If the Yeats family had not existed, just where would Irish art and literature of this century be? We would lack our greatest modern poet and painter, we would lack our finest portrait painter, we probably would also lack institutions such as the Cuala Press which played such a role in Irish poetry publishing between the two World Wars. The Yeatses were a unique phenomenon, with no equivalent that I know of in any other European country. The tripartite base of the family was in London, Dublin and Sligo, all of which left their mark on them imaginatively and emotionally, though in old age John Butler Yeats, the father, visited New York with his daughter Lily and ended up staying there until his death. It was a strange uprooting, perhaps ultimately an escape from a sense of professional and even familial failure, since he had failed to earn an adequate living and his children grew up in an atmosphere of quasi-genteel, quasi-bohemian poverty. Portraiture needs social adroitness as well as talent, if a painter is to support a family by it, and though John B. was a charmer personally, he lacked ambition in the usual sense and despised opportunism. Perhaps it was largely as a reaction against this lack of commercial sense that both W.B. and Jack developed their notable shrewdness in career and money matters, or perhaps it was the maternal legacy of the tough, businesslike Pollexfens coming out. Neither was ever a rich man, but each avoided the quicksands of poverty and obscurity, and both "organised" their lives carefully and had reserves of strong, focused will-power. While their father had talked, dreamed, analysed and procrastinated far more than he should have done, they learned the value of keeping their work hours as regular as a Guinness clerk's. Since the National Gallery has a comprehensive collection of art works by the various Yeatses, it intends to open a Yeats Museum shortly - at first housed in the complex of buildings on Merrion Square, and later in the planned extension in Clare Street. Hilary Pyle is both Jack Yeats's biographer and cataloguer, so her credentials in this field are impressive. Needless to say, it is around the National Gallery's collection that her book is built, with many colour reproductions. John Butler Yeats was a major painter in his own right, even allowing for a slow start and an almost crippling lack of self-confidence which is sometimes mistaken for technical shortcomings. But painting apart, he was a fascinating man with an excellent brain, intellectual curiosity and a depth of culture which made him the favoured company of many writers; and his collected letters to his elder son are an Irish classic in themselves. It is this all-round, very late-Victorian humanity which enriches his portraits, making them social and personal documents as well as good pictures. Thanks to him, we have a portrait-gallery of the leading figures in the Literary Revival, and of course of his own family. As a painter of women, too, he rivals Sargent and surpasses any English painter of the time. Since Jack Yeats is now a known quantity thanks to frequent public exposure in recent years, it is useful to be reminded of his less familiar activities such as stage design (he was, of course, a playwright of sorts in his own right). However, visionary late pictures such as Grief are a testament to the fact that, far from being an artistic afterbirth of the nebulous Nineties, he was an engage artist well aware of the war clouds over Europe in the terrible mid-century. Lily Yeats's skill as a weaver and embroider is illustrated in the book which also reproduces a highly competent watercolour by her sister Lolly (Elizabeth). Finally, there are two paintings reproduced by Anne Yeats (born 1919), who was a pillar of the Living Art exhibitions a generation ago and recently had a retrospective exhibition of her work. This is a handsome book to own, apart from containing much vital information, and the reproductions are consistently good. There is a hardback edition, and the coverpieces - Jack on the front cover, a portrait of W.B. by his father on the back - announce its subject like a fanfare.

Brian Fallon is Chief Critic of The Irish Times