banned in the war against terrorism.It is better to be licked by a cow than never to be licked at all.Happy is the man who wins nothing at the bottle stall, for he shall not get back the truly dreadful bottle of Romanian ros?e donated yesterday.The only thing you can do after finishing a crossword puzzle is start another one, and who wants to do that?Nobody was ever asked if they wanted to be a saint.Does a curtain shut out the darkness, or does it keep in the light?Do you want to be famous? Have a disease named after you.Milk would make the best invisible ink, if you could read by smelling.You can put L plates on a car, but you can teach it nothing.One nation's famous victory is another's source of rancour. They sound impressive at first, but when you think about them, they fall flat and play possum Still, better a dead proverb than no proverb at all.
Which, as it happens, is an old Albanian proverb .... The tragedy of travelling first class is that however comfortable you are, and however many free drinks you get, you still arrive at your destination at the same time as the second-class passengers.The worst thing that can happen to a trapeze artist: breaking your leg in the safety net.Better the grass snake you know than the hedgehog you don't.No one ever started building a cathedral from the top down.Three days to avoid: someone else's National Holiday, staff training day at a service area, and Speech Day at the Deaf and Dumb College.Bananas are the only fruit you can pretend to shoot people with. Remember that when the terrorists struck, we turned to the politicians, not the judges, for answers.s.richards independent.co.uk More from Steve Richards. Today, as my parting gift before I go on holidays, I am bringing you another helping of Albanian proverbs. If you haven't met them before, Albanian proverbs are very different from ours Ours are dry and common sense Look before you leap Don't count your eggs But Albanian proverbs are both allusive and elusive. For Blair, the extremes of emotion must outstrip those he felt when he got an ecstatic reception for a speech delivered to Congress in Washington in the summer of 2003 only to hear hours later that the body of Dr David Kelly had been discovered in the Oxfordshire woods. Unsurprisingly, the war in Iraq hovers over both episodes, the suicide of Dr Kelly and yesterday's attacks in London Blair wants to move on from Iraq. He will not be able to do so.But when he struggles with the threat posed by terrorists in Britain, he should be heard without a noisy and uninformed cynicism.
