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Artists who use language
in their artwork usually come from
a tradition of conceptual art. Long time Fluxus artist Ben Vautier, who is
known as Ben, uses text and language as his work. He currently has a
retrospective of his artworks at the MAC Lyon. Here, Ben will be rediscovered
by a new generation of artists, and I believe his influence will be profound.
His wit and irony are powerful. I think if Ben had been of a later generation
he would be a street artist scrawling his text on the sides of buildings and
under bridges. (Please Ben, that
was not a challenge or even a suggestion; I think you a great artist just as
you are.) In this issue of TAS, we have
Ben’s longtime friend Michel Batlle in conversation with him, two bad boy
artists enjoying their banter, as fresh as when it was originally published in
French. David Humphrey is also an artist who writes and who, you
could say, is also a bad boy. But his text takes the form of a book about art
rather than constituting the art itself, though he does see the two things as
closely connected as Alexi Worth, a fellow artist, observes in his introduction
to our selection from Humphrey’s book Blind Handshake, which
is a collection of essays that all take other people’s art as their starting
point. In this month’s TAS
you can hear, as well as read Humphrey’s essay
“Describable Beauty.” His paintings are delicious counterparts to his writing.
They can be seen at Sikkema Jenkins in New York City and Solomon Projects
in Atlanta. You can find his book on Amazon, but this you knew already. And I am happy to publish an essay by Anna Leung, also an
artist who has become an art writer, who writes about a very bad boy artist,
Ashille Gorky. Leung saw his magnificent retrospective at the Tate Modern; it
is now at LA MOCA through September 20, 2010. For me, he is a quintessential
twentieth-century artist, and his works speaks loudly and clearly to me every
time I see it. Welcome to the beginning of the 4th year of TAS. Best, Deanna
David Humphrey in the studio. Blind Handshake To stand next to David Humphrey at an opening is to hear
an accelerating fusillade of choice anecdotes, movies tie-ins, literary
allusions, and sly judgments, often prefaced with a laughing, personalized
invitation: “Wait—you are going to love this.” Humphrey’s art talk, in other words, is special—in
being
more ambitious, excitable, funny, and unapologetically book-fed than other
artists’. When Humphrey began writing, around 1990, Theory was king.
In New York, young artists either parroted the righteous pedantic ideas they
had skimmed in October magazine, or felt truculent and cowed. In the regular
column he began writing for LA’s Art issues, Humphrey set out to write the kind
of criticism he wanted to read. He would pick three shows, not necessarily the
ones he liked best, but ones from which he thought he could tease “a little
thematic arc.” Each column, in other words, would be both an idea talk and a
gallery walk. Above all, Humphrey wanted to keep in mind the way artists speak
in one another’s studios. During studio visits, pronouncements come last, if at
all. Typically, the visitor talks as he looks, cataloguing impressions, making
distinctions, parsing tone. The aim is to offer the host artist a kind of
constructive, synthesizing attentiveness. That’s the essence of Humphrey’s
writing. His
voice has the animated, collegial spirit of a studio visitor. He has a great,
greedy, omnivorous eye, and he loves registering what it sees. He moves eagerly
from general observations back to description. He quotes readily from whatever
he’s reading. His allusions feel impulsive—they are offered, not insisted upon.
A major hallmark of periodical criticism—the dutiful mapping out of influence,
debts, and stylistic affiliation—Humphrey largely avoids. An even bigger
omission: Humphrey doesn’t give grades. He simply drops the whole PR apparatus
of artworld status. You will never read him say that X is among the greatest
artists of his generation. Censure, the mainstay of nervous and cocksure
critics alike, is likewise absent. Only a few stray words, delivered with no
special emphasis, hint at what the writer might say if he were asked to buy,
say an Odd Nerdrum painting. In
Humphrey’s patience and flexibility, you can feel his freedom—the permission
given by the fact that reviewing was always a sideline. “This wasn’t writing,” Humphrey
remembers telling himself. “This was just studio practice put into words.” David Humphrey, Blind Handshake (2009). Book Cover.
Describable
Beauty by David Humphrey One of the
inglorious reasons I became an artist was to avoid writing, which, thanks to my
parents and public school, I associated with odious authoritarian demands. I
found the language of painting, in spite of all its accumulated historical and
institutional status, happily able to speak outside those constraints. Of
course language and writing shade even mute acts of looking. The longer and
more developed my involvement with painting became, the more reading and
writing freed themselves from a stupid superego. Writing about art could be an
extension of making it. But there persists in me a lingering desire to make paintings
that resist description, that play with what has trouble being named. I was recently
asked to speak on a panel about beauty in contemporary art and found myself in
the analogous position of speaking about something that I would prefer resisted
description. Describing beauty is like the humorlessness of explaining a joke.
It kills the intensity and surprise intrinsic to the experience. I found,
however, that descriptions can have more importance than I originally thought.
The rhetorical demands of defining beauty often lead to ingenious
contradictions or sly paradoxes. It's amazing how adaptable the word is to
whatever adjective you put before it: radiant, narcotic, poisonous, tasteless,
scandalous; shameless, fortuitous, necessary, forgetful, or stupid beauty. I
think artists have the power to make those proliferating adjectives convincing
based on what Henry James called the viewer’s “conscious and cultivated
credulity.” A description can have the power to prospectively modify
experience. To describe or name a previously unacknowledged beauty can amplify
its possibility in the future for others; it can dilate the horizon of beauty
and hopefully of the imaginable. To assume that experience is shaped by the
evolution of our ingenious and unlikely metaphors is also helpful to artists;
it can enhance our motivation and cultivate enabling operational fictions, like
freedom and power. We are provided another reason to thicken the dark privacy
of feeling into art. Loving claims
are frequently made for beauty’s irreducibility, its untranslatability, its
radical incoherence. André Breton rhapsodized that “convulsive beauty will be
veiled erotic, fixed explosive, magical circumstantial or will not be.” Henry
James defined the beautiful less ardently as “the close, the curious, the
deep.” I think that to consider beauty as the history of its descriptions is to
infuse it with a dynamic plastic life; it is to understand beauty as something
that is reinvented over and over, that needs to be invented within each person
and group. Beauty’s problem
is usually the uses to which it is put. Conservatives use beauty as a club to
beat contemporary art with.
Its so-called indescribability and position at a hierarchical zenith makes
beauty an unassailable standard to which nothing ever measures up. This
indescribability, however, is underwritten by a rich tangle of ambiguities and
paradoxes. For critics more to the left, beauty is a word deemed wet with the
salesman's saliva. They see it used to flatter complacency and reinforce the
existing order of things. Beauty is here described as distracting people from
their alienated and exploited condition and encouraging a withdrawal from
engagement. This account ignores the disturbing potential of beauty. Even
familiar forms of beauty can remind us of the fallen existence we have come to
accept. When beauty stops us in our tracks, the aftershock triggers
reevaluations of everything we have labored to attain. Finding beauty where one
didn't expect it, as if it had been waiting to be discovered, is another common
description. Beauty’s sense of otherness demands, for some, that it be
understood as universal or transcendent; something more than subjective.
Periodic attempts are made to isolate a deep structural component of beauty;
articulated by representations of golden sections, Fibonacci series, and other
images of proportion, harmony and measure; a boiled-down beauty. Even in the most
unexpected encounters with the beautiful, however, there coexists some
component of déjà vu or strange familiarity. To call that experience universal
or transcendent performs a ritual act of devotion. It protects the preciousness
of one’s beauty experience in a shell of coherence. I think there are strong
arguments for beauty’s historical and cultural breadth based in our neural and
biologically evolved relation to the world, but arguments for artistic
practices built on that foundation often flatten the peculiar and specific
details that give artworks their life. The universalizing description also
overlooks the work’s character as a rhetorical object, subject to unanticipated
uses within the culture. It draws people toward clichés and reductive
stereotypes that are then rationalized as truths and archetypes. If I have any
use for the idea of beauty, it would be in its troubling aspect. I was describing
to a friend my mother’s occasional fits of oceanic rage during my childhood,
and she told me I should approach beauty from that angle. Like mothers, I
suppose, beauty can be both a promise and a threat. All roads eventually lead
back to family matters. Perhaps this path to beauty begins to slant toward the
sublime; to that earliest state of relatively blurred boundaries between one's
barely constituted self and the tenuously attentive environment. Attendant
experiences of misrecognition, identification, alienation, and aggressivity
during early ego development become components of the beauty experience. The
dissolving of identity, the discovery of unconscious material in the real, a
thralldom of the senses underwritten by anxiety, are a few of my favorite
things. If there is a useful rehabilitation of beauty in contemporary art, I
think it would be to understand it as an activity, a making and unmaking
according to associative or inventive processes. Beauty would reflect the
marvelous plasticity and adaptability of the brain. I'm tempted to
go against the artist in me that argues against words and throw a definition
into the black hole of beauty definitions; that beauty is psychedelic, a
derangement of recognition, a flash of insight or pulse of laughter out of a
tangle of sensation; analogic or magical thinking embedded in the ranging
iconography of desire. But any definition of beauty risks killing the thing it
loves. 1996
David Humphrey is a New York artist represented by Sikkema Jenkins & Co., New York and Solomon
Projects, Atlanta. |
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Michel Batlle—The “new” has
been kicked in the head pretty
badly these past three decades with the re-emergences of neo-classicism,
abstraction, minimalism, and all the remixes of the 1950s, 60s, and 70s! How can there be new avant-gardes today, by
which I mean
true ruptures with the status quo? Ben—You’re
the one who says that the “new” has been kicked
in the head! It may be that all of these returns to the past result from
self-examination by the “new,” which refuses to be reduced to a gimmick; maybe
it is the new itself that is urgently reopening the question of the new. In any case, the new is essential; it is the
keystone of
art. What if the new is always around us, like the air we breathe? But this new would not be predictable; if it
were
predictable, it wouldn’t be new anymore! In the 1900s, when both painting and the notion
of beauty
were codified by representation, the “new” consisted in refusing
representation, and we got Duchamp. Today, now that painting and beauty are
codified by the “anything goes” attitude that resulted from post-Duchampian
gimmickry, perhaps the new consists of repeating the past, as you mentioned,
but with a different attitude. M.B.—Do artistic avant-gardes predict
social change? Ben—I would say
rather that they accompany change. And
since, in my view, the next change will consist in the elevation of minority
identities and cultures, I’m looking forward to seeing how the avant-gardes
will reflect this phenomenon as they explode in every possible culture. M.B.—What role should the artist take
on today, other than
that of a producer of primary material for the market and of images for
successive waves of fashion? Ben—You agree with
me that many artists are nothing more
than producers of gadgets or decorative objects whose sole purpose is to
satisfy the demands of the market. This is somewhat true, but wasn’t it always
the case? Giotto, Raphael, Michelangelo met the demands of the church as
market. Rembrandt did the same for the Dutch bourgeoisie by painting their
portraits, as did Stalinist artists who painted tractors to further the cause
of the Russian Revolution. Even the artist who tries to go against this grain
by producing political art is still making images for a specific clientele.
None of this is bothersome. It’s all
right with me if the artist is a pawn in the hands
of power, or produces images for his clientele, as long as he understands
clearly that this is what he’s doing. It may only be from that point that he
can become disturbing and creative. M.B.—Must the artist choose between making
art for an
elite—whether an intellectual elite or an economic one—and making art for the
general public, or is it possible to do both? And, for that matter, is there
still an intellectual elite? Ben—The artist always
works for recognition at the local,
national, and global levels. He would like nothing better than to have his
masterpiece distributed as a postcard! For this to happen, his work must be
personal and contain something new. The members of the elite are specialists.
There are people who specialize in furniture, leather, butchering, and sport;
they are specialists because they pay attention and know how these things work.
Non-specialists find things out from television or newspapers; the specialist
is right there, in the thick of it. If he is an important specialist who knows
the rules of the game and the powers that be, he can divine and predict who
will end up in the museum. In the final analysis, both the specialists and the
general public are different aspects of the same reality. This is the reality
that if an artist’s work is not personal, if he’s just playing around with
influences, even with some success, ultimately, it won’t work. Or, it will work
only in a limited sphere, such as that of official art or academic art. . . . M.B.—Could all of the irregularities
at the heart of the art
world that have come to light in multiple current examples of issues with
money, schemes, fraud, and sexual affairs produce a new kind of artist: the
artist as moralist, a kind of kamikaze artist who would want to infuse the art
world with rigor and a hard-core attitude? Ben—This kind of
artist has always existed. They are often embittered artists or
embittered demagogues. They see other people’s success as resulting only from
schemes, sexual liaisons, and deals. In fact, the best way to react against the
schemers is to produce new work and to believe in it. If one really has
something new, it will always stand out. After that, of course, the market
being what it is, the maneuvering begins and sometimes the new thing is
overvalued or undervalued. Since it’s a jungle, one cannot avoid this.
M.B.—The art made by young artists today seems
“made-to-order,” completely fabricated out of ingredients from the past. It all
seems like a cooking class! Clinical, “high-tech” arrangements, all kinds of
installations . . . . Does this constitute the new academicism? Ben—Creative people have a survival instinct that makes them
fear being passed over or falling behind. Some of them therefore may be
attracted to the “high tech” or the “clinical” which allows them to think
they’re up to date. This isn’t a problem as long as it allows them to be
themselves. Italian industry has succeeded in retaining its national
identity with “chiqueria,” which is a good thing. In any case, I don’t believe in universal art, the same art
for everyone. And since you haven’t asked me any questions about ethnicities
and minority cultures, I’m going to give you my position on this subject. I would say, first of all, that art is strongly attached to
political power, as I said in my response to the first question. The artist
frequently serves as illustrator to the political or ethnic power of which he
is the product. Pop Art depicted Anglo-Saxon consumerist society. When
Mexico had its revolution and acquired independence, Mexican art came into
being with Rivera, Orozco, and Siqueiros. When Catalonia was deprived of the autonomy and political
power it should rightfully have had, it became difficult for Catalan painting
to exist; Tàpies and Miro were taken for
Parisian painters. Artists need
their culture to be infused with political power in order for them to identify
with it. For a group to assert its difference before its artists, it
is necessary that it have the political power to which artists can come, react,
and receive the recognition they seek. They are free to make “high tech,”
“materialist,” expressionist or romantic art as soon as it is authentic and
comes from something the artist is ready to take on. This is valid for everyone in the world, for there are as
many visions of the world as there are languages and cultures. The Lapps have twenty different words for
“snow,” not a single word that designates the general concept. By contrast, in Burundi, there are only five
colors in their vocabulary.
Le
« nouveau » est-il toujours nouveau ? Une grande rétrospective de l’œuvre de Ben est actuellement
visible au Musée de Lyon, France. Cet entretien de Ben Vautier avec Michel Batlle qui a été réalisé en mai 1988 est toujours
d’actualité. Michel Batlle – Le nouveau a pris un sacré coup derrière la tête depuis ces trois dernières décennies avec les retours
néo-classiques, abstraits, minimal, et tous les remix des années 50, 60 et 70 ! Comment pourrait-il exister aujourd’hui de nouvelles avant-gardes c'est-à-dire,
de véritables ruptures ? Ben – C’est toi qui dis que le nouveau a pris un sacré coup ! Il se peut, justement,
que ces retours en arrière, proviennent du nouveau qui s’interroge sur lui-même, c’est le nouveau qui refuse d’être
réduit au rôle d’astuce, et, il se peut que ce soit le nouveau dans l’avant-garde qui remette en question le nouveau
à tout prix. En fait, cette histoire de nouveau est essentielle, c’est la clef de
voute de l’art. Et s’il y avait toujours du nouveau comme l’air qu’on respire ? Mais ce nouveau, parce que
à la recherche du nouveau, n’est pas prévisible, puisque, s’il était prévisible, il ne serait plus nouveau ! Dans
les années 1900, la peinture et la notion du beau étant figés dans le représentation, le nouveau a été de dire non à cette
représentation et nous avons eu Duchamp. De nos jours la peinture et le beau étant figés dans le « tout possible » des astuces
issues de Duchamp, le nouveau est peut-être ce retour en arrière dont tu parles mais avec, comme différence co-formelle qu’il
véhicule, une attitude ajoutée. M.B. – Les avant-gardes sont-elles prémonitoires des changements sociaux ? Ben - Je dirais plutôt qu’elles
les accompagnent et comme d’après moi le prochain changement sera une montée des identités et une réhabilitation des
cultures minoritaires, je m’attends à ce que les avant-gardes illustrent ce phénomène en s’éclatant dans le tout
possible des cultures. M.B. – Quel rôle devrait tenir l’artiste hormis celui d’être, aujourd’hui, de la matière
première pour un marché et un fournisseur d’images pour les modes successives ? Ben – Tu penses comme
moi qu’une grande quantité d’artistes ne sont plus que des producteurs de gadgets ou de produits de décoration
dont le seul but est de satisfaire un marché. C’est un peu vrai mais n’était-ce pas toujours le cas ? Giotto,
Raphaël, Michel Ange, satisfaisaient le marché de l’église, Rembrandt les bourgeois Hollandais en peignant leur portrait
et les artistes staliniens qui peignaient des tracteurs pour faire plaisir à la Révolution Russe. Même l’artiste qui
cherche à aller à contre-courant et qui fait du message social est aussi un producteur d’images pour une clientèle précise.
Tout cela n’est pas gênant. Je veux bien qu’il soit un pion entre les mains d’un pouvoir économique ou bien
l’illustrateur de sa clientèle, mais il faudrait qu’il le soit en toute lucidité. Et c’est peut-être là,
seulement, qu’il devient dérangeant et créatif. M.B. – De l’art pour une élite, celle de l’intellect et
celle de l’argent, mais aussi pour une reconnaissance plus large, celle du grand public ; faut-il choisir ou jouer sur
les deux tableaux ? Et puis, d’ailleurs, y a-t-il encore une élite intellectuelle ? Ben – L’artiste
travaille toujours pour la gloire, locale, nationale, mondiale. Il veut, en fin de compte, voir son chef-d’œuvre
diffusé en carte postale ! Pour cela il lui faut être personnel et apporter du nouveau. Ceux de l’élite, eux, ce sont
des spécialistes. Il y a des spécialistes en immobilier, dans le cuir, la boucherie, le sport, ils sont spécialistes parce
qu’ils s’en occupent et savent comment ça fonctionne. Les non-spécialistes regardent ça à la télévision ou dans
les journaux, le spécialiste, lui, est dans le coup. S’il est un grand spécialiste, connaissant les règles du jeu du
rapport de forces, il pourra deviner, prévoir qui finira dans le musée. Mais en fin de compte, que ce soit les spécialistes
ou le grand public, les deux sont tributaires de la réalité. Cette réalité est que l’artiste, s’il n’apporte
rien de personnel, a beau jouer d’influences et même réussir provisoirement, ça ne marchera pas ou alors, dans le cadre
de son énergie par exemple d’art pompier, d’art académique… M.B. – Toutes les indigestions du milieu de
l’art mises à jour par la multiplication d’exemples vivants comme les histoires d’argent, les combines,
les fausses côtes, les affaires de sexe au sein du milieu de l’art, ne risquent-elles pas , en réaction, de faire naître
un nouveau genre d’artiste : l’artiste moralisateur, sorte de kamikaze de l’art voulant insuffler une rigueur,
une attitude et un discours « pur et dur » ?
Ben – Ce genre d’artiste a toujours existé. Ce sont souvent des artistes aigris et parfois des démagogues aigris.
Ils ne voient dans le succès des autres que des combines, des affaires de cul et des surcotes. En fait, la meilleure
façon de réagir contre ces combinards est de produire une œuvre nouvelle et d’y croire. Si on a vraiment du nouveau,
il ressort toujours. Ensuite, bien sur, le marché étant ce qu’il est, la magouille s’installe autour et parfois
le nouveau est surévalué ou sous-évalué. De toutes façon, dans une jungle, on ne peut éviter cela. M.B. – L’art d’aujourd’hui
réalisé par des jeunes artistes apparaît comme un « produit fait sur mesure», complètement fabriqué avec les ingrédients du
passé. On a l’impression d’une course aux armements de cuisine ! De l’arrangement « high-tech » au « clean
clinique » et installations en tous genres… Est-ce là le nouvel académisme de l’art ? Ben – Les créateurs ont
un instinct de survie qui cherche à ne pas être dépassé, en retard. Alors certains pourraient être attirés par ce côté clean
» et « high-tech » qui leur donne l’impression qu’ils sont dans le coup. Cela n’est pas du tout gênant à
condition que cette impression leur permette d’être eux-mêmes. L’Italie a réussi
dans son industrie à être elle-même avec la « chiqueria », c’est positif. De toutes manières, je ne crois pas à un art
universel pour tous, le même art pour tous. Et puisque je vois que tu ne m’as pas posé du tout de questions sur les
ethnies, les cultures minoritaires, je vais te donner ma position sur ce sujet. Je dirais, tout d’abord, que l’art est fortement attaché au pouvoir
politique, ainsi que je le disais dans ma réponse à ta première question ; le rôle de l’artiste est souvent d’être
l’illustrateur du pouvoir politique et ethnique dont il est issu. Le Pop Art peint la société de consommation anglo-saxonne. Quand le Mexique
fait sa révolution et acquiert son indépendance, l’art mexicain avec Rivera, Orozco ou Siqueiros, existe. Tant que la
Catalogne n’avait pas une autonomie et un pouvoir politique qui lui étaient propres, la peinture catalane existait difficilement
; on prenait Tàpies et Miro pour des peintres parisiens. Les artistes ont besoin d’un pouvoir politique autour de leur
culture pour qu’ils s’y identifient. Pour qu’un peuple marque sa différence avant ses artistes, il faut que ce peuple ait
le pouvoir politique autour duquel ses artistes peuvent venir, réagir et recevoir la gloire qu’ils cherchent. Alors
libre à eux de faire de l’art « high-tech », « matiériste », expressionniste ou romantique du moment qu’il est
authentique et vient d’un quelque part que l’artiste est prêt à assumer. Cela est valable pour tous les peuples du monde
car il y a autant de visions du monde qu’il y a de langues et de cultures. Les Lapons ont vingt mots pour dire le mot « neige » et pas un seul pour dire neige en général. Par contre
dans le Burundi ils n’ont dans leur vocabulaire que cinq couleurs.
Michel Batlle is an artist and gallerist of Catalan origin based outside
of Toulouse, France. He
is the founder of several journals, including Articide Circuit, established in 1993. http://michelbatlle.free.fr/cv.htm
The
exhibition Strip-tease intégral de Ben is at the Musée d'art contemporain de Lyon, France, from 3 March - 11 July 2010.
Arshile Gorky
at Tate Modern by Anna Leung Arshile Gorky was a romantic figure, a double outsider whose life was
dogged by misfortune. Despite the facts that one drawing from his series Nighttime,
Enigma and Nostalgia
and one painting from the series Garden in Sochi were acquired
by the Museum of Modern Art in
New York, and that two one-man shows were held at the Julien Levy Gallery, one
in 1945 and the second in 1947, on the whole Gorky met with a cool reception at
a time when the young generation of Abstract Expressionists were preparing to
wrest artistic hegemony from Paris. Even when Clement Greenberg, the eminence
grise behind the rise of the New York School who was at that time pushing
Pollock into the glaring flood lights of celebrity, admitted that Gorky had
made the grade and was the equal of any of his generation, he clawed back this
compliment by accusing him of hedonism, a typically French failing that smacked
of aestheticism, and was therefore inherently un-American. Little wonder then
that Gorky from the first concealed his Armenian identity and took on the
fiction of being the famous Russian writer Maxim Gorky’s nephew, even though he
could not speak Russian. He saw himself not as a tragic figure but “as a man of
fate.” This sense of fatality can be traced to his mother. It was she who called him “the black one, the unlucky one who will come to a no-good end.” She was both right and very wrong. The double portraits of the young Gorky and his mother, transcribed from a photo originally sent to his father in 1912 to remind him of their existence, occupy the centre of the exhibition – a room devoted to portraiture which while biographical also functions as a homage to Cezanne and to Ingres. The two figures look down at us with eyes of deep loss and longing, his mother belonging to the past and the old country, the young Gorky belonging to the land of the future. Together with other portraits of family and friends, this space at the heart of the exhibition reminds us of the overwhelming sense of loss which is the experience of the émigré, a loss that informed Gorky’s life and continued to haunt his work. His exotic and maverick genius came to the fore after a childhood of persecution and near starvation and once in America was honed by years of apprenticeship to European modernism. Arshile Gorky was born between 1902 and 1905 in Turkish governed
Armenia. His real name was Vosdanig Adoian and his family on his mother’s side
came from a noble line of priests, some of whom were revered as martyrs.
Throughout the centuries Armenians had persistently suffered persecution at the
hands of succeeding waves of Arabs, Mongols and Tartars. During all this time
it was the Armenian apostolic church that represented the Armenian people and
constituted a force preserving their cultural identity. Ironically it was the
Ottoman Turks who brought a temporary reprieve to this persecution and a
modicum of peace and tolerance to the Armenian people. But by the nineteenth
century, with Turkey becoming “the sick man of Europe,” this tolerance began to
wane, at the same time that Armenians, coming into contact with revolutionary
ideas from the west, were beginning to demand an independent state. Massacre
followed on massacre and many young men choose to emigrate. One of them was
Gorky’s father who left for America following in the footsteps of two of his
uncles who had emigrated in 1896. He virtually abandoned his family, leaving
them to face a sustained and systematic policy of brutality and starvation
which was followed up in 1915 by “a death march” when the Armenians were forced
to flee on foot to Russian Armenia which was then still part of the Russian
empire. In 1918-19 there was a famine and the refugees starved. Twenty percent
of the Armenian refugees died of cholera, typhus or dysentery. It was the news
of this human catastrophe that gave rise in the States to the common place
phrase “starving Armenians” which made Gorky all the more determined to hide an
identity that caused him so much shame and re-awakened terrible haunting
memories. He was not willing to take on the stigma of refugee status. Whether
the onslaught against the Armenian population constitutes genocide remains a
hotly contested subject of debate in the United Nations assembly. It was during
this period that Gorky’s mother died in his arms. She had starved to death. Two
months later Gorky and his sister embarked on their journey to America arriving
on Ellis Island in February 1920 and were met by family who took them to their
home in Watertown, Massachusetts. By high school Gorky had already decided he
wanted to be an artist. He attended the Technical High School in Providence and
took up various lines of employment before moving to Boston in 1922 to enrol at
Boston’s New School of Design, and it was probably at this time that he changed
his name and took on his new persona. Two years later he had so impressed his
tutors that he was invited to teach part time in the life drawing class. In
1924 he moved to New York, followed art courses at the New School of Design but
was chiefly self taught, studying and scrutinising the old masters, traditional
and modern, in the many New York museums. Apprenticeship to
European Modernism Gorky never set much store by “the modern imperative of originality” but
believed in learning from his predecessors, catching up on the great European
tradition that had culminated in Picasso. By the mid twenties Gorky had
discovered “Papa Cezanne” and was able to develop a style almost
undistinguishable from this founding master. From Cezanne he took nature as his
starting point in his journey towards abstraction. He then went on to emulate
Picasso, exploring his strategies, both figurative and abstract, including Amazonian
nudes and the shallow spaces of Cubism, and by the thirties he had succeeded in
resolving his subject matter into interlocking abstract shapes. Gorky was
ambitious. His aim was to assimilate what he could from art history in order to
add to it; a traditional project for artists till the advent of the modern
period which demanded total originality. His series of drawings Nighttime,
Enigma and Nostalgia (1931-33)
already seemed to attest to his closeness to Surrealism and the idea of psychic
automatism whereby the artist allows his hand to move over the paper or canvas
without any purposeful or conscious control. But this was far from the case,
since, as in all his work, Gorky experimented in advance with all manner of
permutations and continued with the age old practice of squaring up his sketches
before transferring them to a canvas. Inspired principally by Miro and Masson
he created forms that meander and create a maze of lines. Using elaborate
crosshatchings and veils of coloured ink these shapes were transmuted into ever
changing relationships that were already sexually suggestive. In Nighttime,
Enigma and Nostalgia
Gorky integrated cubism and the mystery of de Chirico (the bust and skeletal
fish) with Jean Arp’s biomorphism. All this in drawings that demonstrated a
sureness of draftsmanship based on Ingres’ delicacy of line and were
compartmentalised in the manner of Uccello’s Miracle of the Host,
a reproduction of which he had on
his studio wall. In 1930 Gorky had moved to a larger studio in Union Square, which was the liveliest place to be in New York at the time. His fictitious curriculum vitae now included three months of study under Kandinsky. Alfred Barr the head of Moma came to his studio and, although somewhat dismissive of his obviously derivative style and his dependence on the School of Paris, he invited Gorky to participate in an exhibition of artists under 35 years of age. Three still-lifes were chosen; this led to other group shows, and gradually Gorky began to gain a reputation. His momentum was disrupted by the Depression which, however, had its up as well as obvious down sides. The Depression brought artists together in their struggle to survive and changed the artists’ relationship with society. But even being accepted as part of the Federal Art Project did little to lessen Gorky’s sense of being an outsider and this was partly due to his own inherent anti-Americanism, his conviction that European art was far superior to American home-grown art making. His close friend de Kooning, with whom he had shared a studio, recalls that Gorky thought that America had no real art, that it was basically regional or vulgar, and was that he was far from discreet in promulgating such views. However he welcomed the opportunity, when it came, to take up a New Deal PWAP (Public Works Art Project) offer to produce a set of murals for Newark Airport
Public Works Art
Project Very little of Gorky’s work on the murals for Newark Airport has
survived. The analytic composition was based on the mechanical shapes of
airplanes and derived stylistically from Picasso, Léger and Ozenfant. Gorky
dissected the mechanics of the airplane into their constituent parts. It is
significant that this strategy already represented a conjoining of a Cubist
aesthetic with the beginnings of a Surrealist agenda in that he took a
well-known object out of its normal context in order to defamiliarise it – in
Gorky’s own words “making from the common - the uncommon.” While this project, with its machine age
aesthetic, was not that characteristic of Gorky’s oeuvre, he nevertheless
continued to explore the potential of this type of hard edged, flat coloured
painting in a large canvas Organization (1935) that was based on two of Picasso’s
paintings The Studio (1927-8) and Painter and his Model (1919). Basically a still-life contained
within a horizontal and vertical armature of strong black lines it is assembled
against a white background which Gorky reworked with many layers of paint. He
was famed, despite his poverty, for his profligacy with expensive oil paints. Organization gave rise to a series of
still-lifes in which the biomorphism characteristic of Nighttime, Enigma and
Nostalgia
reappeared presaging a return to the more poeticised organically charged
paintings of his Khorkom theme and his series of Garden
in Sochi, both of which were based on his childhood in
Khorkom the village of his birth. It is no secret that Gorky was inventive about a
childhood that must have been distressing to say the least and yet was often
remembered as beatific. He probably invented much of this happy childhood since
in reality conditions were primitive and poverty, even in the good times, all
too habitual. But in conversation he remembered the devotion to the land, the
gathering of the apricots in his father’s orchard and the tilling of the fields
with a plough fashioned out of a tree branch. His fondness for these rituals
came out in his art together with a magic that invested his landscapes with a
spirit of animism that can be traced back to his love of Coptic and traditional
Armenian folk arts. A new period began after Organization; his style became far looser,
his
use of paint more impulsive and his modulated colours were earthy and warm.
These paintings conveyed vestiges of figuration but the shapes were
indecipherable or ambiguous, often suggestive of birds, female figures and
something that could be a butter churn or boot that would reappear in later
works. Basically it was as if shapes that were still contained in Organization’s cloisonnist structure had been
released into a more spatial area of play but one in which no one identifiable
image could take centre stage. These paintings, and the series of Sochi that
followed, seemed to have a
hidden narrative that linked in with Gorky’s childhood but also coincided with
a period of much happiness when he began living with Agnes Magruder who was to
become his wife and mother of his two daughters. From Hans Hoffman, the émigré
artist who did most to advance the cause of abstraction in the States, Gorky
had learnt about negative and positive space and the need to keep the picture
plane flat while at the same time creating a sense of balance by setting up a
state of tension between shapes. The problem facing the American artist was
that of bringing abstract form and meaning together. For artists such as Rothko
and Pollock the advent of Surrealism contributed to the part resolution of this
problem. Gorky at this particular time was still close to his European masters,
only Mirò had replaced Picasso, with all the lyricism that such a move would
entail, while in addition providing a new theoretic outlook and a new vision. Surrealism Many of the best known European Surrealists fled to the States in 1939
when war was declared in Europe, and though Gorky was already conversant and
sympathetic with surrealist theories, the presence in New York of Breton, Mirò,
and Matta had a further liberating effect on his vision. This sense of release
was especially noticeable in a series of drawings from early in the 1940s made
on site during a stay with the artist Saul Schary in Connecticut in which the
whole landscape was activated with indecipherable cryptograms suggestive of
fecundity and growth. It was here too that he painted Waterfall (1942)
which technically
represented a totally new approach with its washes of turpentine diluted oil
paint and a far freer handling of line no longer confined by colour. Waterfall was
abstract and yet succeeded in
conveying the sense of water falling over rocks. Of greater significance,
however, was the fact that, as in surrealist paintings, landscape had become
mind- or inner-scape. It is important to underline that though Gorky was very
close to Breton and Matta he never really adopted surrealist practices; he felt
greater affinity with Kandinsky’s idea that beauty had its origins in an
“internal necessity that springs from the soul.” Moreover, control was
important to Gorky. He was a great perfectionist and therefore had no real
sympathy with the idea of psychic automatism, though he understood full well
the way the unexpected and accidental could form bridges to the unconscious
mind and reveal another reality, an inner world that speaks of a primordial
unity between man and the universe. In common with many artists who were to
make up the New York School of Abstract Expressionism, rather than finding a
compatibility with Freud Gorky found compatibility with Jung, rather than
Freud, who spoke for an art practice that stressed the collective unconscious
and was therefore beyond psychoanalytic interpretation. However,
in many cases the presence of the Surrealists, especially in New
York, was irksome and gave rise to real resentment among local artists
since the Surrealists were
fêted as the celebrities of the art world and given the exhibition space the
younger artists thought should have been theirs’ by right. Gorky’s case was
different. It was through Breton’s support that he was able to sign a contract
with Julien Levy, the dealer who had done the most to promote Surrealism in
America. Breton
and Duchamp persuaded Julien Levy that Gorky had come into his own and that
his paintings were
no longer derivative. He was no longer a Picasso copyist. With a regular
stipend, Gorky finally achieved the financial stability he needed at a time
when he had become responsible for a growing family; his eldest daughter, Maro,
was born in 1943. Andre Breton also helped choose titles for the paintings that
were to go on display at Gorky’s first one-man exhibition, which opened at
Julien Levy’s Gallery on March 6, 1945. Breton also wrote the foreword to the
catalogue. The Eye-Spring: Arshile Gorky emphasised the analogical character
of Gorky’s
vision that enabled the artist to turn his forms into hybrids that brought
together the actually seen and the remembered. This closeness to the
Surrealists was not totally advantageous to Gorky. Surrealism was anathema to
Clement Greenberg, who accused Gorky of lacking “independence and masculinity
of character,” an especially cruel and humiliating taunt to someone coming from
Gorky’s background. Only two paintings were sold and no new patrons found for
Gorky. From this point onwards Gorky was to suffer a catalogue of misfortunes.
He had become “the unlucky one” just at the point when elements in his
paintings were beginning to coalesce and he was at last receiving critical
acclaim.
“The Unlucky
One” In 1946 Gorky was preparing for his second one-man show at Julien Levy’s
Gallery when a fire broke out in his studio in Connecticut and all the canvases
he had been working on were destroyed. Gorky was known to have a passion for
fire, always building huge bonfires or, as in this case, stacking the
pot-bellied wood burning stove too high. But he was also keenly aware that his
family was said to live under a curse. His grandmother had set the local church
on fire in revolt against God who had allowed her son to be tortured by the
Turks. So when his studio was burning, he acted as if under that curse, not
informing the fire brigade but trying to staunch the flames himself. This was
to be the beginning of a litany of misfortunes that befell him; in 1947 he
underwent extensive surgery for rectal cancer and in the same year his father
died, but having kept his existence hidden even from his wife, he was unable to
really mourn him and give vent to his grief. The following summer of ‘48 he
broke his neck in a car accident and, while this was healing, suffered
paralysis of his right arm and was convinced that he would never paint again.
Finally his wife, ground down by his depression and worried on account of the
children and his increasing violence, moved back to her parents’ house. Three
weeks later, in July of 1948, Gorky hanged himself, leaving a note for them
that said “Goodbye, my loveds.” After the fire, Gorky at first
had characteristically met adversity with
renewed vigour, throwing himself into his work and recreating from memory the
canvases that had been lost in the conflagration. There were also new
paintings, such as Charred Beloved and The
Betrothal. His canvases had become much more
complex, his colour more muted and more chromatic, his textures denser; it was
as if he had found his own language. The Plough and the Song (1947) is resonant with feeling,
its subject matter probably a celebration of fertility though identification of
the concatenation of shapes is virtually impossible. As in cubist paintings,
forms and their meanings are multivalent. The Limit (1947), with its almost
monochromatic expanse of gray, suggests a terrible emptiness and seems weighed
down by a loneliness that reminds us of those orphaned and plaintive eyes of
the young Vosdanig Adoian in the photo of himself and his mother. It is as if
this sense of overwhelming loss never really left him despite his efforts to
integrate himself in American society. Viewing
the paintings at
the second Julien Levy Gallery exhibition, Greenberg conceded that Gorky had
come into his own. But he significantly withheld the real accolade by insisting
that Pollock was still the greater of the two. Predictably, Gorky no longer
needed Greenberg’s approbation after his death. His fame spread and his prices
at art auctions escalated. Historically, Gorky is now seen as a transitional
figure marrying abstraction and surrealism, cubism and abstract expressionism.
But Gorky was no Surrealist despite his acute understanding of the relationship
between poetry, memories of childhood, sex and pain. He did not share their
scorn for fine art and for art history but was moved by a deep reverence for
the craft and history of painting. There was no room in his practice for
anti-art or non-art. Similarly Gorky was not a proto-Abstract Expressionist.
Unlike artists such as Barnett Newman, Rothko, and Pollock he had no wish to
deliver himself from the artistic hegemony of the European tradition. By
identifying with the Europeans, Gorky never became an American artist, despite
his naturalisation, as his friend de Kooning succeeded in doing. Like so many
romantic artists, he had to wait for death to bring him. © 2010, Anna Leung
Anna Leung
is a London-based
artist and educator
now semi-retired from
teaching at Birkbeck
College but
taking occasional
informal
groups to current
art exhibitions. Arshile Gorky: A Retrospective was at theTate Modern, London, from 10 February - 3 May 2010. It is at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles from 6 June - 20 September 2010.
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