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I am really delighted with this issue: we have three
articles about three artists. I have written about visiting Louise Fishman, a
painter I have admired since I became aware of her work in the mid-1980s
(though she has been a highly respected painter for far longer). Washingtonian
Candace Randall interviews Renee Stout, winner of this year’s Driskell prize.
Established by the High Museum of Art in 2005, the David C. Driskell Prize is
the first national award to honor and celebrate contributions to the field of
African-American art and art history. Named after the renowned African-American
artist and art scholar, the prize recognizes a scholar or artist whose work
makes an original and important contribution to the field of African-American
art or art history. Candace Randle is writing for us for the fist time, and I
would like to welcome her aboard. And I want to thank Anna Leung for writing from London about
the Henry Moore exhibition that was at the Tate Britain. In addition to thanking
Anna, however, I also need to mention gallerist Skot Foreman who suggested I
take another look at this modern master. For many, Henry Moore represents
corporate art: the huge sculpture placed outside the big building to signify
wealth and good taste. Anna’s closer scrutiny, occasioned by the exhibition,
reveals an artist whose work passed through a number of phases over the course
of a long career that coincided with some of the most important developments in
20th century art. He made some sculptures whose physical presence,
emotion, and verve transcend the sites they grace and most certainly deserve
fresh consideration. Thank you very much, Deanna
Taking the Ball and Running A Studio Visit with Louise Fishman
Louise Fishman has graciously invited me to her Chelsea studio to speak
with me about her life as an artist. There are no finished works in her studio as Fishman has sent off her most recent work
to be shown in a solo exhibition at the Paule Anglim Gallery in San Francisco. On the studio walls are several paintings and
drawings Fishman has just started. As these are works in progress they do not have the depth and fissures found in Fishman’s
finished paintings and drawings. I find it fascinating to get a glimpse of the structure beneath the skin of the painting.
Seeing the skeleton that defines the form, you can’t help but anticipate the many layers of paint that will constitute
and become the finished work. Fishman’s
personal history informs her painting. She loved to play basketball in high school and is still an athletic woman. The physicality
of her paintings testifies to this; one can imagine the edges of the canvas as the boundaries and free-throw lines of a basketball
court. It is as if Fishman passes the ball to herself, takes it and runs to the other side of the court to make another pass
and then jumps and shoots, all through her brush work, paint, and color. You sense the athleticism of her work in the curves
and dribbles of paint and the physical rhythm mapped out in her brushstrokes. All Night and All Day, a painting from
2008 in oil on canvas, is human sized (66 inches tall by 57 inches wide). The artist can reach from to top and bottom; it
is a world where she is in control not only of the paint and structure but also of the scale. She can move her arms, equipped
with a loaded brush, with finesse across or down or around with the space she created. Like any good athlete, performer, or
artist, she makes the whole thing look effortless, as if making the mark is simply a natural act. Fishman’s
work is also deeply informed by her engagement with feminism. As she puts it, “Feminism, the women's movement, the lesbian
movement had a major effect on my work - and my life, of course. It radicalized me, and my work. Gave me a sense of the uniqueness
of my position as a woman/lesbian artist. And lots of power!” Fishman’s studio is her very private place. Sammy, a small black poodle, sleeps or watches
as Fishman works. This companion is a great witness to her working methods. He is fidelity itself, watching and knowing. Sammy
is like a small shadow that is the artist’s other self, a sensitive alter-ego.
Fishman’s finished paintings are built up in many layers to create depth of field. The 2010 paintings that
have been shipped to California are mainly vertical compositions. The colors in these 2010 works have a freshness of hue;
they radiate light that opens up the space of the paintings. Grays and whites are interspersed with deep dark ultramarines
and stratified with small amounts of red and ochre. A wonderfully warm and brightly saturated mixture of thalo blue and thalo
green meanders around the painted surfaces. The paint is slathered on, thick and luminous with many fractals of color in every
passage. Each rectangle presses up against the next, sometimes overlapping but sometimes breaking like waves on the shore,
strong and lively, with lavish bravado. Fishman’s titles, such as Zero At the Bone, are small bits of provocative,
somewhat opaque prose that reveal only feeling. Fishman’s paintings were not always so full of color and air. In her early works, a cornucopia
of grays were embedded on a grid which gave the paintings their structure and presence. Describing her use of the grid as
a compositional structure, she has said: “The grid comes and goes. It's there now in some ways, but not as obvious.
The stricter grid continues to appear from time to time.” With Saga, a painting of 2010, Fishman both returns
to and reinvents the grid: the layered paint pulls the structure apart slightly to make it something more.
The
child of an artist mother and a father who was the son of a Talmudic scholar (Fishman is named for her grandfather),
she grew up reading and listening to the radio about the atrocities of the Holocaust. In 1988 she and a friend, Valerie Furth,
a Holocaust survivor, traveled to concentration camps in Czechoslovakia and Poland, provoking feelings of terrible grief.
As Fishman left Auschwitz she encountered a pond where the victims’ ashes had settled. She impulsively scooped up a
handful of the sludge, feeling that she must bring back whatever she could, save Jews in any form she could. She brought the
ashes back to her studio and mixed them with beeswax and then into paint. Using the ashes in this way made the paintings into
memorials and provided the artist with the catharsis she needed to keep working after the emotionally difficult task of traveling
to the sites of the Holocaust. How does one continue
in the studio after feeling such pain and grief? Fishman meditates as a way of helping her to “slow down, and notice
things in the painting process that need to change or deepen.” Finally, what is remarkable about her paintings is that
you must slow down to really see them. They are about only painting, but painting that makes you feel the presence of the
artist and her life.
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Beyond the Artistic Veil: An Interview with Renee Stout By Candace Randle
Renee Stout is one of Washington, DC’s most recognizable artists. Taking some of life’s most personal and enduring moments, Stout creates pieces that are impossible to ignore. Her work has been featured at multiple venues across the country. Although she has been crafting her skill since early childhood, Renee considers herself an artist who is still evolving. Earlier this year, the High Museum of Art, based in Atlanta, named her the 2010 recipient of the prestigious David C. Driskell Prize, an annual award that recognizes a scholar or artist who, through their work, makes an original and significant impact in the field of African American art or art history. As she prepared for her latest exhibit featured through October 30, 2010 at the Hemphill Gallery of Fine Arts in Washington, DC, she graciously took time to discuss first-hand her work, her life as a DC artist, and her inspirations. The Art Section:
When did your career as an artist
begin? What, in your opinion, was the tipping point or the defining moment? Renee Stout: My mother had a younger brother who was a self-taught artist and she grew up watching him draw and paint on any surface he could get his hands on, so when she saw me scribbling (at the age of three) on the toes of my Buster Brown Mary Jane’s, she figured she’d better start purchasing plenty of art supplies. That was the beginning. What, in your
opinion, was the defining moment of your
career? The tipping point in my professional career came in 1990, a few years after I had moved to Washington, DC from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where I was raised. I had been working in the after-school program of a Montessori school and doing my art in the evenings, on the weekends and in the summer when school was out, but hadn’t really been showing anywhere around the city. One day a good friend suggested that I let him show slides of my work to a woman who ran a very nice gallery that used to be downtown on 7th Street, NW until it closed several years back. Back then, I was very shy about approaching galleries and would have never had the nerve to walk into that gallery with slides in-hand, but I agreed to let him take them in for me. Within a few days Barbara Kornblatt, the owner of the gallery, was sitting in my apartment/studio and we were discussing my joining her gallery. Left to Right: Journal Entry #5, ed. 13, 2009, plate: 11 3/4”
x 7 7/8” / paper: 19 3/4” x 15”, aquatint, etching. Root Chart #3, ed. 13, 2009, plate: 12”
x 7 7/8” / paper: 19 3/4” x 15”, aquatint etching and mezzotint. Photo Courtesy of Renee Stout and Hemphill
Fine Arts.
As an artist, what inspires you? When I was just starting out, I was inspired by the work of
artists I had been exposed to through museums or art history books. I use to
love the work of artists like Joseph Cornell, Betye Saar and Edward Kienholtz.
However, since then, I have lived a lot of life and I now find that I’m
inspired by my own personal experience. How would you describe your artwork? Is there a
continuing theme? Yes, there is a continuing theme. Back in my early
thirties, in order to work through my shyness (insecurity, really) about openly
expressing my true feelings in my work, I developed an alter ego as a vehicle
to allow me to freely express all that I was thinking and feeling. Through my
work, I would tell stories about the alter ego’s adventures. She’s a woman who
can “work roots” and interpret people’s dreams, and the art that I made
represented objects she would use or interiors she inhabited. I wanted to make
the viewers at my shows feel like voyeurs who were peeping in on the personal
life of this mysterious woman. As I matured, I found that I no longer needed
the alter-ego to express my personal thoughts, but I had become attached to
being able to tell an ongoing, ever-evolving story though the alter ego and the
rich characters she would interact with, so I continued to do so. All of my
narrative artworks had their seeds in real-life stuff, but I was also free to embellish
that reality if I wanted to. Part of me has always wanted to be a writer. Where can an art enthusiasts view your work? At any given time Hemphill Fine Arts has pieces of mine
that can be viewed by appointment. They also have a website that features works
by the entire roster of artists (including me) that they represent. But it’s
also as easy as putting my name into Google Images and lots of works I’ve done
over the years will pop up.
When people think of art, they mostly think of New York.
What makes Washington, DC a city for artists? I love New York and its energy and go there as often as I
can. However, I refuse to buy into the idea that New York is the only place to
make art and be a legitimate artist. Washington, DC is a very metropolitan city
with its own cultural identity and energy that artists feed on and get inspired
by. Compared to New York, DC is much more manageable to function in as an artist
economically. However, I have to tell it like it is and say that DC could do much
more to show support for its artists and the galleries and alternative spaces
that show their work. We just keep hoping that the powers that be (from the
Mayor to the developers) in this city will figure it out and become more
supportive of the city’s cultural energy. What, to date, has been your greatest artistic achievement? I think that my greatest achievement has been to make a
living these past 20 years doing what I love. Being a self-employed artist has
been both rewarding and challenging, especially in these difficult times.
However, I get to see what I’m made of everyday. As an artist, I like to
challenge myself constantly, because I want my work to continue to grow and
evolve.
Henry Moore At Tate Britain by Anna Leung Avant-gardist status and public recognition seldom go hand in hand, the
one seeming to disqualify the other. By the 1960’s Henry Moore definitely seemed
passé for many of the new generation of British sculptors who were searching
for a new type of sculpture no longer derived from the human body and the real
world. Moore’s sculptures were too solid, too stable. During the 1950s his
figurescame to stand for the conscience of the nation, national emblems that embodied
classical humanistic values of suffering and endurance, stoicism and survival.
In the immediate post war years this had reflected the spirit of the nation,
for Britain unlike France and Germany had not known defeat despite years of
protracted fighting, sacrifice and deprivation. Whereas in the years before the
outbreak of World War II Moore was not known or admired by the general public
but earned the respect and admiration of his fellow avant-garde artists, by the
end of the war he was beginning to become a public figure whose archetypal
sculptures represented not just historical continuity but elements of anti-modernity
and a traditional pastoral quality that reinforced our cultural isolation in
Europe. Increasingly, this high public profile which legitimised his practice
contradicted the thrust of modernism’s avant-gardist rhetoric which by
definition stood for Situated mid way in the exhibition between “modernism” and the “post war” is a “war time” room dedicated to Moore’s drawings. The decision to place these drawings at the centre of the exhibition is significant to both Moore’s artistic practice and his public persona. For the Shelter Drawings of 1940 represent a pivotal point in Moore’s career marking the end of his abstract period and the beginning of a reengagement with figuration, albeit a modernist version of it. The origins of the Shelter Drawings are not clear. According to Moore mythology he did not often make use of the London underground, but when forced to do so some days into the Blitzkrieg, was amazed by the sight of Londoners asleep on the platform taking shelter there. This series of drawings, which also represents his contribution as an Official War Artist, were at first interpreted as Moore’s rejection of modernism and his turning to a much more legible form of realism accessible to the ordinary members of the public. But despite the evidence seemingly vouchsafed by Lee Miller’s photograph of Moore sketching in the Underground, which may well have been a re-enactment, whether he sketched from life, or as is also likely, adapted his drawings from press cuttings, is beside the point. Rather, Moore recognised in these sleeping bodies his own reclining figures and he admits as much, remarking that he saw “hundreds of Henry Moore Reclining Figures stretched along the platforms.” The technique of white wax crayon covered with washes of ink and watercolour lends itself to this atmosphere of darkness, drama and menace. For there is a distinctly dream-like quality to these drawings of recumbent bodies which, cocooned or mummified, seem suspended between life and death. It is this surrealist aspect that is highlighted by the curators who associate the Shelter Drawings with the Freudian notion of the uncanny (Unheimlichkeit); I’ll come back to this concept when considering the “war time” section. However, it is pretty certain that the Londoners sheltering there did not recognise themselves in these drawings and in no way do they suggest the ordinary untidiness and chaotic activity that must have accompanied surviving in these cramped conditions. The basic brief of this exhibition is that the darker side had always been there and was either a part of Moore’s own psyche going back to his relationship with his mother or related to his experience in World War I when he was gassed, hospitalised and never sent back to fight on the front. Both life experiences, the exhibition suggests, contributed to a hidden aspect of a mature personality normally seen as benign. What comes over as Tate’s main objective is a re-appraisal of Moore.
This begins appropriately in two galleries devoted to “world culture” with his
discovery of primitive artefacts that coincided with the enthusiasm for direct
carving that, by the interwar years, was becoming de rigueur for young
sculptors. Brancusi spearheaded the movement by declaring that “direct
cutting is the true road to sculpture.”
Sculptors in the 20’s and 30’s attached such Henry Moore, Reclining Figure, 1951. Tate © Reproduced by permission of the
Henry Moore Foundation Photo: Tate Photography.
As a student, Moore was going down a well-trodden path. Picasso, Derain, Brancusi and Kirchner had all studied and been inspired by “primitive” artefacts and masks, in most cases from Africa. Some of Moore’s sketches from his regular visits to the British Museum refer to Negro sculpture, which in Britain had already been admired by Roger Fry and Jacob Epstein for its simplification, directness, intensity of expression and abstract rendering of the human body, but from the mid twenties it was Pre-Columbian art that made the strongest impression on Moore for its “stoniness,” formal richness and three-dimensional qualities. These qualities are apparent in his marble Snake (1924) and in the two Reclining Figures, one carved from brown Horton stone in 1929, the other carved in the following year from green Horton stone. The model for both was the Mexican figure of Chac-Mool, the Rain God, but Moore transformed male into female and invested the nude form with connotations of landscape, a procedure that would acquire great significance for him over the years. It is however in Mother and Child of 1924 that we can see the formal solidity of Mexican art best translated into his idiom. It is also from Pre-Columbian art that Moore took the idea of inserting stone eyes into his torso of young girls with clasped hands. It is in these pieces that we begin to see Moore accentuating the holes between arm and torso that anticipate his preoccupation with the purely formal quality of holes in terms of positive and negative volumes in later abstract and figurative carvings. The theme of mother and
child is all the more important to an
understanding of Moore’s subsequent development to the extent that it
transmogrifies into a period of semi abstract sculptures inspired by
Surrealism, for example the hybrid form, half human, half thing in his Composition (1931). The
curatorial choice in this section suggests that earlier mother and child
sculptures do not exactly conform to the comfortably Madonna-like rendering
of the genre that characterises Moore’s post-war family groups in the fifties;
there is often evidence of ambiguity if not outright conflict in the
relationship which could be construed as Kleinian rather than Freudian.
Maternity, however, was a theme shared by many artists in this period. That
Moore made it his own is all the more striking in that it was only in the
seventeenth year of his marriage to Irina that a daughter Mary, named
incidentally after his mother, was born. Underlining the importance this theme
had for Moore is a collage put together in 1929-30 by Irina from his drawings
of mothers and babies which perhaps imply that this leitmotif emerged from a
deeper, more private part of his psyche that was rooted in his own relationship
with his mother. Other sketches, that virtually exclude the mother leaving only
the child in relation to the breast, prefigure Moore’s move to biomorphic
abstraction and his reorientation towards Surrealism that prompted a change in
his drawing practice from figure studies to what he called “transformation
drawings” based on natural objects such as stones, shells, bones and pebbles.
These objects acted as catalysts for his imagination, causing him to be
described as “a constructor of images between the conscious and the
unconscious.” By working through
these transformations, Moore developed a synthesis between abstraction and
Surrealism - for he refused to take sides in this aesthetic conflict - all the
while still focusing on the universality of the human form. Though surrealist in terms of their derivation as “objets trouvés,” there is little of Breton’s menace in these pieces and it is extremely unlikely that Moore shared Breton’s belief that real political change was dependent on the liberation of the unconscious. Composition (1931), which in most respects looks back to Arp, probably represents Moore at his closest to Surrealism as he attempted to embody the surrealist notion of “continual movement.” It was at this point that his interest in direct carving waned and he returned to modelling, which was more opened-ended as a technique. Moore insisted on the quality of the initial idea and on the mind and vision of the artist or sculptor and this same impartiality ruled in terms of his non-partisanship between abstraction and realism. Though hardly a political activist, Moore signed the first “British Surrealist Manifesto” in 1935 and in 1936 helped organise the International Surrealist Exhibition held in London. In the same year, he took part in the “First British Artists Congress for Peace, for Democracy, for Cultural Progress,” and signed a declaration in support of Spain; in 1938, he took part in a demonstration in Hyde Park in support of the Spanish people. There was no doubt that war was looming on the horizon. It was from this period in the 1930’s that Moore began to work on a series of multi-part reclining figures such as his Four Piece Composition: Reclining Figure (1934). Formally, the main influences he was working through were Picasso’s Dinard paintings and Giacometti’s table top sculptures, with their strong emphasis on horizontality. The curators of the Tate show would have us interpret this as “an iconography of broken, abject bodies.” But as with other of Moore’s incursions into surrealist territory, there is a minimum residue of surrealist threat hanging over the piece which could just as well represent one of Moore’s formal attempts to synthesise abstraction and Surrealism. For the main impact of the sculpture is that it allows each piece to exist as a separate entity while still conveying an overall apperception of unity. Similarly, in Two Forms of the same year; we intuit a sense of belonging. For though physically separate the two forms respond to each other and seem psychologically joined.
Moore’s drawings in the “war time” room are subjected to a similar curatorial interpretation. The Freudian concept of the “uncanny” denotes the intrusion of the unfamiliar and of the unknown into the realm of the familiar and known, thus creating an ambiguous zone between dream and waking and life and death. Significantly Freud’s essay on the uncanny was written in 1919 very much in the shadow of World War I. It is therefore quite feasible that the spectacle of Londoners sheltering in the tunnels of the underground could have provoked memories of Moore’s own traumatic experiences of trench warfare, revealing aspects of himself not normally encountered even in his most surrealist phase. It is then not surprising that this series of drawings conveys a special sense of pathos and a certain dread associated with the uncanny. These drawings are unlike Moore’s sketches in that they are not preparatory drawings for future sculptures but represent art works in their own right. For obvious reasons, it was difficult if not impossible to continue creating sculptures during the war. And yet while revealing private aspects of Moore’s character they also prefigure his return to a more classicising form of figuration, especially in the emphasis on drapery, that would characterise his sculptural practice in the fifties when the menace of the Cold War and the threat of atomic extermination was very deeply felt. Moore was after all one of the co-founders of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. But equally viable is a view of these recumbent bodies as landscapes, a sculptural conceit in which figure and landscape come to represent a harmonic organic whole that runs like a leitmotif throughout Moore’s long career. The idea of the warrior that emerges in the early fifties is unique in Moore’s oeuvre; this was the first time he worked on the single male figure. Its origins in a pebble picked up on the seashore that suggested an amputated leg is characteristic of Moore’s work procedures. The Fallen Warrior and Warrior with Shield were first constructed using an armature and plaster; the plaster sets like stone and can be carved or cut, then cast in bronze. The use of bronze reconnected Moore with the art of classical Greece. He had travelled to Greece in 1951 and was impressed and moved by the Acropolis and the Parthenon frieze which he already knew from the British Museum. His warriors, like those on the Parthenon, are vulnerable and mutilated figures though they retain an element of heroic defiance. Looking back, these figures convey the strain and suffering undergone during the war years but equally reflect the tenseness and anxiety of the Cold War years when total destruction was thought to be imminent. It is surely the same sense of anxiety that makes his Reclining Figure of 1951, commissioned for the Festival of Britain, look up and interrogate the skies. By this time, space as an interplay of mass and void had become totally integral to his vision, as can be seen in his elmwood reclining figures, and Moore was beginning to receive international acclaim. It is, I think, in the last
room “elm” that the curatorial agenda particularly fails to
impress. What does impress, and
completely, is the pure poetry
of these six elmwood reclining figures which, punctuating his whole career, date
from the mid thirties and continue into the eighties. In them we can sense
Moore’s ability to marry landscape and figure and his fundamentally Romantic
belief in the indivisibility of man and nature. But more than that, they show
his real joy in handling wood and in following the grain of the wood that
suggests the undulations of the female figure. There are, I’ll wager, few
viewers who will remain unimpressed or untouched by what remains an enduring
ethic of humanism which despite seeming a tad provincial nevertheless speaks to
us of our fragile yet enduring relationship with the world around us. Perhaps this humanist perspective is Moore’s
legacy to contemporary
British sculptors such as Richard Long and Anthony Gormley, who have made
their own. © Anna Leung 2010
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. The exhibition Henry Moore was at the Tate Britain in London from 24 February - 8 August, 2010. |
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