Archive for Art and Artists
Toby Mott’s collection, “Loud Flash: British Punk on Paper”, is being shown at Haunch of Venison (6 Burlington Gardens, London) until the end of October. “Loud Flash” includes works by Linder Stirling, Jamie Reid, and others.
Mott: “This exhibition seeks to capture punk’s cataclysmic collision with the cultural, social and political values of the time and show the enduring legacy it left in its wake.”
On September 16, The Nasher Museum of Art at Duke University continues its series on art and vinyl with an artist talk by Xaviera Simmons followed by a performance by Superchunk.
Trevor Schoonmaker, curator, on The Record:
“Since the heyday of vinyl, and through its decline and recent resurgence, a surprising number of artists have worked with vinyl records. The Record presents some of the best, rarest and most unexpected examples. The artists in the exhibition use the vinyl record as metaphor, archive, artifact, icon, portrait, or transcendent medium.”
New York artist Adam Pendleton on New York photographer Xaviera Simmons.
Simmons, as an artist, doubles down. She captures the fiction/truth dialectic as well as anyone, dis-articulating assumptions about the quietly composed and staged images she makes. She’s a Brecht of the photographic endeavor. In her work, Simmons is not so much documenting the performance before the camera, but the performance itself. In one image from the series If We Believe in Theory, Simmons captures a young girl in the woods dressed like Little Red Riding Hood. It’s an example of Simmons using the suggestion of performance to capture the explicit and contradictory nature of individuality. Her subject becomes herself, and also a dismembered characterization of what we’re accustomed to look at. Still, it is not simply Simmons’s understanding of the imagistic theater of photography that is useful, but her way of using form to acknowledge that image is at the center of the creative construction of collective and personal histories. Simmons is a lexicographer who fuses live material and conceptual conceit; she deconstructs and retains a relation to specific times and places. Perhaps paradoxically, she often achieves this through unabashedly excessive detail, like in One Day and Back Then (Standing), where her character stands in a field of sea reeds in blackface, looking out at us, wearing all black (including stiletto boots), ready for a night out on the town.
Setting aside the tortured artist trope for a moment, it can be said that art is a living philosophy. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, in his essay, “Cézanne’s Doubt,” (from Sens et non-sens, 1948) extracts Cézanne’s aesthetic from a life seemingly ill fitted for day-to-day existence. Cézanne was unhappy, unapproachable, at times quite unfriendly; a man at odds with himself and the world around him. Diagnosed schizothymia could explain away the rough behavior, however, Cézanne’s actions are also a by-product of his “painting from nature.” Building a living aesthetic is hard work and Cézanne took this work very seriously.
A Cézanne still life is a physical exegesis of perspective. According to Merleau-Ponty, “The lived perspective, that which we actually perceive, is not a geometric or photographic one. […] To say that a circle seen obliquely is seen as an ellipse is to substitute for our actual perception what we would see if we were cameras: in reality we see a form which oscillates around the ellipse without being an ellipse.” Cézanne’s cups and saucers and pears and oranges are seen almost from all sides at once.
Cézanne’s landscapes are an even bolder undertaking: to represent the world fully, as it exists in a single moment in time and all at once. To this end, “…All the partial views one catches sight of must be welded together; all that the eye’s versatility disperses must be reunited; one must, as Gasquet put it, “join the wandering hands of nature.””
The science behind this aesthetic is crucial; Cézanne’s palette more than doubles the number of colors in the spectrum. “If the painter is to express the world, the arrangement of his colors must bear within this indivisible whole, or else his painting will only hint at things and will not give them in the imperious unity, the presence, unsurpassable plenitude which is for us the definition of the real. This is why each brushstroke must satisfy an infinite number of conditions. Cézanne sometimes pondered hours at a time before putting down a certain stroke, for, as Bernard said, each stroke must “contain the air, the light, the object, the composition, the character, the outline, and the style.” Expressing what exists is an endless task.”
On landscapes: “”A minute of the world is going by which must be painted in its full reality.” His meditation would suddenly be consummated: “I have a hold on my motif,” Cézanne would say, and he would explain that the landscape had to be tackled neither too high nor too low, caught alive in a net which would let nothing escape. Then he began to paint all parts of the painting at the same time, using patches of color to surround his original charcoal sketch of the geological skeleton. The picture took on fullness and density; it grew in structure and balance; it came to maturity all at once. “The landscape thinks itself in me,” he would say, “and I am its consciousness.””
On the constitution of a romantic realism: “In La Peau de chagrin Balzac describes a “tablecloth white as a layer of fresh-fallen snow, upon which, the place settings rose symmetrically, crowned with blond rolls.” “All through my youth,” said Cézanne, “I wanted to paint that, that tablecloth of fresh-fallen snow…. Now I know that one must only want to paint ‘rose, symmetrically, the place settings’ and ‘blond rolls.’ If I paint ‘crowned’ I’m done for, you understand? But if I really balance and shade my place settings and rolls as they are in nature, you can be sure the crowns, the snow and the whole shebang will be there.”
Despite the certitude of the above statement: “[…Cézanne] was never at the center of himself: nine days out of ten all he saw around him was the wretchedness of his empirical life and of his unsuccessful attempts, the debris of an unknown celebration. Yet it was in the world that he had to realize his freedom, with colors upon a canvas. It was from the approval of others that he had to await the proof of his worth. That is why he questioned the picture emerging beneath his hand, why he hung on the glances other people directed toward his canvas. That is why he never finished working. We never get away from our life. We never see ideas or freedom face to face.”
(Text from “Cézanne’s Doubt”, Sense and Non-Sense by Maurice Merleau-Ponty; images from The National Gallery of Art – Cézanne in Provence: http://www.nga.gov/exhibitions/2006/cezanne/)
Julian Bell is a master of light and space.
In “Skylit Room,” a shaft of light descends from a skylight and dominates the canvas. Time passes as four men sit against three walls in stiff, ladder-back chairs, waiting to begin a spiritual exercise. Of course we cannot see the light move across the room in real-time but we know that it does. Time as a concept we know a priori is immobile, yet it continues to pass. We sense in “Skylit Room” a still frame from a motion picture.
“Shooters Hill” captures motion as well as light. We are in medias res. At the bend at the top of a hill, commuter traffic mixes with pedestrians. Multiple gazes cross paths and again we have the sense of a very fluid moment captured forever in time. On the left and closest to us, a young man stares hard at the woman to the right of center. There could be recognition here or there could be something more significant, more sinister. Perhaps, the moment before an illicit touch or even a grasp.
In “Bathroom in Bow,” a woman soaks in a tub in a sunlit bathroom, surrounded by the ordinariness of daily life: towels, clothes, a boom box, a bathroom scale. The lid to the toilet is up. Natural light cascades into the room and there is a square of bright sunlight reflecting off the polished tiled floor. Outside there is a courtyard. The mirror above the fireplace shows the neighbor’s flat at a hundred and forty degree angle from the center of the composition. We see the light first certainly because it is in the middle of the frame, but the theme of the painting is the woman who occupies the tub, and all of the space around her, including the out of doors. She is the center of the story.
Present in all of these paintings are the play of light and motion as well as the “consumption of space” by human beings. The commingling of these two in my mind constitutes a parallel to fiction. I am thinking here of Forster’s premise regarding plot versus story: when the queen dies of a broken heart you know you are on to something.
In the best example of this argument, “Light of Dawn Palermo,” based on Giuseppe di Lampedusa’s novel “The Leopard,” firmly captures the moment and the story at the breaking light of day. On the left, a long soiree in a golden ballroom is finally breaking up. A woman sleeps in her finery leaning against the wall. A man in coat and tails is still holding forth in front of the last of the diehards. On the right a bohemian, probably the dishwasher, perhaps himself a painter, drinks from a bottle, while over his shoulder dawn breaks over the city. The door in the center of the composition is the bridge between night and morning, between recreation and work, between old regime and new.
Each of these paintings share with Cézanne’s stills that the viewer is almost seeing around corners, around dimensions, around and through time. But this latter piece most directly highlights a conjunction of themes whereby fiction intersects with painting to preserve a human moment in time and space. Bell is both a writer and a painter and in an interview with Bell in The Tamarind, from April 2010, Giovanni Biglino, follows this thread:
GB: Looking at your paintings, it appears that light is a major preoccupation in your work. How do you approach light?
JB: The most difficult question first! In fact, when I’m at work painting, the thought of ‘light’ as such never enters my head. There are just different pigments which I put on the canvas to make the figures and the environment in my image look the way they need to look – that’s how I approach it – and some of those combinations of pigments happen to be lighter, some darker. (I wonder if this is the kind of Cezanne meant when he said ‘For the painter, there is no such thing as light.’) And yet of course when I stand back and look at what I’ve done, what stays in the mind is the light. I realize that I’m typically drawn to scenes where low-angled sunlight jangles against strong artificial light, and for that very reason I try to break my own habit, avoid my own clichés – do scenes where the light is very muted; where it’s all artificial; or where it’s high in the sky and purely natural. One canvas just has sunlight falling from a window in the ceiling into a room where four men sit with their eyes closed. And thinking of that, the best way I can express my sense of how this theme operates in painting is to get paradoxical and to say that light is natural metaphysics. It is a physical load of pigment with certain optical properties, and equally it is nothing less than understanding and grace.
Human beings, the interaction with the crowd and the surroundings, the human figure – these also appear to be important in your work
JB: Yes, that is what I am mostly thinking about when I’m making the pictures – rather than ‘light’, per se. My general theme is how human beings occupy environments, occupy different types of space. Or I could turn that upside down by saying, what concerns me is that a rectangular picture has got to have something in it, something that’s not simply coextensive with it, and that entity is generally going to be an analogue for myself or things of a similar nature, i.e. a figure, one way or another. Many of the present collection of pictures have become crowd-filled, as you say. Partly because I had the use of a big studio and thought I’d take the chance to try painting some big canvases – but more deeply because the artist I’ve always looked up to most is Brueghel, and I’ve always longed to imitate his panoramic sociological approach to humanity.
(cf. Giovanni Biglino, “Conversation With Julian Bell, http://thetamarind.eu/en/2010/04/19/english-conversation-with-julian-bell/; April 2010, Accessed August 2010)
Recently, I stumbled on the following passage in Julio Cortázar’s Hopscotch: “THE same thing happens to everybody, the statue of Janus is a useless waste, the truth is that after forty years of age we have our real face on the back of our heads, looking desperately backwards. It is what in all truth is called a commonplace. You can’t do anything about it, that’s about the strength of it, with the words that come twisting out from between the bored lips of one-faced adolescents. Surrounded by boys in baggy sweaters and delightfully funky girls in the smoke of the café-crèmes of Saint-Germain-des-Prés who read Durrell, Beauvoir, Duras, Douassot, Queneau, Sarraute, here I am a Frenchified Argentinian (horror of horrors), already beyond the adolescent vogue, the cool with an Etes-vous fous?”
I include that last line primarily because it’s fun–in the pre-autumn of a college town with students just returning–to think of baggy sweaters and funky girls and a long list of nouveau romans to tunnel through. I include the last sentence here as well because of the way that Cortázar so simply and elegantly goes back in time with nothing to mark the transition other than the single period.
I quote from Cortázar at length, after having just turned forty, and after having involuntarily begun the process of looking backwards. In the process of looking forwards, I have also become obsessed with time travel and with memory.
This evening I took our three children to a kindergarten orientation that our oldest had experienced exactly four years ago. I watched her as she was overwhelmed by the memories storming over her. I was shocked at how specific they were, how full of details. She reveled in seeing the courtyard and the playground and rattled off how this and that happened here and here and there. She did not recall, it is worth noting, how terrified she was of time machines back then, half a lifetime ago.
Coincidentally, this evening I also met an old friend (a woman I hadn’t seen in some time) who had gone to the same school and who had just enrolled her oldest child in the same kindergarten. As she stood there in the courtyard, she was blessedly, divinely overcome with déjà vu.
Standing on the blacktop, I recalled my own kindergarten experience (remarkably well-preserved at least in the sense of narrative truth) and also the long expanse, the grainy vista, of the jetty at Orly airport in Chris Marker’s La Jetée. The little boy standing on the railing of the airport observation platform, watching the planes arriving and taking off. The sight of a woman’s smile. The time before the war.
I first saw Marker’s masterpiece, the basis for Gilliam’s Twelve Monkeys (and probably half a dozen other films, short stories, etc.), in a French class in Dey Hall, perhaps on a chilly autumn morning with the bright ting of wood smoke and burning leaves in the air. Or perhaps it was on a warm spring afternoon. Who can say for sure?
The whole script for La Jetée is fifteen hundred words, give or take, but in that limited amount of space he captures so succinctly the desire to transcend memory and time to return to our childhood and to our memories even if they might not be our own. It is an incredibly powerful film, shot entirely with stills, that stretches to get to the twenty-eight minute mark.
I love this line quite near the end, “Once again the main jetty at Orly, in the middle of this warm pre-war Sunday afternoon where he could not stay, he though in a confused way that the child he had been was due to be there too, watching the planes.”
A warm pre-war Sunday afternoon where he could not stay, watching the planes.
I held enraptured by Rorty’s passage in “Trotsky and the Wild Orchids” so I will quote it here once more. He is discussing the philosopher’s purpose as he writes, “[…]we philosophy professors are people who have a certain familiarity with a certain intellectual tradition, as chemists have a certain familiarity with what happens when you mix various substances together. We can offer some advice about what will happen when you try to combine or to separate certain ideas, on the basis of our knowledge of the results of past experiments. By doing so, we may be able to help you hold your time in thought. But we are not the people to come to if you want confirmation that the things you love with all your heart are central to the structure of the universe, or that your sense of moral responsibility is ‘rational and objective’ rather than ‘just’ a result of how you were brought up.”
To hold our time in thought.
That seems to me to be an awfully difficult task, but one that is perhaps achievable by applying intellectual rigor to the creative process. It seems to me also an imperative.
You can purchase La Jetée at Amazon or stream it online though the quality is rather poor. The entire script can be found here: http://www.godamongdirectors.com/scripts/lajette.shtml