Liberty / Diaspora by Omar Victor Diop @ Autograph ABP

Autograph ABP is a lovely, big, open gallery space not far from Old Street tube station, devoted to exhibitions of photography by people of colour. It has just finished a ravishing exhibition by Senegalise photographer Omar Victor Diop, born 1980 in Dakar.

Thiaroye 1944 by Omar Victor Diop

Thiaroye 1944 by Omar Victor Diop

The ground floor exhibition space displays thirty beautiful digital photographs which feature Diop himself wearing the historical costumes of black people from defining moments in history. The photos are divided into two distinct projects:

Liberty: A Universal Chronology of Black Protest

This series reinterprets defining moments of historical revolt and black struggle in Africa and the diaspora. Diop dresses up as characters from key events such as the Alabama marches on Washington (Selma 1965), lesser-known resistance movements against colonial oppression in southeastern Nigeria (The Women’s War 1929) and the more recent Million Hoodie March in New York.

Selma 1965 by Omar Victor Diop

Selma 1965 by Omar Victor Diop

Diop appears as the main character throughout the series, but also – thank to modern digital wizardry – sometimes also appears multiple times, as African railway workers, French migrants, Second World War soldiers, Jamaican maroons and members of the Black Panther Party, as appropriate.

The Ibo Women's War 1929 by Omar Victor Diop

The Ibo Women’s War 1929 by Omar Victor Diop

The most immediately obvious thing about all the photos is how stunningly beautiful Diop is.

I took my teenage son to the exhibition with me and he agreed. He didn’t read any of the historic stories or references, he just enjoyed them as images in which an absolutely gorgeous young black man gets to dress up in lots of historical costumes.

Omar Ibn Said (1770-1864) by Omar Victor Diop

Omar Ibn Said (1770-1864) by Omar Victor Diop

Project Diaspora

The second series is titled Project Diaspora. Once again Omar dresses up and photographs himself in images quoting or parodying portraits celebrating four centuries of notable Africans in the diaspora.

These include:

  • Frederick Douglass (1818-1895), the abolitionist leader who was the most photographed person of his time
  • Olaudah Equiano (1745-1797) a freed slave, writer and activist in London
  • St Bénédicte de Palermo (1526-1589), a saint in the Catholic and Lutheran church
  • Prince Dom Nicolau (c.1830-1860), the Congolese African leader
  • August Sabac El Cher (c.1836-1885), an early Afro-German soldier
  • Jean-Baptise Belley (1746-1805), who fought during the French Revolution, and so on
Jean-Baptiste Belley (1746-1805) by Omar Victor Diop

Jean-Baptiste Belley (1746-1805) by Omar Victor Diop

Each of these characters has an extensive wall label describing who they were and what they did and why they matter. For example,

Jean-Baptiste Belley was a native of Senegal, born on the island of Gorée and former slave of Santo Domingo in the West Indies who bought his freedom with his savings. During the period of the French Revolution, he became a member of the National Convention and the Council of Five Hundreds of France. He was also known as Mars. Original painting by Girodet.

I found it a struggle to assimilate so many diverse historical periods and events, and my son didn’t bother but just enjoyed the sheer beauty of Omar himself, captured in enormous photographs which are all composed with a strange, interplanetary calmness.

Installation view of Liberty/Diaspora by Omar Victor Diop

Installation view of Liberty/Diaspora by Omar Victor Diop

And the footballs? I wondered whether you’d notice that. In many of the historic poses the figure is holding a modern plastic football, often very prominent, brightly coloured and incongruous. Why?

In Diop’s own words:

‘Football is an interesting global phenomenon that for me often reveals where society is in terms of race. When you look at the way that the African football royalty is perceived in Europe, there is an interesting blend of glory, hero-worship and exclusion. Every so often, you get racist chants or banana skins thrown on the pitch and the whole illusion of integration is shattered in the most brutal way. It’s that kind of paradox I am investigating in the work.’

A beautiful young man dressed up in historical costumes and carrying a football. What more could you ask for in a photography exhibition?


Related links

Reviews of other Autograph shows

Review of photography exhibitions

Red Star over Russia @ Tate Modern

David King

In the 1970s British designer David King was sent to Soviet Russia by the Sunday Times to find old photos of Leon Trotsky to accompany a feature. The feature never materialised but, rummaging about in the archives, King began to uncover the vast scale of the stacks of photos, magazine and newspaper articles, posters and propaganda sheets chronicling the early years of the Russian Revolution, which had been lost or forgotten.

He bought and borrowed what he could to bring back to Blighty, and then made further visits looking for more. It turned into a lifelong project. By his death in 2016 King had accumulated a collection of over 250,000 Russian Revolution-related objects which were bequeathed to Tate.

What better way to display the highlights of this vast collection than during the centenary year of the Bolshevik revolution, and so this exhibition opened on 8 November 2017, commemorating the outbreak of the revolution, to the precise month and day.

Entrance to Red Star over Russia at Tate Modern

Entrance to Red Star over Russia at Tate Modern

Red Star Over Russia

The exhibition displays some 150 photos and posters chronicling the years 1917 to the death of Stalin in 1953, showing the changing visual and design styles of the Soviet Union, from the radical experimental days of the early 1920s through to the dead hand of Socialist Realism imposed in the early 1930s. It continues on through the nationalist propaganda of the Great Patriotic War and into the era of ‘high Stalinism’ between 1945 and 1953, which saw the start of the Cold War as the Soviet Union consolidated its grip on occupied Eastern Europe and aided the Chinese Communist Party to its successful seizure of power in 1949.

In obvious ways this exhibition echoes and complements the huge show about the Russian Revolution which the Royal Academy staged earlier this year (although that show included many contemporary paintings and works of art; this show is almost entirely about photos and posters, magazines and prints).

Photos

The old black-and-white photos are doorways into a lost world. Here are Lenin, Trotsky, Stalin looking bulky in their greatcoats, their penetrating stares, their unremitting antagonism.

One sequence chronicles the famous series of photos of Stalin surrounded by Party functionaries who, one by one, were arrested and imprisoned during the 1930s and, one by one, were airbrushed out of the official photo, until only Stalin is pictured. This famous photo is the subject of King’s book The Commissar Vanishes.

Related photos show Lenin shouting from a podium with Trotsky leaning against it. After Trotsky was exiled in 1928, he also would be airbrushed out of this photo. In an adjoining room are ancient silent movies of Trotsky haranguing the crowd and the early Bolshevik leaders milling about the stand in Red Square.

Lenin harangues the crowd while Trotsky watches

Lenin harangues the crowd while Trotsky watches

The Terror began within a year of the Bolsheviks taking power. It came to dominate the entire society, as shown by newspaper photos which have been retouched to remove politicians as they are arrested and liquidated. There are even private photos whose owners have cut out the heads of ‘former people’ in terror lest they be found and the owners themselves arrested.

There are evocative photos of the revolutionary poet Mayakovsky, looking particularly stunning when he shaved his head and became a revolutionary firebrand, demanding that opera houses and all previous art be burned to the ground. The Russian Taliban.

The communist poet Vladimir Mayakovsky

The communist poet Vladimir Mayakovsky

I’m familiar with these photos but I’d never before seen the official photo of his body after he killed himself in 1930, disillusioned by the way the revolution was going. The exhibition includes a photo of him lying on a divan with a big red stain round his heart, where the bullet entered.

Similarly, there’s a powerful little set of photos showing Marshall Mikhail Tukhachevsky, the man responsible for radically reforming the Red Army, before himself falling foul of Stalin’s paranoia. Here he is looking proud in his military uniform. Here he is with his wife and little daughter. And then he was gone – arrested, tried and executed by a shot to the back of the head on 12 June 1937. The confession to treason wrung from him by torture still survives. It is spattered with his dried blood. Thus the Workers’ Paradise.

Tukhachevsky was not the only one. I was stunned to learn from a wall label that no fewer than 25,000 officers in the Red Army were arrested, executed and sent to labour camps between 1937 and 1941! What a paranoid idiot Stalin was.

When Nazi Germany invaded Russia on 22 June 1941 a headless, leaderless Red Army found itself forced right back to the walls of Moscow, Leningrad, Stalingrad. If they’d only launched the invasion six weeks earlier – as initially planned – the Nazis might have captured all three cities and the history of the world would have been very different. But ‘General Winter’ came to the aid of the Communist leadership, just as it had against Napoleon.

The exhibition shows how, when war broke out, official Soviet propaganda quietly dropped a lot of Bolshevik motifs and refocused attention on patriotic feelings for the Motherland. Now Stalin was rebranded ‘Leader of the Great Russian People’ and the war was christened ‘The Great Patriotic War’.

One of the six rooms in the exhibition deals solely with wartime propaganda, including posters warning people to be discreet and not give away secrets. It’s immediately noticeable how earnest and serious these were, compared with our own stylish and often humorous wartime posters on the same subject.

Don't Chatter! Gossiping Borders on Treason by Nina Vatolina (1941) The David King Collection at Tate

Don’t Chatter! Gossiping Borders on Treason by Nina Vatolina (1941) (The David King Collection at Tate)

Not unwise or foolish – Treason. And every Soviet citizen knew what would happen to them if they were suspected of Treason. The midnight arrest, the five-minute trial and then transport to some labour camp in Siberia. Russian authorities had to terrify their population to get anything done. By contrast, British authorities had to coax and laugh the population into better behaviour.

 

Posters

All this about the war is looking ahead. In fact the exhibition opens with a couple of rooms showcasing the fantastic explosion of creative talent which accompanied the early years of the revolution.

Progressive artists, writers, designers, journalists and so on threw themselves into the task of building a new, perfect, workers’ society. The very first room houses a big wall, painted communist red, and covered with vivid and inspiring revolutionary posters. Down with the bourgeoisie, Up the workers, Freedom for emancipated women, Strangle international capitalism, and so on.

Installation view of Red Star over Russia at Tate Modern

Installation view of Red Star over Russia at Tate Modern

Early photos show the workshops of idealistic artists creating poster art for a population which was, of course, largely illiterate and so benefited from big, bold images.

The sheer size of this illiterate working population also explains the development of ‘agitprop’ propaganda, conveyed through really simple-minded posters, books and comics, plays, pamphlets, the radically new medium of film and even – as photos here show – via steam trains festooned with Red propaganda pictures and bedecked with red flags.

These revolutionary trains were equipped with cinemas, exhibition carriages, mobile theatres and classrooms, and spread the message of Revolution and Freedom to remote regions all around the vast Russian landmass.

Above all, these young artists, fired by revolutionary idealism, found a new way to create extremely dynamic images, using exciting new approaches to photography and graphic design.

Photo-montage

The Cubists had experimented with collage as early as 1910, and members of the Dada movement (notably Max Ernst in Zurich and John Heartfield in Berlin) had also cut up and pasted together incongruous images from newspapers and magazines. But these had been semi-private experiments in the name of avant-garde fine art.

By contrast the immediate post-revolutionary years in Russia saw an explosive exploration of the potential ways photos can be composed, cut up and montaged together with new styles of design, layout, fonts and wording, to create dynamic and exciting images designed for a mass public.

A set of photos by the genius Alexander Rodchenko shows how vibrant and exciting black and white photos can be when they follow a handful of simple rules. They must be:

  • of extreme clarity
  • taken from above or below the subject
  • of subjects themselves dynamically geometrical in nature
  • use diagonals to cut right across the picture plane.
Tashkent 1933 (The David King Collection at Tate)

Tashkent 1933 (The David King Collection at Tate)

But how much more powerful these already dynamic images become if you cut and paste them into a montage, designed to be read from left to right and convey a raft of patriotic, revolutionary and inspiring subjects.

Photomontage from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics: Catalogue of the Soviet Pavilion at the International Press Exhibition, Cologne 1928 by El Lissitzky and Sergei Senkin (The David King Collection at Tate)

Photomontage from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics: Catalogue of the Soviet Pavilion at the International Press Exhibition, Cologne 1928 by El Lissitzky and Sergei Senkin (The David King Collection at Tate)

In fact a montage of just the ‘Great Leaders’ alone turns out to be tremendously powerful, helping to change their images into timeless icons (in a country with a 1,000 year-long history of revering timeless icons). But important to the composition is the presence of the masses, smiling, marching, teeming, liberated, which are cut and pasted into the spare spaces of the composition.

Raise Higher the Banner of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin! (1933) by Gustav Klutsis. The David King Collection at Tate

Raise Higher the Banner of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin! (1933) by Gustav Klutsis (The David King Collection at Tate)

(By the way, Klutsis, who made this banner and many other inspiring works like it, was executed in 1938.)

The exhibition includes a wonderful set of prints of purely abstract designs by the great Constructivist artist El Lissitzky – if I could, these would be the one item I’d want to take home from the exhibition. I love the energy of lines and angles and abstraction, and I’m a sucker for the use of text in pictures – so I love El Lissitzky.

Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge (1920) by El Lissitzy. The David King Collection at Tate

Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge (1920) by El Lissitzy (The David King Collection at Tate)

When you combine all these elements – striking photos and text montaged onto apparently abstract backgrounds made up of vivid colours broken by lines radiating energy – you come up with one of the really great design and visual breakthroughs of this period – the balanced and creative use of abstract design and photomontage to create images which are still inspirational today.

Take Alexander Rodchenko’s most famous work:

'Books (Please)! In All Branches of Knowledge' (1924) by Rodchenko

Books (Please)! In All Branches of Knowledge (1924) by Alexander Rodchenko

Or this 1928 poster by Gustav Klutsis: photos montaged onto an abstract pattern of dynamic diagonal lines.

Moscow All-Union Olympiad (Spartakiada) (1928) by Gustav Klutsis. The David King Collection at Tate

Moscow All-Union Olympiad (Spartakiada) (1928) by Gustav Klutsis (The David King Collection at Tate)

This is why the decade or so of artistic production in Russia after 1917 is the subject of so many exhibitions and books, and returned to again and again – because it saw such an explosion of experimentation in the visual arts, in theatre and cinema and literature, as extremely creative minds in all these spheres completely rejected the aristocratic and bourgeois, self-centred art of the past and tried to devise new forms and styles and genres to convey their exciting news that a New World was at hand.

Although their particular revolution deteriorated into repression and Terror, nonetheless their experiments captured general truths about the twentieth century as a whole, inventing completely new ways to harness the mass media of cinema and photography, popular magazines and consumer products, which could be equally well applied to the mass societies of the capitalist world.

Which is why, although they were created in a communist climate, Rodchenko, El Lissitzky, Klutsis and scores of others invented visual styles and techniques which film-makers, playwrights and directors, fine artists and graphic designers in the decadent West and right around the world have mined and plundered for ideas and innovations ever since.

Deinekin and the 1937 Paris Exposition

Of course it didn’t last, as we all know. By 1928, the Soviet government felt strong enough to put a decisive end to all private enterprise (which had been grudgingly reintroduced under Lenin’s New Economic Plan in 1922). This ended the possibility of any kind of independent funding for the arts, which now came under the iron grip of the state. Although the term Socialist Realism wasn’t officially used until 1932, its ideas were beginning to triumph.

Any experimentalism in the arts was increasingly criticised by the party for being ‘formalist’, which meant too avant-garde and experimental to be understood by the masses. By 1934 it was decided that ALL art must be Socialist Realist in nature, meaning:

  1. Proletarian: art relevant to the workers and understandable to them.
  2. Typical: scenes of the everyday life of the people.
  3. Realistic: in the representational sense.
  4. Partisan: supportive of the aims of the State and the Party.

One room of the exhibition is devoted to the triumph of Socialist Realist art in the form of the USSR’s pavilion at the 1937 ‘International Exposition of Art and Technology in Modern Life’ held in Paris.

The pavilion was designed by Boris Iofan and dominated by a vast stainless steel sculpture by Vera Mukhina titled Worker and Collective Farm Woman

(There is a model of this building and the statue at the Victoria and Albert Museum’s current exhibition about opera; it appears in the section about Shostakovitch and music in Soviet Russia.)

These were to be the kind of heroic, larger-than-life, super-realistic, happy proletarian figures striding forward which were to become commonplace all over the Communist world, not only in Russia but in the conquered nations of Eastern Europe and in Communist China after 1949.

Inside, the pavilion was decorated with a vast mural by the painter Aleksandr Deineka, Stakhanovites, a tribute to Soviet workers (from all the Soviet republics) who had exceeded their work quotas and thus were Heroes of the Soviet Union.

Stakhanovites: A Study for the Esteemed People of the Soviets' Mural for the USSR Pavilion, 1937 International Exposition Paris by Aleksandr Deineka (1937) Perm State Art Gallery, Russia

Stakhanovites: A Study for the Esteemed People of the Soviets’ Mural for the USSR Pavilion, 1937 International Exposition Paris by Aleksandr Deineka (1937) Perm State Art Gallery, Russia

Eerily bad, isn’t it?

Comparing this with the thrillingly avant-garde photo-montages of a decade earlier, I realised how the earlier work really does use diagonal lines to create a sense of striving, reaching, stretching movement and dynamism – Lenin is always leaning out from the podium, in Klutsis’ poster the red flags behind Marx et al are always slanting, anything by El Lissitzky or Rodchenko is at an angle.

Compare and contrast with the Socialist Realist painting above, which is totally square, flat, straight-on and consists of vertical lines at 90 degrees to the horizontal. I think this goes some way to explaining why – although it is intended to be a dynamic image of ideal, smiling communist people striding towards us – it in fact feels remote and unreal, more like a spooky dream than an inspiration.

When the Great Patriotic War broke out, with Nazi Germany’s invasion of 1941, there was something of a return to earlier, rousing propaganda, reviving dynamic diagonals to convey strife, effort, heroism.

Fascism - The Most Evil Enemy of Women. Everyone to the Struggle Against Fascism (1941) by Nina Vatolina. The David King Collection at Tate

Fascism – The Most Evil Enemy of Women. Everyone to the Struggle Against Fascism (1941) by Nina Vatolina (The David King Collection at Tate)

The Great Patriotic War

The last room contains a number of works dating from the Great Patriotic War, including the ‘Treason’ poster (above). The wall label explains how the communist state deliberately changed the focus from Revolution to Patriotism. And, after all, we have evidence from the time that plenty of people fought bravely for the Motherland who wouldn’t have lifted a finger for Stalin or the Communist Party.

The best work in this last room is the immensely historic photo of Red Army soldiers raising their flag over Hitler’s ruined Reichstag in conquered Berlin.

It is interesting to learn that this photo – beamed around the world – was carefully staged by the Soviet photographer Yevgeny Khaldei. Makes sense when you really look at it.

Also (since this is one of the main things I’ve taken from the exhibition, visually) that part of the secret of its appeal is that it is yet another dynamic diagonal.

Soviet soldiers raising the red flag over the Reichstag, May 1945 (Printed 1955) by Yevgeny Khaldei. The David King Collection at Tate

Soviet soldiers raising the red flag over the Reichstag, May 1945 (Printed 1955) by Yevgeny Khaldei (The David King Collection at Tate)

As interesting as the knowledge that the famous photo of U.S. Marines raising the flag on the summit of Iwo Jima was a more complicated affair than it at first appears – as brought out in the Clint Eastwood movie, Flags of Our Fathers.

I wonder if any Russians have made a film about this ‘historic’ moment?


The promotional video

Russian revolution-related merchandise

Tate offers some 55 items of Russian Revolution merchandise to satisfy all your needs for decorative Bolshevikiana. I particularly liked the Death to World Imperialism posters and prints, a snip at £25.

The Red Star over Russia 2018 calendar was tempting, inciting you to smash international capitalism and strangle the worldwide bourgeoisie while you sip a frappuccino and work on your next powerpoint presentation.

Death to World Imperialism (1920) by Dmitrii Moor (1883 1946) The David King Collection at Tate

Death to World Imperialism (1920) by Dmitrii Moor (1883 1946) (The David King Collection at Tate)

And I was particularly delighted to see that Tate has arranged a Red Star over Russia wine-tasting evening so that you can:

‘Discover how the Russian Revolution in 1917 changed the wine world, and how the influential figures of this time redefined the styles and quality of wines in other regions of the world.’

Merchandising like this really rams home the message that ‘the revolution’ is as dead as the Dodo. It has been bottled and sold to the super-rich as a fashionable perfume.


Related links

David King’s books on Amazon

Russia-related reviews

Reviews of other Tate exhibitions

Lake Keitele: A Vision of Finland @ The National Gallery

In 1999 the National Gallery bought a painting of Lake Keitele by the Finnish artist Akseli Gallen-Kallela. To their surprise the painting has gone on to become one of the most popular in the Gallery’s immense collection of European art. In fact, this is the only painting by Gallen-Kallela in a British public collection.

Now, to celebrate the centenary of Finland’s independence as a nation (Finland’s Independence Day is December 6, today!), the National Gallery has created a one-room exhibition devoted to Lake Keitele and a dozen or so other works by one of Finland’s iconic artists, and it is FREE.

Lake Keitele (1905) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela © The National Gallery, London

Lake Keitele (1905) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela © The National Gallery, London

All the other works in the room are from abroad, from Finland or Sweden, several from private collections, so this is a very rare, probably unique opportunity to see most of these paintings. And indeed this is the first exhibition in the UK ever devoted to Gallen-Kallela.

Lake Keitele

Gallen-Kallela was obsessed with this view and painted it at least four times. All four variations are here, hanging next to each other, allowing a fascinating opportunity to compare and contrast them and to see how his vision evolved.

It’s odd the way that, if you stand close up, the grey bars across the lake look utterly abstract, as if part of some modernist painting. But the further back you step, the more it looks like the effect you sometimes really see on water, of great stretches which for some reason (zephyrs of wind? air pressure?) lie completely flat and calm, thus having a different tint from the choppy wavy stretches around them.

Seeing all four in a row also draws attention to the frames of the four versions: they are strikingly different and it’s instructive to realise how much of a difference the frames make to how you perceive the paintings. Version one has a jet black frame and feels austere and cold; whereas the final version is surrounded by a lush and embellished gilt frame, which makes it seem much more open, expansive and sweepingly panoramic.

Landscapes and illustrations

Gallen-Kallela (1865-1931) appears to have been mostly a painter of rural scenes in a semi-realistic style. Other paintings in the room have titles like ‘Boats on the shore’, ‘Lake view’, ‘Clouds’, ‘Clouds above a lake’, ‘Lakeside landscape’.

So: he conceived of the Finnish landscape as an expression of Finnish nationalism.

There are three exceptions to this general rule, two of them depictions of women on a lake.

I liked the scene depicted below, it’s from the Kalevala, the Finnish national epic. The old man on the left is a seer or prophet, being rowed by naked maidens. (Nice work if you can get it.) I like it because

a) it’s a bit more complex than just clouds over a lake, however well done
b) I really like the shape of the young woman foreground centre which, on reflection, is because of the clarity of her outline, done in a strong black which itself sets off the immensely skilful deployment of a whole range of skin tones to give light and presence to her torso
c) I have a taste for sketchy unfinished work (cf Degas) and so am also drawn to the way the boat and the women at bottom right are left unfinished.

The whole thing may have been a preparatory sketch but that makes it all the more powerful, for me.

Väinämöinen with Maidens (1905) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela © Photo courtesy of the owner

Väinämöinen with Maidens (1905) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela © Photo courtesy of the owner

Modern art

Gallen-Kallela travelled widely and was well aware of contemporary movements in north European art. He was, according to a wall label, briefly a member of the German Expressionist movement, Die Brücke. This flavour in his work, heading towards a really garish expressionism, is epitomised by Oceanides, the human figures deliberately stylised and ungainly and with a purely decorative colour scheme. Isn’t the idea of vertical orange and brown stripes to describe sea water wonderfully bonkers / visionary / beautiful?

Oceanides (1909) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela. Finnish National Gallery, Ateneum Art Museum, Helsinki, Finland © Photo: Finnish National Gallery / Janne Mäkinen

Oceanides (1909) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela. Finnish National Gallery, Ateneum Art Museum, Helsinki, Finland © Photo: Finnish National Gallery / Janne Mäkinen

A range of styles

Most of the other works in the room are much more realistic than these two. In fact a glance at the works on Akseli Gallen-Kallela’s Wikipedia page show that the mostly landscape images here are only one strand among quite a number of different styles or ‘voices’ which he was equally competent in.

Some of these look like excellent late-Victorian book illustrations (Kullervo cursing), reminding us this is the era of Arthur Rackham in England, and the golden age of fairy tale / nationalist folk collections, all across Europe. The commentary at the exhibition describes this kind of style as ‘vigorous and archaic’ which strikes me as conveying the way this strand in his work seems ultra-modern and yet ancient, at the same time.

Some are rural scenes in the style of George Clausen (Boy and Crow; Old woman with a cat). Others have brutally clear, hard black outlines almost of stained glass (Lemminkäinen’s Mother). Some are Nordic kitsch (Shepherd Boy from Paanajärvi). Only a few convey any sense of being in urban settings in the 20th century (Symposium, Démasquée).

Anyway, back in room 1 at the National Gallery, the overall sense of this small selection is of acutely perceived nature paintings teetering on the edge of abstraction, the silver bars across the lake in the central work, and the clouds in many others ceasing to be cloud-shaped and turning into zoomorphic forms. Evidence that right across Europe, from Italy to the Arctic Circle, artists were feeling a modernist impulse to progress beyond realism into new realms of abstract shapes and vibrant, non-naturalistic colour.

With all this in mind, if you look closely, you can read this movement – the gradual shift from a directly observed, naturalistic landscape to a more stylised and abstracted image – in the four versions of Lake Keitale hanging here side by side.

Finlandia

Since everyone else will be doing it, I might as well join in by including the most famous piece of music by Finland’s national composer, Jean Sibelius, Finlandia, written during the heyday of Gallen-Kallela’s career (1899). This YouTube version features some awesome footage of Finland’s landscape and wildlife.

Gallen-Kallela’s own fiercely patriotic intent is exemplified by a stained glass window on display here, with the stirring title, Rouse Thyself Finland! It’s a decorative schema of Rackhamesque fir trees flanking a classic view of a tree-lined lake which also features a great bar of reflected light across it – presumably to echo the theme of the show, and to demonstrate use of the ‘bar of light’ motif in a different medium.

Rouse Thyself Finland! ( 1896) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela © Gallen-Kallela Museum / photo Hannu Aaltonen

Rouse Thyself Finland! ( 1896) by Akseli Gallen-Kallela © Gallen-Kallela Museum / photo Hannu Aaltonen

Somewhere like the Dulwich Picture Gallery should organise an entire exhibition about Gallen-Kallela. I’d go just to see more of the fabulous book illustrations.

YouTube gallery

On YouTube there’s a gallery of 207 works by Gallen-Kallela accompanied by a relaxing soundtrack. This montage gives a sense of his rather unnervingly wide range of styles.


Related links

Reviews of other National Gallery exhibitions

Monochrome: Painting in black and white @ the National Gallery

A delightful and thoughtful idea: 60 or so works from the entire history of Western art, painted on glass, vellum, ceramic, silk, wood, and canvas, which are devoid of colour, and styled solely in black and white and shades of grey.

As with any themed exhibition, the assembled works help you do several things:

  1. ‘explore’ the theme and its subsidiary ideas, as laid out and guided by the curators
  2. just enjoy rare or otherwise unavailable paintings or objects for themselves, in their own right.

Thus alongside some pretty rare and recondite works, demonstrating the range of ways artists have used black and white – for technical or competitive reasons – there’s also a large number of knockout pieces by super-famous names such as van Eyck, Van Dyck, Titian, Ingres, Picasso, Malevich, Giacometti, Cy Twombly, Jasper Johns and more.

Academic

I’ve read criticisms that the show is a bit academic with some pretty obscure academic bypaths, but I’m quite academic so I liked it a lot. What I mean is that the curators have used some out-of-the-way – and not premier league – works to illustrate different ways artists through history have used black and white imagery, or to explain the development of artistic techniques.

Some critics have said they should have dropped the dodgy works and stuffed the rooms with masterpieces. But that’s what I like about it. The curators have made a list of ways and techniques artists used black and white and then looked for the best ways to illustrate these ideas, techniques and media (the show includes sculpture, prints and photos as well as paintings).

In doing so they have also managed to secure the loan of some masterpieces rarely seen in the UK, for example from the Met in New York and the Hermitage in Petersburg. So the 61 pieces on display are an entertaining combination of the super-famous, the arcane and obscure and ‘rare opportunities to see’.

And it’s small. 61 pieces. At least two of these are in little sets of two or three (a painting and a print of it, a painting and a statue of it) so the actual number is closer to 50 original works.

And small is beautiful because a lot of the pieces have quite a story behind them or represent an entire historical epoch’s use of black and white. They require quite a bit of reading (or listening on the audio guide) to understand. So 50 pieces turns out to be quite enough to fill the average brain with a wealth of historical facts, and to take in quite a few stunning masterpieces.

Less is more. Quite quickly you can identify the pieces you really like and really concentrate on them. I returned at the end to look long and deep at the van Eyck diptych and the Boucher sketch, feasting my eyes, admiring every wonderful detail.

The effect of black and white

Put simply, art in black and white omits the ‘distraction’ of colour and brings out the essential shape and form of the objects depicted. It highlights the use of light and shade. And it brings out the objects’ spatial relationships. Pose and posture, light and shade, shape and impact – these are all foregrounded when colour is switched off.

It would be neat to say what art in black and white does, but this very historical, chronological approach shows that in fact art in black and white has performed a whole range of functions, in different times and places and societies.

N.B. grisaille is the French term given to works done entirely in shades of gris i.e. grey.

A history of black and white

But the history of black and white is vastly more complex than that.

The colour of Christian penitence and mortification

In medieval times Christian religion was dominant across all aspects of life and culture in a way we can’t really imagine nowadays. The first room gives three distinct and fascinating examples.

In France, on order of monks banned colour illustrations. It was decreed that stained glass and manuscript illustrations must be in monochrome, to avoid inflaming and distracting the senses from the word of God. The show includes an example of a b&w stained glass from 1320, and a contemporaneous manuscript. This severe ‘look’ became popular in the French court and inspired a fashion for secular subjects drawn without colour. And this insight, that omitting colour from a visual work makes viewers focus on the subject and/or form, rather than on distracting and colourful details, echoes down to our own day.

In a separate genre, many altarpieces, particularly smaller diptychs designed to be moved from place to place (to accompany the king or a senior churchman) were made up of outer panels which opened on hinges to reveal the scene within. The tradition grew up of doing the outer panel in black and white to suggest the world before the revelation of Jesus, before it was suffused with Christian meaning – and then you opened the diptych to reveal the Birth of Jesus in glorious colour. In a world bereft of artificially coloured objects this must have had a dazzling impact.

There are several examples, one by Hans Memling, the other The Annunciation Diptych by Jan van Eyck. God, I love the art of the Northern Renaissance. Looking closely you can see that the figures of the angel Gabriel and the Virgin Mary are reflected in the black background, making the images appear strongly three-dimensional. And note the way the angel’s right wing stretches out over the picture frame, moving into three dimensional space. What a god!

The Annunciation Diptych (The Archangel Gabriel; The Virgin Mary), about 1433–5 by Jan van Eyck © Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid

The Annunciation Diptych (The Archangel Gabriel; The Virgin Mary) (1433–5) by Jan van Eyck © Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid

Yet another use for black and white is demonstrated by the biggest and most spectacular exhibit. Some churches used enormous black and white coverings to hang over their walls to hide the colour paintings during sober seasons of the year, most obviously Lent. The curators have secured an enormous wall-sized hanging from Genoa. In actual fact it isn’t strictly speaking black and white; it has a strong blue tinge and the commentary explains that this kind of fabric, made in the Italian city of Genoa, was referred to by French artists as Gênes, the French name for Genoa, from which we get our modern word ‘jeans’. But that’s not really the point – the point is the way black and white was used as a mournful, penitent colour in Christian iconography.

Preparatory sketches

Centuries later, once Europe had struggled free of the religious wars sparked by the Reformation, cultural epochs later, in the 17th and 18th centuries, we have many examples of artists using black and white oil paintings as preparatory sketches. These could be used:

  • for an artist to make sure he was happy with his composition, with the disposition of forms in space, and to clarify where and how light should fall – especially important when the commission was for a fresco or ceiling on which light would naturally fall
  • to show a patron on a small scale what they would be getting for their money
  • as a teaching aid to pupils in the Master’s workshop

After all these years I know my own taste, and know that I love sketches with a strong sense of line. Thus I returned again and again to this wonderful black and white oil sketch by François Boucher. It brings out the weight of the composition (weighted towards the bottom right, growing emptier as you head top left), flecks of white highlight the direction of the light source, burnishing details (like the rim of the shield in the bottom right).  Nothing to do with black and white, a survey of the 50 works here shows that faces are difficult. The faces in the Rembrandt painting later in the show are, well, not great, and I don’t like the Titian portrait. Here, Boucher’s sketchy suggestion of the faces seem to me spot on, as much as you need and let the creating brain complete the image.

Vulcan's Forge (Vulcan presenting Venus with Arms for Aeneas) (1756) by François Boucher © Paris, Les Arts Décoratifs / Jean Tholance

Vulcan’s Forge (Vulcan presenting Venus with Arms for Aeneas) (1756) by François Boucher © Paris, Les Arts Décoratifs / Jean Tholance

There were so many black and white oil sketches that they created a separate market, especially among artists themselves, to study the compositional style and technique of their rivals.

This thought brings us to the centrepiece of room two and maybe the most impressive work of grisaille in the exhibition – a reworking by Ingres of his famous Odalisque, but entirely in black and white.

(This is one of the precious loan works, a rare opportunity to see a painting which is normally resident in the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.)

Ingres was obsessed by this image. He made several full colour paintings of it but we know that he kept this black and white version by his side for over a decade. Important features include:

  • the way lots of the decorative elements of the finished colour painting have been stripped away, to reveal not only the shape of the woman’s body but the other key elements of the composition, namely the floor tiles and the curtains
  • the way some of it is not even finished, namely the goldeny strip beneath her flank and bottom.

Both these facts suggest that Ingres used it as a teaching aid in his studio, for his large number of pupils. And, on a purely subjective view, the more you look at her body the more you realise it is strangely out of proportion: her flank and bottom look more like a horse’s.

It is the quintessential grisaille, the work which stands as the summit of previous black and white and influences successive generations of artists.

Odalisque in Grisaille (1824-34) by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and workshop © The Metropolitan Museum of Art / Art Resource / Scala, Florence

Odalisque in Grisaille (1824-34) by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and workshop © The Metropolitan Museum of Art / Art Resource / Scala, Florence

Trompe l’oeil

‘Fooling the eye’. As it reached maturity Western art became interested (among thousands of other things) in the ability of flat oil paintings to fool the eye, create optical illusions, give a sense of three dimensions. You really had to look close up to be sure this wasn’t a relief, naturally shedding shadows onto incised forms. But it isn’t. It’s a two dimensional painting.

Jupiter and Ganymede (1739) by Jacob de Wit © Ferens Art Gallery, Hull Museums

Jupiter and Ganymede (1739) by Jacob de Wit © Ferens Art Gallery, Hull Museums

There’s an extraordinary little cluster of three works based on a genre painting by Chardin of a woman just back from the market with her shopping, painted in 1742. A printmaker named Bernard Lépicié made a black and white print of it – so far, so standard.

But then a painter named Etienne Moulinneuf made a black and white painting of the identical subject, based on the Lépicié print, but painted as if it had a glass cover to it, which has been smashed. It’s an extraordinary piece of trompe l’oeil, which is why it’s in this room, but also a bizarre thing to do. More like something Marcel Duchamp would have done than an eighteenth century painter.

Back from the Market (La Pourvoyeuse), about 1770 by Etienne Moulinneuf after Jean-Siméon Chardin. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, California © Museum Associates / LACMA

Back from the Market (La Pourvoyeuse), about 1770 by Etienne Moulinneuf after Jean-Siméon Chardin. Los Angeles County Museum of Art, California © Museum Associates / LACMA

Nearby is a little grouping based round a statue the great sculptor was commissioned to make of Christ being taken down from the cross. In the end it was never taken forward, but a pupil of Canova’s painted an awesomely realistic painting of what the sculpture would look like, complete with incredibly persuasive sense of light and shade; and next to it the curators have placed a miniature statue made by a later sculptor based on the painting, which is incredibly identical even down to the highlights and shadows.

It’s not a great work but, as explained above, it is a convincing example of an interesting historical development or issue. Because this section explains that in the 18th century there blew up quite a debate between painters and sculptors about who was best. In Italian the debate was called il paragone and this small room also includes masterpieces by Titian and Mantegna in which they strive to prove that painting was better because

  1. it could render size and weight and form and light and shadow just as well as sculpture
  2. it could render shades of colour infinitely better

Prints

A whole section is devoted to prints and print-making. A detailed oil sketch by Rembrandt is juxtaposed with a black and white print of the same subject, along with amusing gossip about how he couldn’t stop interfering with the printer’s work. There is an enormous print of Hercules by Hendrik Goltzius, and a vast pen and ink work by him depicting Without Ceres and Bacchus, Venus Would Freeze (1599).

The curators were telling us something important about how artists, and Goltzius in particular, used the techniques of etching and print-making to rival oil painting for detail, but my mind’s eye glazed over a little. I noted details, such as the way the artist has included himself, lurking among the bushes to the left of Ceres (goddess of the earth). And also the mundane fact that this is an enormous image and is on rare loan from the Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg. But you can’t get worked up about everything in an exhibition. Finding out what you do and don’t like is part of the fun.

Without Ceres and Bacchus, Venus Would Freeze (1606) Hendrick Goltzius © The State Hermitage Museum, 2017 / Photo: Vladimir Terebenin

Without Ceres and Bacchus, Venus Would Freeze (1606) Hendrick Goltzius © The State Hermitage Museum, 2017 / Photo: Vladimir Terebenin

The impact of photography

The impact of photography on traditional art is a subject which could fill hundreds of rooms in a gallery, it is so immense.

In line with the curators’ tasteful minimalism there were only a handful of works here – a pioneering photo of the sea juxtaposed with a black and white painting of the sea, to make the point about how photography began to encroach on figurative art right from its invention in the 1930s.

Nearby is a wondrous black and white oil painting of a young girl, included to indicate that it was the lucrative career of portrait painter which was the first to be undermined and then superseded by photography. The idea is that photography compelled some artists to try and capture photographic realism in their own works (before they realised it was impossible to compete and turned to other strategies).

But, like many other works in this lovely exhibition, it is not only making an art historical point, it is a quite stunning work of art in its own right.

Head of a Girl (1867) by Célestin Joseph Blanc © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Head of a Girl (1867) by Célestin Joseph Blanc © Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Modern art

And then – boom! – we are in the modern epoch. The most powerful images from ‘the Modernist imperative’ include a characteristically intense grisaille portrait by Giacometti (familiar to anyone who attended the National Portrait Gallery’s recent Giacometti portrait exhibition).

And this work by Picasso. Late in life (in the 1950s when he was in his 70s) Picasso undertook an immense project to repainting his interpretations of Las Meninas, painted by the Spanish painter Diego Velázquez in 1656.

As it happens I saw the world’s biggest collection of these obsessive reworkings in the Picasso Museum in Barcelona a few months ago. The more you look the more intensely powerful they seem, the more you share Picasso’s penetrating vision and ability to rework and remodel a subject.

And so this exhibition includes just one from the 44 variations, an intense close-up of the little girl at the front of the Velázquez picture, as an example of how immensely powerful a purely black and white painting can be in the modern idiom.

Las Meninas (Infanta Margarita María) 1957 by Pablo Picasso © Succession Picasso / DACS, London 2017 / Photo: Museu Picasso, Barcelona. Photograph: Gasull Fotografia

Las Meninas (Infanta Margarita María) 1957 by Pablo Picasso © Succession Picasso / DACS, London 2017 / Photo: Museu Picasso, Barcelona. Photograph: Gasull Fotografia

The Picasso is in a different room but chronologically sits just before other modern works by:

  • Gerhard Richter (big black and white painting based on a press photo of a murdered prostitute)
  • Vija Celmins (the night sky – black with white stars)
  • Chuck Close ( a big portrait of art dealer Joel Shapiro)

New monsters / Abstraction

And then the final room of paintings is devoted to abstract works in black and white. Completely abstract painting is often said to stem from Kazimir Malevich’s iconic black square.

Black Square (1929) by Kazimir Malevich © The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

Black Square (1929) by Kazimir Malevich © The State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

He made several versions. One is hanging here and the curators explain how Malevich considered himself to have arrived at a kind of reduction ad absurdum of Western painting, a kind of ‘ground zero’, reducing all painting to this one primal image – black on white. At its first exhibition in 1915, Malevich hung the square high up in the corner of the gallery, where the coloured icon should be in a Russian Orthodox home, indicating that it was a new kind of modernist icon, replacing all previous attempts at figuration. As news of it spread, it had an immense influence on the rest of 20th century art.

(A story comprehensively told in the Whitechapel gallery’s 2015 exhibition, Adventures of the Black Square)

The other works in the room were more intriguing because I didn’t know them. These included a late (untitled) work by Jasper Johns, made of two panels folded closed and painted with his trademark grey flagstone surface (the closed panels referencing the diptychs from way back in the 15th century). We also learn that Johns was at least part inspired to paint so many grey works by repeated visits to study the Ingres Odalisque earlier in the show. Also:

  • Grey Mirror by Gerhard Richter (1992)
  • an example of Cy Twombly’s ‘blackboard’ paintings from the 1970s
  • Tomlinson Court Park I by Frank Stella (1959)

 

And this work of Op Art by the great Bridget Riley:

Horizontal Vibration (1961) by Bridget Riley © Bridget Riley 2017. All rights reserved

Horizontal Vibration (1961) by Bridget Riley © Bridget Riley 2017. All rights reserved

A room devoted to proving that works in black and white can be just as powerful as coloured paintings and, in fact, have a mystique and an atmosphere all their won.

Room for one colour

The final room is a startling surprise. It is an installation by Olafur Eliasson. The ceiling of an empty room  is hung with orange sodium lights, like street lights. That’s it. But the result is dramatic: orange light drains all the colour from everyone seen in it – all the fixtures of the room and all the visitors, forcing the eye to focus on just shapes and shades of grey. There weren’t too many people in the room when I was there and they didn’t like being studied as intensely as I’d have liked to – but I take the point.

It’s a dazzling and completely unexpected climax to a show which has included all kinds of strange and wonderful works and shed light on a range of issues and ideas in art which I’d never heard of.

Some general points

Colour, actually

Actually, the exhibition wasn’t all in monochrome. Quite a few of the works here did include colour of one sort or another. The early religious grisaille glass panel included lines of yellow. The vast church wall covering was done on a blue background which came through. The Titian Mantegna are full of colour. The van Eyck diptych had a colour painting inside, and the Rembrandt – supposedly a monochrome sketch – was mostly made of shades of brown.

Now I just happen to have visited Royal West of England Academy’s annual exhibition a month or so ago, and this show has got into the habit of featuring one room containing only black and white art – paintings, drawing, photos, sculptures and so on. The walls were white and it was actually quite atmospheric to enter a room decorated intensely, but only with black or white or shades of grey.

Installation view of RWA 165

Installation view of RWA 165

Compared to that really purist experience, most of the rooms here included some elements of colour, except for the very final room, composed solely of slick, clean, modern monochromes. And this consistency (of size actually) and of black and white, made it in a way the most persuasive room, viewed solely as art – as opposed to interesting examples from art history.

Women

Having recently read Whitney Chadwick’s enormous book about women artists and feminist art theory – Women, Art and Society – I am now highly sensitised to feminist issues in art. The obvious ones are: Are there any women artists in the show? How are women portrayed in the show?

Well, I counted 61 art works in total (though some of them were ‘repeats’ as explained above). Of these only three were by women – Marlene Dumas, Bridget Riley, Vija Celmins.

As to women portrayed in the exhibition, quite a few in various formats, but as to women portrayed semi-naked and so potentially victims of the male gaze I counted eight. After a bit of thought I decided ‘semi-naked’ means you can see their boobs.

Without Ceres and Bacchus, Venus Would Freeze (1599) by Hendrik Goltzius © The Trustees of The British Museum

Without Ceres and Bacchus, Venus Would Freeze (1599) by Hendrik Goltzius © The Trustees of The British Museum

There were two naked men: a big powerful sketch by Symbolist painter Gustave Moreau of naked Diomedes fighting with wild horses; and Hendrik Goltzius’s engraving of the Great Hercules (1589). Apparently Goltzius was the leading Dutch engraver of the early Baroque period, although I didn’t warm at all to this image except as an example of the kind of clumpy figure illustration you get for a lot of literary classics from the 16th or 17th centuries. A contemporary criticised Goltzius’s figures for looking like a bag of walnuts. Hard to disagree. I was particularly worried by his walnutty penis (it’s a big image and his shrivelled pecker is at eye-level).

The Great Hercules (1589) by Hendrik Goltzius © Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam. Photographer: Studio Buitenhof, The Hague

The Great Hercules (1589) by Hendrik Goltzius © Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam. Photographer: Studio Buitenhof, The Hague

The video

The National Gallery has made a brief introductory video to the show, but here’s a recording of a 50-minute lecture given by the co-curators, which gives you a flavour of the art, the ideas and of them, and also an interesting insight into the world of curating, at the effort it takes to secure loans, the trials and tribulations of getting works sent to you, and the way an exhibition like this is conceived, planned and executed.

And here’s a video by the band The Monochrome Set simply because their name has ‘monochrome’ in it 🙂


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Rachel Whiteread @ Tate Britain

I don’t think I’ve ever seen an art exhibition in such a huge space.

Tate Britain has cleared all the walls out of the north wing exhibition rooms to create one enormous open space, 1,500 square metres, which is filled with casts in concrete, resin, papier mache and so on by Rachel Whiteread.

In fact the main impact of the show is being in such an enormous open space, walking round and savouring it. The size and lightness and openness brilliantly suit Whiteread’s mostly big and sometimes enormous casts of manufactured objects and internal spaces (houses, rooms, stairs).

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain, featuring Untitled (Staircase) (2001)

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain, featuring Untitled (Staircase) (2001)

It is really, really relaxing to wander round and eye up the exhibits and take in their scale and dimensions and angles and attributes. At most of the exhibitions I go to you have to put in quite a lot of effort reading the wall labels introducing each of the rooms and then read the label for every individual work.

Here there was no text at all on the walls. There is a foldout guide which every visitor is given, with 18 paragraphs (just counted them) dividing the works into themes or subjects (tables and bookshelves, public works, boxes, floors and stairs etc). But you don’t have to read it. And although there is a wall label for every work, most of these have very basic titles (Stair space, Room 101, Stairs, Light I), no explanatory text, and plenty of works are untitled.

Quite quickly this encourages you simply to enjoy the works as presences in their own right, unmediated by text or interpretation. The result is a wonderful sense of release and freedom, encouraging you just to wander round and – enjoy!

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain

Whiteread came to prominence when she won the Turner Prize in 1993, being – as every scrap of publicity about her emphasises – the first woman to do so. She hit the wider headlines when she cast the inside of a house in East London in concrete. The house was then demolished leaving only the cast in situ. In fact it only existed for a few months before angry locals got the work itself knocked down. There’s a video of the process of creation (shown here for those who want to sit and watch it) as well as documentary photos.

`House (1993) by Rachel Whiteread © Rachel Whiteread. Photo: Courtesy of the artist

House (1993) by Rachel Whiteread © Rachel Whiteread. Photo: Courtesy of the artist

The exhibition showcases her ability to cast objects in a variety of materials such as plaster, concrete, resin, rubber and metal. For example, a display case of hot water bottles (and enema bags!) demonstrating her use of different materials. These were made at different dates but all have the title Torso. The key thing is that the casts record the inside of the bottles and bags: they record the internal and empty space concealed within these everyday objects.

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain, featuring Torsos

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain, featuring Torsos

At the small end of the scale there are casts of the insides of individual cans, a row of toilet rolls in different colours (Line-up), the insides of circular cardboard cylinders you keep architects’ diagrams in and the insides of filing cabinets.

Getting a bit bigger in scale, there are casts of the insides of mattresses in various colours, some propped against the wall, although they are solid not soft and bendy.

Untitled (Amber Bed) (1991) © Rachel Whiteread. Photo: Courtesy of the Artist

Untitled (Amber Bed) (1991) © Rachel Whiteread. Photo: Courtesy of the Artist

But it’s the really monumental casts of architectural space which catch the eye. The stairs (in figure one, above) or the internal cast of the room at Broadcasting House which George Orwell supposedly used as the basis for Room 101 in Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Her work makes space visible. Emptiness becomes solid. Tangible. Walk aboutable. Think aboutable.

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain featuring Room 101 (2003) and Staircase (2001)

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain featuring Room 101 (2003) and Staircase (2001)

Away in one corner was a wall of sketches and 2-D works (in the background of this photo).

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain

Installation view of Rachel Whiteread at Tate Britain

Many are preparatory sketches for castings and show the same interest in interiors and architectural features. They range in media from pencil, varnish, correction fluid, watercolour and collage.

But some are not directly tied to the casting projects and are interesting free-standing works in their own right. I was taken by a small piece, which is a postcard of birds taking off (pigeons?) against the silhouette of buildings (Trafalgar Square?) which she has covered with white paint and then punched holes in. I liked it.

Untitled by Rachel Whiteread

Untitled by Rachel Whiteread

One of my favourite pieces was a set of bookshelves filled with books which seem to have been cast from the inside, so what is facing you is the pages-end of all the books, not (as you usually see in a library) the spines – Untitled (Book Corridors) 1997-8. In fact – it dawns on you as you wander round it – what you’re seeing is not bookshelves at all – but the space between bookshelves. The emptiness into which the books give.

The book theme looms large in the enormous Holocaust Memorial erected in Vienna in 2000, a memorial to the 65,000 Viennese Jews transported and exterminated by the Nazis, which consists of a room-sized cast, whose faces are made of the page-end sides of lined-up books i.e. not the spines. I find this absence or inaccessibility of the spines which usually carry the name and title of books i.e. their identity and meaning, especially powerful and disturbing.

This is just one of Whiteread’s numerous large and public sculptures. In the entrance hall there’s a display of photos of these public artworks.

A less earnest and more playful example was the work she made to top the empty fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square – a cast of the plinth itself, upside down, in resin. Being transparent, the work changed character with the changing light quality of the daylight. Genius.

The public, overt aspect of her work comes out in other ways. At some point she had the idea to cast the space underneath a chair. This sounds of quite limited interest or impact. But it turns out that if you cast this space underneath a whole range of different sizes and shapes of chairs, in different coloured resins, and then arrange them in neat rows – then they have a really massive impact. Hence Untitled (One Hundred Spaces, casts of chairs with all their imperfections and marks of wear and tear, lined up in five neat rows of 20, and filling Tate Modern’s long narrow atrium space (technically known as the Duveen Galleries).

Untitled (One Hundred Spaces) (1995) by Rachel Whiteread © Rachel Whiteread. Photo: © Tate (Seraphina Neville and Andrew Dunkley)

Untitled (One Hundred Spaces) (1995) by Rachel Whiteread © Rachel Whiteread. Photo: © Tate (Seraphina Neville and Andrew Dunkley)

(It’s worth mentioning that around the rest of the huge atrium space are key works from Tate’s collection selected by Whiteread herself as important for her practice and view of art.)

Whitereadiana

In the shop are posters, postcards, half a dozen books about Whiteread, as well as a number of videos and a Rachel Whiteread scarf, handkerchief and notebook, as well as a selection of paperbacks chosen by the woman herself (High Rise by J.G. Ballard, Depths and Quicksand by Henning Mankell, Gilead by Marilynne Robinson etc).

Outside the gallery, on the south lawn, is a new piece, the inside of a chicken shed cast in concrete.

Chicken Shed (2017) by Rachel Whiteread © Rachel Whiteread. Photo: © Tate

Chicken Shed (2017) by Rachel Whiteread © Rachel Whiteread. Photo: © Tate

The visitor handout, once I came to look at it, discusses the types of works (Early work, Works on paper, Public Commissions and so on) and raises various themes and issues which can be found in her work.

The most obvious ones are that:

  • It is a lot of hard work to make these apparently effortless sculptures.
  • And that all of the pieces are, in some sense, memorials: memorials of spaces which are transitory because the objects which frame them are transitory: the houses will be torn down, the mattresses will be thrown away, the water bottles will be junked. The rates of decay vary but she does what all artists do – captures some of the beauty and wonder of the world while it lasts.

The entire exhibition is blessedly free of the usual rhetoric about gender and identity although the fact that the artist is a woman might give some critics the opportunity to speak about these being mostly domestic spaces and domestic articles and taking it from there.

But, unlike so many recent shows I’ve been to, above all this one felt light and airy and uncluttered. It really is an amazing space and an amazing collocation of objects to fill it with. For some reason, T.S. Eliot’s lines come into my mind. You could ask what the works are about, or what they’re for or what they are saying. Or you could just enjoy them directly, engaging with them face to face without the intervention of curators or critics.

Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.

Treat yourself to a total immersion in Rachel-Whiteread-World.

Visitor demographics

 

I go to lots of exhibitions and am always alert to the popularity and the types of visitors they attract.

From a demographics point of view, what was really unusual about the visitors to this exhibition was the number of young people and, in particular, the large number of young women in evidence – singletons, pairs and groups of women in their 20s. It was really noticeable enough to be worth commenting on.

And this was another rather uplifting aspect to this exhibition – it felt younger than almost all the exhibitions I attend. Prompting the thought that it might be inspiring the next generation of women artists, students, writers and so on to create works as varied, as individual and as powerful as Whiteread’s.

The video

Every exhibition has at least one promotional video.

//players.brightcove.net/1854890877/4811b2e3-75b4-4489-b1a5-21a18a61075e_default/index.html


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Basquiat: Boom for Real @ the Barbican

This exhibition is great!

Jean-Michel Basquiat (1960-88) was cool and street in a way hardly any artists are, even today. He did graffiti, made goofy postcards, he was in bands, he DJed at clubs, he liked bebop, hung out with early rappers, painted, drew and created art constantly out of the bombardment of signs, images, words and phrases which surrounded him in the grimy, vibrant New York of the early 1980s.

King of the Zulus (1984-85) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

King of the Zulus (1984-85) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Born in 1960, the son of a Haitian father and a Puerto Rican mother, Basquiat grew up in the post-punk scene in Lower Manhattan. New Wave/No Wave they called it. He attended the alternative school, City-As-School High School, where he came to attention after he developed the moniker SAMO©, along with Al Diaz and other friends, to use in graffiti all across the city. They covered buildings all over the Lower East Side with witty, snappy, poetic or satirical slogans.

SAMO originated in the stoned 17-year-olds talking about smoking the ‘same old shit’ but quickly became a cult movement, with claims and counter-claims about ‘original’ SAMOs, with other artists on the scene photographing the graffitos, exhibiting them and so on. Examples include:

SAMO© AS A CONGLOMERATE OF DORMANT GENIOUS

MY MOUTH / THEREFORE AN ERROR

Not your usual graffiti – it was puzzling, elliptical, intriguing. From really early on everything Basquiat touched had a kind of magic about it. And right from the start he was ambitious, concentrating the graffiti around the SoHo art galleries, currying attention with curators. When the Village Voice magazine finally revealed the identities of the hitherto anonymous authors, Basquiat and Diaz declared SAM dead, fellow artist Keith Haring delivered a mock eulogy at the bohemian Club 57, and Basquiat painted SAMO© IS DEAD over the old graffitos. But he continued to use the identity and the celebrity it had brought. At an arty party in 1979 Basquiat agreed to be captured on film creating a one-off SAMO© graffito on the wall of the art space where the party was happening.

A wall of photos of SAMO© graffiti by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artworks © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

A wall of photos of SAMO© graffiti by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artworks © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

With Jennifer Stein Basquiat started producing hand-made postcards – again from the detritus of the street – newspaper headlines, polaroid selfies, cigarette butts, posters, ads, random texts. Hard to imagine, but photocopying was a new technology, and their use of a rare colour photocopier showed an innovative approach to using mundane, workaday technology. On a now famous occasion Basquiat plucked up the courage to approach his hero Andy Warhol in a bar and sold him a card for one dollar.

By the turn of the decade Basquiat scraped together the resources to make paintings in an extremely rough, crude style, incorporating lots of text, phrases, slogans, street poetry, misspelled or misspelt, scrubbed out, as well as countless faces, graffiti with ambition, the street experience on canvas.

Hollywood Africans (1983) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings / Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat/ Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ ADAGP, Paris. Licensed by Artestar, New York.

Hollywood Africans (1983) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings / Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat/ Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ ADAGP, Paris. Licensed by Artestar, New York.

The graffiti is always there as a kind of substratum in the work, but after he exhibited in the scene-defining 1981 exhibition New York/New Wave, Basquiat began to sell pieces and get access to more resources, bigger canvases to mark with acrylics, oil, crayon, pen, using not just paint but wood, scrap metal, foam rubber, all sorts.

The results are scrappy, patchy, quick and dirty, but many are also stunning, stunningly alive, colourful, vibrant, spontaneous, magnificent, in your face, spooky. Of the 1,600 works on show from artists like Warhol, Mapplethorpe, David Byrne and so on, Basquiat was singled out by nearly all the critics. Galleries approached him with contracts, magazines wanted interviews.

Untitled (1982) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artwork Courtesy Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam. © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York.

Untitled (1982) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artwork Courtesy Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam. © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Numerous urban legends quickly gathered round him: a particularly entertaining one is that after his first formal introduction to Warhol at his Factory studio in October 1982, Basquiat rushed back to his gallery and knocked off a painting of himself and Warhol in just two hours and had his assistant take it round to Warhol’s studio still wet. The godfather of Pop was delighted and the two became firm friends. In fact, they went on to collaborate on some 100 works together.

Dos Cabezas (1982) by ean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Dos Cabezas (1982) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

The exhibition includes out-takes from the episode of Warhol’s TV show in the 80s where the Bewigged One interviews Basquiat with his arm familiarly round his shoulders, joking and riffing. I see modern bloggers refer to it as a classic ‘bromance’. They collaborated, Warhol creating pop images which Basquiat defaced, rewrote, reinterpreted, remodelled. They did stylish photoshoots.

Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat July 10, 1985, by Michael Halsband

Later on in the show, there’s a viewing room where you can see one of the few extended interviews Basquiat did, an amateur effort by some art world friends. Here and in almost all the images – photos, film clips, interviews, TV stuff and some rare footage of him dancing in the studio – he comes over as full of life. You rarely see artists in any medium smile so much – he has a hugely infectious boyish smile. In the scrappy New Wave vibe of Downtown New York, glamour was as important as talent and Basquiat has charisma in buckets.

Jean-Michel Basquiat dancing at the Mudd Club (1979) © Nicholas Taylor © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images

Jean-Michel Basquiat dancing at the Mudd Club (1979) © Nicholas Taylor © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images

But it’s not empty or baseless fame – this astonishingly young man was a fountain of creativity, graffiti turning into postcards and then overflowing into myriads of paintings, drawings, graffitied objects and readymades large and small, scrap-book montages, tell-tale silhouettes, endless self-portraits, notebooks packed full of poetry, film scripts and the bands he was in writing experimental music and lyrics, the DJing, hanging with early rap pioneers, a vortex of energy and exuberance.

Glenn (1984) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artworks © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Glenn (1984) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artworks © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

I returned to this particular pair of works again and again. In the century of Picasso, Klee, Kokoschka and hundreds of other semi-figurative modernists, I hadn’t seen anything quite like these, the intuitive use of completely different palettes of colours, the confidence, the lack of fear, the forcefulness of the images blew me away.

Untitled (1983) and Self Portrait (1984) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings / Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Untitled (1983) and Self Portrait (1984) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings / Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

This is a major exhibition, with both floors of the Barbican’s gallery packed with over 100 works – 14 rooms in all. The eight rooms on the top floor describe a chronological survey of Basquiat’s short life and prodigious output, while the six rooms on the ground floor investigate his influences, a dazzling kaleidoscope of material, from junk TV to the old textbook Gray’s Anatomy, from Picasso and Matisse (paid homage to with Basquiatesque portraits).

Untitled (Pablo Picasso), 1984 by Jean-Michel Basquiat © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Untitled (Pablo Picasso), 1984 by Jean-Michel Basquiat © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Basquiat had an intense involvement with the bebop jazz of Charlie Parker and the other lead boppers (he had a collection of some 3,000 jazz records), but this was just one source of references in a kaleidoscope of ideas and motifs which included anything from Western art which caught his fancy, a dizzying range of African and tribal art, fashion magazines, ad slogans, TV programmes, black sports stars, Hollywood movies, anything he saw, processed and incorporated into his quick vivid works.

Leonardo da Vinci's Greatest Hits (1982) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images Artwork. Collection of Jonathan Schorr © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

Leonardo da Vinci’s Greatest Hits (1982) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images Artwork. Collection of Jonathan Schorr © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York

In the endless vortex of the self-referential New York art world, countless hundreds of thousands of words have been written about Basquiat, raving, promoting, analysing, knocking and dismissing him – but the best summary I’ve read was from his friend, Glenn O’Brien, music columnist in Warhol’s Interview magazine. This quote from him brings out the way Basquiat’s work lets everything in. I think this is much easier for us to understand now, in the age of solid, wall-to-wall social media saturation with images and junk text, than back in the pre-digital 1980s.

He ate up every image, every word, every bit of data that appeared in front of him and he processed it all into a bebop cubist pop art cartoon gospel that synthesised the whole overload we lived under into something that made an astonishing new sense.

‘The whole overload’. Exactly.

In 1980 some of the crowd Basquiat had met at the Mudd Club decided to make a movie about a day in the life of a Boho artist, with Basquiat playing the lead role. When shooting began in December 1980 he was 19 years old! Here’s a clip. God, isn’t he beautiful!

A room is devoted to Basquiat’s involvement with the relatively new music genre of hip-hop. In the late 70s Basquiat was introduced to early cassettes of the new music and found he had much in common with experimental musician-musicians like Rammellzee and graffiti artist Toxic. The painting above (Hollywood Africans) is a portrait of the trio on a trip to California for Basquiat’s exhibition at the Gagosian Gallery, Los Angeles. Back in New York Basquiat and Rammellzee produced a single, ‘Beat Bop’, with J-M doing the cover art. Only 500 copies were pressed. If you own a copy with the original sleeve art, that’s your retirement sorted.

The ‘bop’ in Beat Bop indicates Basquiat’s unexpected devotion to the bebop of the 1940s, and to its tragic genius Charlie Parker (died in 1955, aged just 35, after years of intense drug abuse). Alas, Basquiat also died young, from a heroin overdose in 1988, aged just 27.

Themes

Race Some parts of the exhibition dwell on Basquiat’s colour. In 1985 he was the first black artist ever to appear on the cover of The New York Times Magazine. In the international art world a black face was a tremendous rarity. There are sections in the show about his references to black sporting heroes, to black jazz heroes, and to the new forms of expression developed by black rap music and hip hop.

This is a massive subject, especially in the fraught context of America’s ongoing problems with its black population (I mean by this the relative poverty of Afro-Americans, the disproportionate number of African-American males in prison, and the seemingly unstoppable cases of American cops beating up and shooting dead black men). I note its presence but I’m not expert enough to comment, apart from to notice the presence in many of the works of the recurrent image of a jet black silhouette, presumably a self-portrait, really powerful in its intensity, a mask, a memento, a magus.

Self-Portrait (1983) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York.

Self-Portrait (1983) by Jean-Michel Basquiat. Photo © Tristan Fewings/Getty Images. Artwork © The Estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat. Licensed by Artestar, New York.

Sex There’s less about gender and sexuality than you might expect. In fact there’s a striking absence of sexual imagery or anxiety in his paintings. I wasn’t absolutely clear whether he was gay or straight, until I read references to girlfriends in online articles. Given his punk attitude it’s surprising there isn’t more stuff, even about ‘love’, let alone the vast world of sexual imagery.

Signs Much more evident are the unstoppable flood of signs and symbols. For once a ‘semiotic’ interpretation of an artist would be justified, because Basquiat himself was quite clearly fascinated and obsessed with the strange power of signs and symbols, and the literally infinite combinations which can be made of them. In the rooms on his source materials there’s his copy of Henry Dreyfuss’s book Symbol Sourcebook.

His works are plastered with words and phrases which don’t necessarily mean anything or mean as much as they appear to, starting with SAMO’s deliberately opaque messages. For example, quite a lot of ink has been spilt trying to tease the meaning out of this phrase:

JIMMY BEST ON HIS BACK TO THE SUCKERPUNCH OF HIS CHILDHOOD FILES

which appears in graffitos and in a number of paintings and drawings. He wrote literally thousands of phrases and fragments of phrases across his works. Piecing together the puzzles, themes, meanings or avoidances of meanings strewn across this vast terrain will keep Basquiat scholars in conference invitations for the rest of their lives.

Identity Identity is one of those themes curators and art critics love to invoke but, again, it is for once justified by Basquiat’s work. From SAMO onwards he played with identities and names for himself and his work. For example, the exhibition devotes some space to his mysterious use of the name ‘Aaron’ written across numerous works – including on the redecorated American football helmet, the image which provides the iconic poster for the whole exhibition. Probably it refers to the Afro-American baseball player and all-time home run king, Hank Aaron.

Basquiat wearing his Aaron football helmet

Music Another major theme in Basquiat’s output is music – evidenced by the band he was in, Gray, whose album you can still buy, the hip hop single embedded in this review, and all the theme nights he organised at the trendy Area Club, to name just some output. Music appears in his art as reference to his hip hop friends but also as a major thread of works circling around bebop and the great jazz musicians who he worshipped.

Post-modernism I remember how back in the 1980s we all spent a lot of time discussing what post-modernism meant. I am aware of its derivation from a specific movement in architecture and then its application to literature. But another, popular, interpretation was that it meant the end of High Art as a specially privileged realm. High and low art could be combined and juxtaposed for the sheer hell of it. On this interpretation Basquiat seems a textbook case of an artist who naturally inhabited this new realm, maybe helped to create it. Warhol may have taken commercial products and po-facedly turned them into art objects – Campbell’s soup, the brillo pad box, various iconic movie posters – but these artefacts were themselves highly designed – Warhol’s genius was in recognising beautiful design in the mundane.

Basquiat takes that to the next level, finding – and creating – weird, hypnotically compelling art out of street trash, a graffiti style, spray-can spontaneity, the deliberately undesigned. The Canadian art curator Marc Mayer seems to me to put his finger on it when he notes in Basquiat’s work

a calculated incoherence

teasing, puzzling, refracting, resisting meanings, resisting a simplistic definition of him as a black artist or a musician or a provocateur or a street artist or a naive artist. It seems to me precisely Basquiat’s genius that he was all those things, plus more, much more than the critics can still really get their heads around.

Beautiful And he was beautiful. You’re just having serious sensible thoughts about his references to the Western Tradition when you turn a corner and there’s some film of him dancing in his studio with a massive smile on his face. I took my 16 year-old daughter and she fell in love with Basquiat. I’ve dragged her along to numerous art shows but she told me this is the only one which has ever made her feel that art can be exciting, fun and cool.

Video

There are quite a few video relics of Basquiat, interviews, documentaries, the full-length indie movie he appears in – Downtown 81 – and the more recent full-length biopic, Basquiat directed by Julian Schnabel.

Here’s a documentary about his life & times in which you can hear the man speak for himself.


Related links

Reviews of previous exhibitions & concerts at the Barbican

The Municipal Museum of Tossa de Mar

Tossa de Mar was originally a settlement on a small promontory sticking out into the Mediterranean about 1oo kilometres northeast of Barcelona. The Romans built a small town with villas and so on, and in the middle ages the promontory itself was sealed off by a thick wall punctuated by great round towers. Within was a rabbit warren of lanes and alleys.

With the tourist boom of the 1970s onwards hotels sprang up like mushrooms along the big curving sandy beach to the north, and in the evening the streets of the newish town are lined with tourist boutiques and restaurants, though within the thick stone walls, the old town – the Vila Vella, in Catalan – is much quieter.

In a small square at the top of a steep cobbled lane stands the medieval building – once the house of the local Abbot – which has been gutted and converted into three light and airy floors full of art which is now the Municipal Museum of Tossa de Mar.

Though called a museum it is in fact much more of an art gallery. The basement has three rooms or so of Roman statues, coins, kitchen utensils and pots and on one wall hangs the big restored mosaic found in a nearby Roman villa. But the two floors above it each contain half a dozen rooms devoted respectively, to the museum’s permanent collection of artists who lived or worked locally; and to a rotating exhibition. When I went, the exhibition was ‘La Forma en Evolució’, works by Josep Martí Sabé.

It’s hardly worth making a pilgrimage to, but on the other hand the entrance fee is only three euros and for that you get a lot more variety and interest than you’d expect. Also, in the blistering heat of a Spanish summer day, it is lovely and air-conditioned!

1. Archaeology

There are some remains from palaeolithical times onwards, but the main display is of Roman remains from the several nearby villas which have been discovered. Coins, broken pots, farm tools and fishing tackle, hairpins and brooches, along with a handful of bigger pieces.

Roman statue, Museo Municipal de Tossa de Mar

Roman statue in Carrara marble, Museo Municipal de Tossa de Mar

A hundred years ago a major Roman villa was discovered and excavated on the outskirts of the present town (just next to the bus station is a fenced-off area clearly showing the ancient walls and floor).

The pride of the archaeological section is the huge recreation of one of the villa’s mosaics.

Restored Roman mosaic, Museo Municipal de Tossa de Mar

Restored Roman mosaic, featuring the name of the villa owner, Vitalis, and the mosaic-maker, Felices. Museo Municipal de Tossa de Mar


2. Josep Martí Sabé – Form in evolution

Jose Marti-Sabé (1915-2006) was a Catalan artist, born and lived at Santa Coloma de Farners about thirty miles inland from Tossa. He trained as a sculptor in Barcelona. To quote the exhibition handout:

In 1950 Marti-Sabé founded, alongside the sculptors J.M. Subirachs Francesc Torres Monsó and the painters Esther Boix, Ricard Creus and Joaquim Datzira, the ‘Postectura’ group. They were influenced by constructivist tendencies and preconised a new humanism. Josep Martí Sabé worked with materials such as stone, cast, iron, and terracotta. Each material allowed him to experience with the plastic qualities and he consolidates the analysis of dualities and oppositions: horizontal and vertical, positive and negative, full and empty.

In practice the thirty or so pieces here show a development from kitsch neo-classical statues of naked women with babies which would have been at home in the state-approved realism of Nazi or Soviet art, through a more stylised soft modernism in wood and bronze, and on to flat metal sculptures reminiscent of Picasso crossed with Giacometti.

Banyistes de Cassi (1954) by Josep Martí Sabé

Banyistes de Cassi (1954) by Josep Martí Sabé

Part of the point is to show his experimentation with materials. This wood carving is very easy on the eye.

Eva (1977) by Josep Martí Sabé

Eva (1977) by Josep Martí Sabé

A couple of pieces in bronze really stand out for the combination Art Deco style faces or bodies, against deliberately rough backgrounds.

Profiles (1979) by Josep Martí Sabé

Profiles (1979) by Josep Martí Sabé

Having spent a few hours in the nearby sea made this shiny bronze of a swimmer all the more relevant.

Nadador ((1975) by Josep Martí Sabé

Nadador (1975) by Josep Martí Sabé

And late in life he experimented with a completely new approach, producing these completely flat, stylised steel cut-outs of people. Note the way the joined heads make the shape of a heart.

Parella (1990) by Josep Martí Sabé

Parella (1990) by Josep Martí Sabé

Not earth shattering but a pleasant break from the nearby beach, and an insight into a little local world of art I’d never heard of. How many thousands of similar artists worked across Europe during the twentieth century, never breaking into the big time but commemorated in local museums and galleries?


3. The permanent collection

Speaking of which, the permanent collection records the fact that by the early 1930s a surprising number of artists were living and working in Tossa, making it a ‘Babel  of Arts’, as a contemporary magazine feature put it. The most famous single artist was Marc Chagall who – allegedly – dubbed Tossa ‘the blue paradise’, and is commemorated by two works.

The Celestial Violinist by Marc Chagall

The Celestial Violinist by Marc Chagall

The oil painting (above) has pride of place, but I preferred the simpler more poignant impact of this print.

Vers l'autre clarté by Marc Chagall

Vers l’autre clarté by Marc Chagall

The handout mentions over 30 artists who lived and worked here and who are represented by at least one piece. Apart from Chagall, I’d never heard of any of them, though that probably reflects my vast ignorance of European art.

Ballerina by Jean Metzinger

Ballerina by Jean Metzinger

It’s a fascinating cross-section of B or C list art from the 1930s, much of it very enjoyable.

Cavaller (1934) by Oscar Zügel

Cavaller (1934) by Oscar Zügel

The big exhibitions I see in London are always of super-famous international stars. The Tossa Museum gives you the opportunity of meeting and savouring much more obscure artists, and enjoying the variety of styles available to 20th century artists.

Moulin Rouge by Eugene Paul

Moulin Rouge by Eugene Paul

Mostly paintings, but some striking sculptures.

Untitled by Manuel Alvarez

Untitled by Manuel Alvarez

I kept returning to this one. I like sketches, works in charcoal, strong lines and cartoons. Ricard Lambi’s Fish market reminded me of sketches by Old Masters. I liked the confident lines and sense of action.

Fish market (1911) by Ricard Lambi

Fish market (1911) by Ricard Lambi

There’s a story behind this statuette of Ava Gardner. In 1950 she arrived in the town along with director Albert Lewin and co-star James Mason to shoot a movie, Pandora and the Flying Dutchman. During her stay Ava made a big impact on the locals for her genuine friendliness and openness. Plenty of the local shops have big posters of Ava, or collages of press and publicity photos. You can buy Ava Gardner memorabilia. In 1998 the Spanish sculptress, Ció Abellí, created a life-size statue of Ava looking out from a small square in the old town onto the beach where she frolics in the movie. This is a small study for the larger work.

Bronze statuette of Ava Gardner (1992) by Cio Abelli

Bronze statuette of Ava Gardner (1992) by Cio Abelli

Beautiful town. Lovely museum.

Related links

Fundació Joan Miró, Barcelona

The Fundació Joan Miró (the Joan Miró Foundation) is a museum of modern art celebrating the life and work of Spanish artist Joan Miró. It is located on the side of the Montjuïc hill south of central Barcelona in Catalonia, eastern Spain. The Foundation is part of the Barcelona Museum Pass or Articket scheme which gives you free entrance to six museums around Barcelona and, importantly, the ability to skip the long queues and walk straight in to any of them, for just 30 Euros (about £30).

Brief history of the Joan Miró Foundation

Miró was a native Barcelonan, born there in 1893. He was world famous by the time he had the idea in the late 1960s to establish a foundation to house a good cross-section of his life’s work as well as act as a research and study centre. With the help of old friends he was able to get the funding and buy some land on the side of the big hill, Montjuïc, a 20-minute walk south of the city’s famous central avenue, the Ramblas – and just round the corner from the ornately Victorian and massive Museum of Catalan Art (which is also in the Articket scheme; the well-organised art buff would make a day of doing both).

The cool white Modernist building which houses the Foundation was designed by Josep Lluís Sert (who also designed Miró’s purpose-built studio at his post-war home in Palma, Majorca). Sert’s large airy whitewashed rooms are the perfect setting for Miró’s light and colourful fantasies.

The Foundation owns some 217 of Miró’s paintings, 178 sculptures, 9 textiles, 4 ceramics, some 8,000 drawings and almost all of his prints. It’s a major venue.

Exterior of the Fundació Joan Miró

Exterior of the Fundació Joan Miró

Five euros buys you a handy audioguide which takes you through the fifteen or so rooms of the permanent collection, and includes photos contemporary with various works as well as thoughtful music to listen to while you contemplate the photos, ranging from Mozart to Stockhausen.

The rooms are in simple chronological order and give a much more complete overview of Miró’s work than the Picasso Museum (which I visited the day before) does of their subject.

Here the early rooms establish that Miró deployed a surprisingly figurative approach well into the post-war period, with many landscapes of the village of Mont-roig (Village and church of Mont-roig, 1919) and portraits, albeit done with a distinctively primitive or naive air.

Portrait of a young girl, 1919

Portrait of a young girl (1919)

Mont-roig was very important to Miro as a talisman of Catalonian peasant life, landscape and authenticity. The village is about 120 kilometers west of Barcelona, along the coast. Miro made hundreds of paintings of the landscape, people and architecture of the village which provided him with a visual vocabulary of shapes, forms and colours and a primitive approach which helped him escape from 19th century academic tradition. Today the village hosts a Miró Centre which the Miró completist should visit.

In the early 1920s Miró moved to Paris and, like so many artists before him, found in the city of light a heady air of invention and intellectual liberation. In 1924 André Breton published the first of many manifestos promoting the new movement of Surrealism. Miró found something particularly liberating about Surrealism’s combination of art and poetry. The works here suggest how extraordinarily quickly he abandoned traditional perspective and realistic depiction of figurative elements and began to experiment with a more abstract approach to line and colour.

The biggest single discovery seems to have been that a modern painting need have no perspective. It doesn’t have to be a window or a box containing things from ‘the real world’ in a ‘realistic’ relationship. There are roughly two steps in his development: In the earlier Surreal works Miró explores how objects from ‘the real world’ can be portrayed out of any context or perspective – very much the kind of random combinations which Surrealism favoured (though always in French, obviously). The wine bottle and fly are still identifiable in this transitional work.

The bottle of wine (1924)

The bottle of wine (1924)

The next stage was to realise that any shapes or marks or patterns can be presented against this undifferentiated background. Playing with any size or shape of line and experimenting with the effect produced by filling these abstract shapes with primary colours opens up a completely new world.

With one bound, his imagination was set free!

Painting (1933)

Painting (1933)

Are these people? Bodies? Moving or still? Full of anger or harmony?

What are the key elements of a Miró painting?

  • a flat wash background
  • black lines creating shapes and patterns
  • some of which are filled with blocks of unshaded primary colour, very often yellow, red or blue
  • Some of the shapes have individual lines or tufts of lines which look like hairs
  • Some of the shapes have what look like eyes which turn them into faces; probably
  • there are often star or moon-shaped figures.

It’s amazing that elements which can be described so simply turn out to be capable of generating such a vast array of combinations and variations. One room in fact contains a suite of variations, 27 drawings which play with these basic elements in a bewildering profusion of possibilities.

Also, you wouldn’t have thought such a basic approach would be capable of development, but it really is. The early Surreal works have a feel of their own, with their semi-cubist use of cafe paraphernalia (wine bottles). Some of the works from the 1930s lean towards the smooth melting surfaces of Salvador Dali. Some of the more mature works are blocky, like Painting, above. But by the 1940s and 50s he has settled on using a much thinner line, frail spindly black lines against a solid wash of primary colour, either creating closed shapes which are filled with primary red, yellow or blue, or dangle by themselves to create a kind of trailing fishing-line effect, or are self-contained objects forming child-like stars or crescent moons – as below.

The single most distinctive element is the hand-held, imperfect, spindly wavering quality of the lines. Compare and contrast with the mathematically precise shapes of contemporary Modernists like Kandinsky or Mondrian. There are hardly any dead straight lines to be seen – instead there is always a hand-drawn, child-like air to almost all of Miró’s work.

The museum nods towards Miró’s work in other formats. He experimented with fabrics and commissioned this monster tapestry, which is displayed alongside photos detailing its creation by a team of weavers.

Tapestry of the Fundació, 1979

Tapestry of the Fundació (1979)

The building is also dotted, inside and outside (in the attractive gardens and around the terraces of the building) with sculptures. Miró’s sculptures stand out from most modern sculpture because of their gaudy colours – most modern sculpture rejoices in the coarse heaviness of steel or bronze or stone; our man likes the bright primary colours of his paintings. It is odd but striking that none of the sculptures, entertaining though they are, have the same visceral impact as the shapes on a flat surface of the paintings.

Pair of lovers playing with almond blossoms (model for the sculptural group at La Défense, Paris) 1975

Pair of lovers playing with almond blossoms (model for the sculptural group at La Défense, Paris) 1975

Miró finally managed to take a long-dreamed-of trip to Japan in the 1960s where he met Japanese artists who gave him a feel for the Japanese art of calligraphy (and also the use of long, narrow canvases echoing the shape of traditional Japanese scrolls).

Calligraphy uses traditional wide brushes to paint rather thick black lines whose imperfections – where you can see the flaws and rasps in the stroke – testify to their authenticity. His later work can be seen as experiments with different sizes (and shapes) of hand-drawn lines in a generally much-pared-back approach, which has moved a long way on from the hectic, shape-filled works of the 1930s.

Two thick calligraphic brushstrokes in effect create this work, although set off by one of his trademark stars and a few blots and rasps.

Drop of water on pink snow (1968)

Drop of water on pink snow (1968)

The ‘thick brush’ approach contrasts vividly with experiments in the opposite – seeing just how much you can say with one simple slender line.

The climax of this approach can be seen in several rooms (which are in fact more like alcoves of just three walls, the fourth being open so you can walk in and out) in which are hung several of Miró’s modern triptychs. These consist of sets of three massive canvases which display experimental variations on really pared-down patterns or designs, and which date from the 1960s.

The simplest set consists of three massive white canvases each of which bears just one thin line. It’s difficult to convey how powerful, how just right, these seem. The audioguide mentions the influence of Japanese Zen philosophy – Less is more. Simplicity. Silence.

Painting on white background for the cell of a recluse (II) (1968)

Painting on white background for the cell of a recluse (II) (1968)

The next alcove along contains another triptych which plays with rather more elements than just a line, exploring the idea of a coloured blotch set off against a curved but open line, with a field of paint splatters along the bottom forming a sort of ‘shore’ or fringe.

The hope of a condemned man II (1974)

The hope of a condemned man II (1974)

Why do they work? What is it that feels not only restful and calming about them, but so right. I would pay good money to read an analysis of his art by whichever type of scientist it is that researches the science of perception, the psychology of vision, why it is that some colours, arrangements, shapes and patterns are pleasing to the eye, feel ‘right’, go deep into our pleasure centres.

Obviously there’s a lot to be written about Miró’s biography and career, his love-hate relationship with the Surrealists who never quite accepted this quiet Spanish bourgeois, about his take on their use and abuse of Freudian theories, and then on the disruptive and demoralising impact of the Spanish Civil War and the Second World War, as well as considerations of Miró’s personal psychological profile. (He was striving for an art which brought calm and peace and contentment to a mind which was often, by his own account, anxious and depressed – ‘Surrealism opened up a universe that soothed and justified my torment’.) But I am concentrating on the impact his works have on the viewer.

Also I was a little dismayed to be told by the audioguide just how many of the apparently abstract figures in the paintings were actually depictions of men and women and moon and stars and ladders and oceans, along with a fairly obvious analysis of what these symbols mean (the ladder motif appears in lots of works and represents escape from the violent or mundane world into a higher sphere of art and poetry etc).

I preferred to close my mind and drift among the shapes and colours in much the same way as you can lie on your back and float for hours in the warm, lulling Mediterranean Sea.

The gold of the azure (1967)

The gold of the azure (1967)

If you only have time for one museum in Barcelona, this one is much better, gives a much more comprehensive overview of its subject and contains many more wonderful paintings, than the more popular but patchy Picasso Museum.

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The Heath Robinson Museum, Pinner

The Heath Robinson Museum in Pinner Park, an easy 5-minute walk from Pinner Tube station up the Metropolitan Line, is an unalloyed joy and delight.

The Museum opened in October 2016 and houses some 1,000 artworks by this brilliant and prolific artist, cartoonist and illustrator. Not only is the collection a thing of joy and wonder, but the museum is sited next to an open-air cafe which serves yummy food, both set beside a tree-lined lake in the picturesque Pinner Memorial Gardens. It is a perfect Sunday outing.

The Heath Robinson Museum (right) next to Daisy's In The Park cafe (left)

The Heath Robinson Museum (right) next to Daisy’s In The Park cafe (left)

Why Pinner? Because Heath Robinson moved here with his young family in 1908, doing much of his best work at a house in nearby Moss Lane, where he is now commemorated by a blue plaque.

Museum layout

The Heath Robinson museum in fact consists of just one main display room but it is an education in itself to witness just how much information can be conveyed in one room. The most interesting feature is the way his life and career is told on a continuous strip extending right round the room at waist height, and undulating and curving a bit like a solidified scroll. This tells HR’s full life story with explanations of key aspects of his career. Some pictures are embedded in the scroll, while above, at head height, is a series of black and white prints, and then over our heads hang a sequence of really large full-colour, poster-size illustrations.

The Heath Robinson Museum showing the waist-level information shelf, mid-height prints, and high-up posters, plus the model contraptions in the middle

The Heath Robinson Museum showing the waist-level information shelf running round the wall, the mid-height prints, and the high-up colour posters, plus the model contraptions in the middle

There’s an audio guide or commentary. Just tap it against the symbol next to a relevant illustration and it gives a bit of commentary and opinion about it.

And in the centre of the room are some entertaining models of some Heath Robinson contraptions. So although it’s only one room it takes a good 30 to 40 minutes to go round reading everything and looking at everything (and laughing out loud).

Potted biography

William Heath Robinson was born in Finsbury Park in 1872 into a family of artists. His father was an illustrator for newspapers and magazines, and William and his brothers used to copy him as well as drawing things in the family garden and nearby park. Eventually all three brothers became illustrators.

William hankered to be a landscape artist and landscapes remained his first love, but a man needs to eat and, through contacts of his father and brothers, he quickly found work which rewarded his stunning draughtsmanship and eye for detail. From the turn of the century he provided lavish colour illustrations to editions of children’s classics such as Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales and Legends (1897), The Arabian Nights (1899), Tales from Shakespeare (1902), Gargantua and Pantagruel (1904), Twelfth Night (1908), A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1914) and The Water-Babies (1915). Several of these titles are available in the Museum bookshop as luxurious hardback editions.

'So full of shapes is fancy' (Twelfth Night) by William Heath Robinson

‘So full of shapes is fancy’ – Twelfth Night (1908) by William Heath Robinson

The most amazing thing about this picture is that it’s set during the day. The topmost part of the facade opposite is in full daylight – so this isn’t a night-time scene, as the dim darkness suggests – it’s a beautifully poetic evocation of daytime shadow.

In 1909 Heath Robinson was commissioned to illustrate Kipling’s multi-part poem, A Song of the English, written to convey the far-flung nature of the British Empire and the heroism of the men, in particular the sailors, who toiled to preserve it. The pen and watercolour illustrations are quite dazzlingly brilliant.

It’s startling that a man capable of such powerfully visionary pictures could also write and illustrate a children’s book of his own, The Adventures of Uncle Lubin (1902). This is the strange tale of a man who falls asleep minding his baby by a brook only for it to be stolen by the ‘bag-bird’, resulting in a series of adventures to remote picturesque locations like Arabia or the Arctic to try and find the missing babe. Uncle Lubin features in a number of images here, including large poster-size versions of Lubin flying in a typically fraying-string and hand-made balloon.

The Aeronaut from The Adventures of Uncle Lubin (1902) by William Heath Robinson

The Aeronaut from The Adventures of Uncle Lubin (1902) by William Heath Robinson

Contraptions and gadgets

In fact, Uncle Lubin is sometimes regarded as the start of HR’s career in the depiction of unlikely machines – the enormous range of illustrations and cartoon of complicated hand-made contraptions featuring ropes and pulleys, levers and handles, and incongruous household elements like umbrellas and kettles, absurdly and unnecessarily complicated devices erected to carry out incongruously simple or far-fetched activities. It is the mind-boggling array of such devices which gave the language the adjective ‘Heath Robinson’ which can be applied to any absurdly complex and jerry-rigged contraption.

'Stout members of the sixth column dislodge an enemy machine gun post on the dome of St Paul's' by William Heath Robinson

Stout members of the sixth column dislodge an enemy machine gun post on the dome of St Paul’s by William Heath Robinson

Heath Robinson realised that the contraptions are funnier, the more seriously they are taken. Therefore every element of every device is imagined down to the tiniest pulley and knotted string, and all of the army of technicians and engineers and soldiers and scientists are going about their business with the utmost seriousness. He said that the viewer has to believe in the subject as seriously as the characters themselves.

Deceiving the Invader by William Heath Robinson

Deceiving the invader as to the state of the tide by William Heath Robinson

Two World Wars

The market for top end, luxury, lavishly colour-illustrated books dried up with the advent of the Great War. Heath Robinson had been providing comic cartoons for a variety of publications and, when war broke out, began a stream of humorous cartoons satirising the enemy in three books – Some ‘Frightful’ War Pictures (1915), Hunlikely! (1916) and The Saintly Hun: a book of German virtues (1917). All three volumes are collected into one book, available in the bookshop.

Twenty years later, the saintly Hun was back again and Heath Robinson produced another set of war cartoons, this time noticeably satirising official British war efforts. As the commentary points out, maybe the Nazis were just too unspeakable to laugh about.

The war was of course a period of rationing and austerity, with everyone being encouraged to ‘make do and mend’, not throw anything away, but patch and fix things. There’s an obvious link between the increasingly home-made, amateur DIY which the whole population was forced towards, and the relevance and popularity of Heath Robinson’s cracked contraptions.

A warm welcome for every parachutist by William Heath Robinson

A warm welcome for every parachutist by William Heath Robinson

Cartoons

After the Great War the early lavish illustrations gave way to a flood of humorous drawings for magazines and advertisements. In 1934 he published a collection of his favourites as Absurdities. For example:

You could go a bit heavy and wonder if this between-the-wars interest in absurdity echoes and anticipates the French existentialist emphasis on the absurdity and futility of human existence. The French had Jean-Paul Sartre and the Resistance; we had Heath Robinson and Dad’s Army; the Nazis had the Horst Wessel Song; we had Noel Coward and comic songs like Don’t Let’s Be Beastly To The Germans.

The intellectual summer holiday reminded me of my recent visit to the Wolfgang Tillsman exhibition at Tate Modern, where everyone had their heads stuck in the exhibition pamphlet. Works like Testing teeth typify his deployment of massed ranks of managers and technicians, scientists and supervisors, to give the joke machinery added solemnity and pomposity. They remind me a lot of the government departments where I’ve worked.

Designs for living

The 1930s saw the first big wave of self-improvement books and guides and manuals. Only recently at the British Museum exhibition of landscape watercolours, I was reminded of the Shell guides, written by poets and writers of the day and illustrated by leading artists, which were designed to get the reading public motoring off into the country to explore the counties of England, or pulling on their hiking boots and setting off a-rambling.

It was in this climate that Heath Robinson was paired up with the humourist K.R.G. Browne to illustrate a brilliant series of ‘how to’ books – How to live in a flat (1936), How to be a perfect husband (1937), How to make a garden grow (1938), poking fun at new trends and fashions for ‘modern living’.

Romantic possibilities in modern flats by William Heath Robinson

Romantic possibilities in modern flats (1936) by William Heath Robinson

In 1933 Heath Robinson did his marvellous cartoon illustrations for the first of the Professor Branestawm books written by Norman Hunter – The Incredible Adventures of Professor Branestawm – which I read and loved as a boy.

Adverts and commercial work

It is also striking to learn that Heath Robinson provided illustrations, straight or comic, for some 100 commercial products, several of which are included here, notably his cartoon-style ads for Hovis bread and some of the humorous illustrations he did for the leather-making firm of Connolly Brothers.

Heath Robinson’s watercolours

But the aspect of his work which I wasn’t expecting and which crept slowly up on me as I walked round, was the strength and power of his more serious work – the early Shakespeare and literary illustrations, for sure, but also the really stunning watercolours and landscapes which he produced throughout his life.

Eastern Market Scene by William Heath Robinson

Eastern Market Scene, watercolour by William Heath Robinson

The commentary explains that, quite separately from his commercial work, Heath Robinson continued to paint landscapes in his spare time – sometimes pure pastoral, sometimes with whimsical fairies and goblins, sometimes with more spiritual-looking Greek or idealised human figures ghosting through them.

Girl on a riverbank by William Heath Robinson

Girl on a riverbank, watercolour by William Heath Robinson

The cartoons are often very, very funny, all the funnier the more carefully you follow through their ludicrously intricate machinery. But some of these watercolours and spiritualised landscapes are masterpieces in a completely different mood – brilliantly evocative and powerful, strange and haunting.

The commentary points out that Heath Robinson made careful use of deliberately limited tone and palette – the washes come from the same colour base i.e. almost all greens in the watercolour above, variations on blue in the Twelfth Night illustration at the top of this post, more greens in the landscape below. An almost Japanese sense of the unity and harmoniousness of the colours creates a wonderfully dreamlike impression.

Landscape with tall tree and haystack by William Heath Robinson

Landscape with tall tree and haystack, watercolour by William Heath Robinson

As you soak up Heath Robinson’s command of watercolour and the tonal unity of these works, it makes you appreciate all the more how he combined this colour control with the immaculate draughtsmanship so obvious in the cartoons to produce a synthesis – wonderful tonal harmony controlled by breath-taking design – in the best of his fairy, Shakespeare and literary illustrations. And makes you go back to marvel at them all over again.

And, as the exhibition shows, this incredibly diverse artist could also use the same combination in another flavour or style or ‘voice’ altogether – away from the fantastical fairy world, in a style which depicts the modern world with no comic intent but with the same breath-taking linesmanship and colour harmony to create a wonderful sense of warmth and friendliness.

Heath Robinson’s art is at home in the world and makes the viewer, also, feel profoundly, safely at home.

What a really great artist, a brilliant illustrator, a hilarious cartoonist, and a wonderfully evocative watercolourist. This is an absolute treat of a museum!

Credit

All Heath Robinson images reproduced with kind permission of the William Heath Robinson Trust and © The William Heath Robinson Trust.


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Paul Nash @ Tate Britain

The nine rooms in this show comprise a major exhibition of the life’s work of the painter, illustrator, sculptor, photographer and art critic, Paul Nash. The show proceeds in simple chronological order and, as well as oil paintings and watercolours, includes display cases containing letters, photographs, magazine articles, book illustrations, collages and sculptures, as well as two rooms putting his work into the context of contemporaries and collaborators. It is a comprehensive overview of a much-loved English artist.

Mysterious landscapes

Nash was born in 1889. He spent his early life in Iver Heath in what was then rural Buckinghamshire and early on developed a special feel for the modest highlights of the Home Counties landscape. He felt trees so powerfully that he thought they had almost human personalities – he depicted a particular stand of three trees near his home again and again, in different lights – and he was much taken with nightscapes and the moon and mysterious winged figures. He wrote poems and illustrated them in the manner of William Blake or Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Room 1 is dedicated to these, many of which felt childish and immature to me.

The great exception is a watercolour of Wittenham Clumps, in Oxfordshire, one of the oldest planted stands of beech trees in England, set atop an Iron Age fort. It is, in fact, only a very gently sloping hill, but in these pictures you can see his interest in pattern and linear shapes emerging from his not particularly accurate landscape technique.

The Great War

Nash was 24 when the Great War broke out. He was called up but not actually sent to France until 1917, when he saw the devastated landscape left after the Third Battle of Ypres, also known as Passchendaele. For such a sensitive man, so in tune with the special meaning of natural landscape, the war was a terrible blasphemy. He wrote blistering attacks on the war leaders in letters to his wife (on display here).

‘I am no longer an artist interested and curious, I am a messenger who will bring back
word from men who are fighting to those who want the war to go forever. Feeble,
inarticulate, will be my message, but it will have a bitter truth, and may it burn their
lousy souls.’

In terms of technique, the war inspired him to start using oil (as opposed to his previous light watercolours) and speeded his tendency to find simplified geometric shapes in landscape.

Spring in the Trenches, Ridge Wood 1917 by Paul Nash (1917) Imperial War Museum, London © Tate

Spring in the Trenches, Ridge Wood 1917 by Paul Nash (1917) Imperial War Museum, London © Tate

He was always poor at depicting the human figure. Not many appear in the early watercolours, and the few soldiers in the war paintings are weak compared to the soldiers of C.R.W. Nevinson or Wyndham Lewis or John Singer Sargent or William Orpen. His most famous war painting contains no humans – the shattered tree stumps represent the countless blighted lives – and highlights the new more abstract vision.

Vying with it is Menin Road 1917, in which the soldier figures have successfully blended with the design, appearing as just another set of angled lines in a composition dominated by verticals and diagonals.

Nash began his career as an illustrator and a display case here shows the pen-and-ink illustrations he did for a book of poetry by war novelist Richard Aldington. These are cleaner and sparer than the big oil paintings. I’m a sucker for strong outlines and silhouettes, so I really like them.

The 1920s

Nash emerged unharmed from the war and came back to live in a succession of rural locations. His paintings reflect pastoral views at Whiteleaf in Buckinghamshire or Dymchurch in Kent, but now done in an unapologetically modernist style.

I’ve always liked the Dymchurch paintings. They have a peculiar understated ominousness about them. Now I learn from the audio-commentary that shortly after moving there in 1924 Nash had a nervous breakdown, probably a delayed reaction to the war.

He has converted the ungainliness which characterises all his work into Unease. They are English landscapes, southern English landscapes, with the flatness and homeyness and boredom that implies but with… edge, disquiet, pregnant with some unspoken meaning…

Discovering de Chirico

In 1928 Nash visited an exhibition of works by Giorgio de Chirico, an Italian artist more or less his contemporary. De Chirico’s empty piazzas and abstract architecture had, by  his own admission, a dramatic impact on him. Nash wrote a lot about his own practice and phrases like ‘the power of abandoned objects’, ‘dreamlike ominousness’ and ‘isolated architectural elements’ begin to enter his prose.

Some of these paintings look Mediterranean, as if Nash has swallowed de Chirico whole. Others are still set in the English landscape but now seen in a completely new way, where isolated objects somehow bring out meanings which were always latent but not expressed in ‘reality’.

Nash trained as an illustrator, was at one time art critic for the Listener and became an avid photographer, as well as designing fabrics and china, so he had many strings to his bow. He was also involved in set design for contemporary theatre and some of the post-de Chirico works take his existing interest in the geometric aspect of landscape and add a new element, imposing frames within the frame to create angles and perspectives and plonking down abstract features in landscape as if they’re stage sets incongruously abandoned in a field or wood.

Unit One

In 1933 he joined forces with a host of other modern British artists to create ‘Unit One’, a movement he helped publicise. They held an exhibition which went on tour round the country in 1934 and 35. The exhibition devotes a room to Unit One and it is very useful to see works by other artists alongside Nash, very illuminating, clarifying what visual elements he shared with his contemporaries and what made him different. Works on display include:

I realised what all his peers have in common is that their works are very finished, with sharp lines, smooth paint surfaces or – in sculpture – the smoothly modelled shapes of Moore and Hepworth. By contrast, most of the half dozen or so works in this room by Nash seemed rough and scrappy, on canvas where you can often see the fabric of the canvas showing through the oil, where colours deliberately don’t go up to the edge of others colours, leaving canvas showing through, and where the oil is applied with thick strokes which are visible from even a few yards away. This scrappiness and lack of finish is really obvious in a work like Pillar and moon (1932) but it’s present in all his work, something photographic reproductions smooth out but which seeing them in real life makes really apparent.

This patchiness extends to entire compositions, which are clearly not interested in either crispness of outline or really pure, mathematical geometry. Although they make an impact, I don’t really like them, they make me feel uneasy.

Although they’re obviously landscapes and presumably come out of Nash’s lifelong numinous sense of place and nature, they actually remind me of early Francis Bacon in the sense of lumpish unhappiness they convey.

Alongside these blotchy works, Nash had another style which was much more precise and seems to stem from his training in graphic illustration. From his flat in St Pancras he looked out onto an advertising hoarding kept in place by multiple struts. Combine this with the strong de Chirico influence and you get images which are interested in line and intersection (like the window frames used in ‘Month of March’):

The background is pure de Chirico, no?

Swanage

In 1934 Nash moved to Swanage in Dorset. His wife gave him a camera. And he met the artist Eileen Agar. The result was an explosion of activity recorded in a fascinating room containing scores of works by both artists. As surrealism took hold of his imagination he became fascinated by the juxtaposition of objects found along the seashore and then, by extension, anywhere.

As the audio-commentary points out, the sea, in itself, is a surrealist work – an improbable realisation of our weirdest dreams, and the evocative driftwood, stones, fossils and human detritus it washes up are ready-made objects which only need to be placed on pedestals to become works of art.

He and Agar photographed incongruous objects placed together, experimented with photo-collage, made reliefs and sculptures and assemblages – boxes containing mixed media, seashells, driftwood, stones, eggs, fabric. In fact, as with the Unit One room, I was more taken by the non-Nash – in this case Agar’s – work than by Nash’s. For me her stuff has a crispness and sharpness which contrasts with his vaguer, unfinished feel.

Eileen Agar in Swanage

It amused me that, like so many women artists, Agar was interested in depicting her own naked body. But – like so many woman artists – only when she was young and nubile.

Nash got some of Agar’s pieces into the landmark 1936 exhibition of Surrealist art in London, making her the only woman artist represented.

Nash in Swanage

One of the many display cases has a magazine open at an article by Nash entitled ‘Swanage or Seaside Surrealism’. This title somehow captures the slightly amateurish modernism of these suburban surrealists, a slightly shamefaced English provincialism which has more in common with Philip Larkin’s down-at-heel Hull than Louis Aragon’s glamorous Paris.

The surreal landscape

The Swanage experiments helped crystallise the Surrealist message that one or two carefully placed objects somehow bring out features of a landscape, which are otherwise left implicit and unobserved.

As usual I felt there was a big difference between the deliberately unfinished feel of most of these works and his other style, which is much more rectilinear and complete and – to me, as a fan of clean lines and sharp draughtsmanship – more immediately enjoyable. Such as:

Equivalents for the Megaliths by Paul Nash (1935) © Tate

Equivalents for the Megaliths by Paul Nash (1935) © Tate

The Surrealist exhibition 1936

Nash was one of the curators of the 1936 Surrealist Exhibition in London, which caused a sensation and aligned him in the public mind with the movement. All his influences came together in a series of works in which mysterious objects, sometimes with stage set framings, appear in otherwise placid landscapes. What do they mean? The most famous is Landscape from a dream.

Landscape from a Dream by Paul Nash (1936-8) © Tate

Landscape from a Dream by Paul Nash (1936-8) © Tate

The Second World War

And then – war again. Nash was invited to be a war artist. The Ministry wanted him to depict our heroic pilots in their gleaming Spitfires – but Nash found himself attracted to the wrecks of airplanes – German fighters and bombers, so cruelly yanked out of their element, their mangled metal wreckage looking like so many of the found objects he had been studying and creating over the previous decade.

The war was Surrealism come true. Many of the works here are watercolours again, showing the same lightness as the early Wittenham Clumps watercolour back in 1912.

Near his home in Oxford was a vast dump of wrecked German planes, the Cowley Dump. The exhibition features many b&w photos Nash took of the wrecked masters of the sky, and includes b&w film footage of our hero looking out over the vista of twisted metal. The result was what is often regarded as one of his masterpieces, Totes Meer (German for ‘dead sea’).

By this stage, after looking closely at 50 or 60 paintings by Nash I had developed a feel for what I liked and what I didn’t, and to my surprise I’d come to dislike paintings like this and prefer the more geometric works. Thus I find the arrangement of elements in the equally famous Battle of Britain (not included in the exhibition, for some reason) much more pleasing.

Last works

Nash only lived a year after the war, dying in 1946 at the early age of 56 from the complications of the asthma which had dogged him with ill health for much of his life. In these final years he returned to landscapes but now pregnant with obscure symbolism. The final room includes several of the series of works he painted which feature enormous sunflowers – a symbol of life when in its prime or, when dead and dessicated, of mortality.

Artists’ last works often reveal new knowledge; they have achieved everything and feel liberated to say what they want. According to the audio-commentary, the Queen Mother liked Landscape of the vernal equinox enough to buy it. She is quoted as saying you can almost imagine an animal or spirit emerging from the woods.

Thoughts:

1. Right to the end he keeps the scrappiness I noticed in room 2 or 3, in fact it is exaggerated, with white gaps between areas of paint forming holes in thickly covered paint through which something – what? – might emerge…

2. No people: early on he realised people weren’t his thing and so hardly any of his paintings, after a few war ones, feature them – the humans are implied by the objects, in the collocations of objects and landscapes from the 1930s, in increasingly subtle, complex and mystifying ways.

3. Pink-peach-apricot: a lot of these last works feature variations on apricot or peach colours, applied to skies, sometimes to other objects, even to shadows. As I strolled back through the show I realised this unreal peach-apricot crops up throughout the work from the beginning – for example, it’s there (improbably enough) in the wartime setting of Spring in the trenches, or in the 1930s surrealism of Landscape from a dream. 

In some way I can’t quite define I think that if you like Landscape of the vernal equinox, its patchy design, blotchy paintwork and apricot coloration – I think you will have penetrated Paul Nash’s mystery.

In these last works I can sort of see it, but I don’t quite get it. Why did he paint giant magnolias in the sky in his final paintings? I think it takes time to feel your way into Nash’s world, and this big thorough exhibition is an excellent place to begin…


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