It's always been a mystery to me why Japanese canvas stretchers don't feature wedges for tautening a canvas, a common feature in Europe and probably the US. At last I've found the "A" range by Maruoka that does have wedges. Taut as a drum from now on.
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I'm ashamed to admit that one of my online pastimes is Googling 'Roger Barnard artist'. A recent search turned up reviews in the newly-uploaded Spectator archives of the New Generation shows in 1966 and 68. I wasn't aware of these reviews before, and discovered that they were both less than enthusiastic, and my paintings weren't mentioned at all. From the 1966 review by Mario Amaya: "… this latest selection of eleven painters and two sculptors chosen by Mr Robertson seems to be straining desperately to create an effect, without knowing quite why or what it is after." A pretty accurate description of my current work, too. And in 1968 Paul Grinke concluded his review with: "Many people will no doubt be disappointed that there are no new names to conjure with, and not all that much new work by older hands, but the show remains both useful and enjoyable." Well, that was something, I suppose. These reminded me of a 'review' of the 1966 show in the now defunct Studio International magazine which was actually written beforehand by Patrick Procktor, one of the artists featured in the first NG show in 1964. I and the three other Central students had been told that Procktor would be visiting the school, and after showing him our work, we naively assumed that the article would be a standard puff piece. But no such luck. As a temporary art critic, he was refreshingly honest about all the artists, and very sparing in his praise. He wrote that my paintings were "fair examples of optical paintings, the most recent one moving towards something less mathematically regular. Where?" Fair enough, Patrick. It wasn't all gloom, however. I remember I was mentioned favourably in a 1966 BBC broadcast of "The Critics", but I have no recording to back up my claim. And after my father died, I discovered a cutting from The Sunday Telegraph dated May 5, 1968. Edwin Mullins, the regular art critic, wrote: "The early King "Twilight," will in time be regarded as a seminal work in British sculpture of the 1960s; and Hoyland, Barnard, and Lancaster are others for whom my respect grows." Which was nice. In September 2015, I commented on a video on the Prager University Facebook page. You can watch the video and read my original and follow-up comments here (if you have nothing else to do).
For a couple of months after my comment appeared, there was a steady trickle of responses, mostly agreeing with me, so that was nice. Around the end of the year, the negative ones started popping up and then things went relatively quiet. For some reason, since March this year there have been more or less daily comments, a lot of them of the ‘modern art sucks’ variety. Among other things, I have been called ‘an airhead liberal’ and ‘a waste of space’. It’s actually been quite interesting trying to articulate what I think about ‘modern’ art (not an unquestioning defence by any means), but the recent trolling has made me more wary of expressing my opinions on the Internet. This blog is different, as no one seems to read it … Robert Morris: "We have only to experience late Donatello or Cézanne or Titian or Goya to see that it is in old age that the most extraordinary art is made by those few survivors who realise how terrifying existence is, and at the end of life live totally in their art to escape this crushing world." (New York Times International Edition, March 18-19, 2017)
My semi-abstract landscape idiom ground to a halt at the end of last year. I felt the whole approach was based on clichés and approximations of other artists’ work, and a bit of serendipity has kick-started a switch back to acrylics and abstraction, at least for a while. After looking at one of my paintings from 2009 which had been hanging in the toilet (prime location), I thought it didn’t look bad at all. A simple grid of colours, with no pretensions to be anything else, but somehow ‘working’. Based on another cliché (the grid) of course, but it got me thinking. At New Year’s I visited a Shinto Shrine, where you can find boards made up of rectangular plates displaying the names of donors, arranged in rows, an approximation of the ‘composition’ of my painting. And then I happened to listen to a BBC podcast of Philip Glass, Steve Reich, and John Adams talking about their compositional methods using repetition, sequence variation, etc. Is this a sign, I wondered (No, I replied.) But it suggested a way out of my semi-abstract quandary. Shift was the first in the series. I suppose this kind of approach is slightly similar (albeit much smaller and much neater) to what Frank Stella was doing when he rejected Abstract Expressionism. So now I’m about 60 years behind the times instead of 70. Francis Bacon achieved financial and critical success early in his career and never looked back. Until relatively recently John Berger was one of the few major critics who did not regard Bacon highly, in contrast to the adulation heaped upon him by David Sylvester, for example. I have a dim recollection of seeing Bacon’s ’Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion’ (1944) in my teens, but the first encounter that made a lasting impression was a show at the Marlborough Gallery in the mid-1960s. Unlike most galleries today, the space was carpeted (deep red, I think) and had the atmosphere of the lobby of a luxury hotel. The paintings, behind glass and contained in thick gold frames were clearly luxury objects, and Bacon’s technique of placing his images on flat areas of colour laid onto unprimed canvas reminded me (and still does) of those paintings on velvet of sad, wide-eyed children, complete with highlights in the eyes. Maybe I was too young to respond, but I felt none of the claimed horror or alienation. Many artists (including myself) are tempted to smudge and blur to compensate for unconvincing drawing; but Bacon built his whole style on it. Yes, there is interest in the paint handling, but after a while it becomes too predictable, too pat. And why is it only the figures are tortured and distorted, while the space surrounding them is relatively calm and naturalistic? (In fact, the same could also be said of many works by Picasso.) Only a few drawings by Bacon have been found; his friend Lucian Freud, although apparently an admirer of Bacon’s work, said bluntly that he couldn’t draw. I went to a fairly comprehensive Bacon show in Tokyo last year, and although I tried to keep an open mind, the only paintings that really convinced me were the earliest: ’Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion’. In those three paintings there was a genuine attempt to discover something. But once he had found that patented Bacon technique, he was parodying himself. Some art critics appear to enjoy writing about artists who, as they see it, have failed. John Berger was fond of this kind of thing at one time; a whole book was devoted to ’The Failure of Picasso’, and his collection of writings ‘Permanent Red’ contained a chapter titled ‘Artists Defeated by the Difficulties’ (Naom Gabo, Paul Klee, Jackson Pollock, Dubuffet, Germaine Richier, Barbara Hepworth, John Bratby). The reputations of some of these artists have diminished since the 1950s and 60s, which could be a sign that they did ‘fail’. But what does it mean to fail? For Berger it often meant not being able to satisfy his desire for an art that was of high artistic quality, but at the same time spoke to the ordinary working man (or woman). But the inability to reach an unattainable goal in which formal and social considerations are balanced to the critic’s satisfaction cannot be considered failure. We can find many examples of artists who themselves admit that they have failed, and their words are usually more informative than those of the critics. Cézanne, Hokusai, and Giacometti (“All I can do will only ever be a faint image of what I see and my success will always be less than my failure or perhaps equal to the failure.”) are examples of artists who felt they had not achieved what they wanted. According to their own words, failure for a painter usually means an inability to realise a formal goal. I have never read of an artist who believed that he or she had failed to sufficiently move the public. Most artists of any note, whether we like it or not, reject the idea of working with public approval in mind. The main attraction of painting for me is that it presents the viewer with a flat surface (the picture plane) which at the same time can give an illusion of depth, from shallow to infinitely deep. In fact, the depth can extend forwards from the picture plane, and well as recede away behind it. By depth, I don’t mean representing illusionistic depth by depicting forms with shadows and highlights, but achieving depth or projection through the use of colour; Hans Hofmann's 'push and pull'. And that is probably the reason why I respond less enthusiastically to sculpture or installation art. For me, a sculpture is always a real object in the viewer’s immediate space. It rarely suggests space beyond itself, although some exceptions might be sculptures by Anthony Caro and Anish Kapoor. As for installations, the only one that has ever excited me was Richard Wilson’s “20:50” (above), a sea of used sump oil, permanently on view at the Saatchi Gallery in London. The experience of walking into the middle of the piece is something I will never forget. What does it mean? Who knows. I’ve been interested lately in the growing media presence of the ‘representational art (RA)’ movement. It seems to reflect the widely-held dissatisfaction with the elitist ‘art world’, represented by powerful gallery owners, mega-rich collectors, and artists such as Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst. The re-emergence of figurative art (in fact, it’s always been around) has coincided with (or is a part of) the rise of conservatism and nationalism around the world. It can be seen as a desire to return to ’traditional values’ and a rejection of subjectivity and relativism, principles that defined art of the modern and post-modern eras. There is no shortage of videos on YouTube in the form of RA artist profiles, instructional videos, workshops, and panel discussions, and it becomes clear that the term ‘representational art’ is virtually meaningless, as it apparently includes the worst kind of kitsch (Eric Armusik, above right), the paintings of oddballs (Odd Nerdrum), RAs with a foot in the post-spot-modern art world (Vincent Desiderio), and undoubtedly important artists such as Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez. And there can be no doubt that the works of Lucian Freud, Alice Neel, or Chuck Close are representational, but when we listen to RA proponents, their work is rarely, if ever, mentioned. In fact, for the committed RA supporter, ‘representational’ often means art that echoes the paintings of such artists as Rembrandt, and Caravaggio. Deep shadows, overall gloom, and highlights are treasured as marks of quality. Heroic poses add gravitas. Unabashed sentiment is celebrated. Another resurrected hero of the movement is the quintessential French academician, William-Adolphe Bouguereau, and an example of a school that follows the French academic tradition to the letter is The Academy of Realist Art , which has branches in Boston, Edinburgh and other cities. An article on the Huffington Post website profiles The European Museum of Modern Art, opened in 2005 in Barcelona and a major promoter of the new representational art. The museum is housed in a refurbished palace in which Putin or Trump would feel right at home. In Japan, there is the Hoki Museum, mainly dedicated to Japanese artists of the RA genre. So what are my objections to the RA phenomenon? In its extreme form, it is an attempt to return to the past, akin to Trump’s promise to ‘make America great again’. The belief that a return to the principles of the 19th century French academy will lead to any worthwhile art is absurd. I have no quarrel with representational art that sincerely addresses present-day issues, using a contemporary idiom, but to imagine that we still need dimly-lit pictures of heroic nudes or elegant decanters of wine is laughable. Am I defending the world of Koons and Hirst and white-cube galleries? Definitely not; I find both extremes profoundly depressing. Surely, as in politics, there must be a sane, broad-minded middle ground. To be continued … I sometimes start a painting from ‘nothing’, making a network of lines and areas of colour. The level of control can vary, but usually less control leads to a greater chance of a stimulating and unexpected starting point. It can help to close my eyes at this stage. In fact, these ‘random’ marks are no less random than the forms that present themselves to us in the real world. At a certain stage, there is always a desire to tease out and make concrete forms which may or may not relate to recognisable features of the everyday world. Relationships across the picture plane and in depth suggest themselves, and ideally, colour and formal relationships will develop together. The forms I see may relate to previous paintings and drawings, or to something I have seen in my everyday life. Sometimes the forms and overall image appear too easily and must be discarded. At times, there may appear to be no way of taking the painting forward, and turning it sideways or upside down, working on another painting, or just leaving it alone for a day or so can help. If I feel I'm moving in the right direction, each successive move becomes more assured. There comes a stage when progress slows, and each subsequent step requires greater deliberation. This is often a signal that the painting may be finished, or nearly so. ‘Finished’ meaning that work on it has ceased, rather than a particular goal has been reached. There is always a danger of continuing past this point and losing whatever it is that was gained. Ideally, one ends up with a painting that is nothing like the original concept. It should convince me and the viewer that it has a right to occupy a place in the world. And if I'm lucky, I might come up with a suitable title. |