Sunday, September 17, 2017

Günther Förg and Antoni Tàpies at Galerie Lelong

Günter Förg, Untitled, 1989
Mixed media on paper
Günther Förg and Antoni Tàpies don’t instinctively seem to be an ideal pair to share an exhibition. But because of their enormous differences, their work sits together comfortably to create uncomfortable but productive tensions currently on view at Galerie Lelong.

Günter Förg, Untitled, 1993
Watercolor on paper
Förg’s abstract paintings are among the most accessible kind of abstraction. This is largely to do with the vibrancy of the colours, the looseness of the paint, the unmistakeable forms. In addition, the influence of Piet Mondrian, Barnett Newman, and Mark Rothko gives the abstract images a familiarity. Nevertheless, Förg’s watercolours and crayon on paper are easier, less intellectually challenging, and they take themselves less seriously than those of the masters to which they are indebted. Words that come to mind in front of Förg’s paintings include: light, rhythm, vibration, luminosity and play, even as they extend to depth and density on reflection. The images on display at Galerie Lelong include some of his well-known paintings in which windows in bright colours are placed inside frames. And within the frames the paint or the line of the crayon is set free. There is even a randomness to the stroke within the framing devices, at times even disrespecting the frame or limits. This arbitrariness within the divided and entrapped spaces gives them a childlikeness, and with it a sense of healthy disrespect.
Antoni Tàpies exhibition installation view @ Galerie Lelong
Antoni Tàpies works on paper could not be more different. Walking into the main gallery at Lelong, the visitor is overwhelmed by the pain, suffering, loss and agony of the emotions depicted on paper. Like Förg’s familiar “grid-like” patterns, we immediately recognize Tàpies well-rehearsed visual language.  The x and the +, the cross and the erasure, death and very little life follows us around the gallery. There’s not a lot of hope and happiness in the scratching and scrawling, the spare painted marks in muted colours on thick, sensuous paper. The only colour to appear on his works is red. And then, it’s red of a particularly violent nature: when a ladder in red leads nowhere and finds a cross two thirds of the way up, we imagine the soldier who didn’t even make it to heaven before his bloody wounds killed him. We can only imagine the torture he went through.
 
Antoni Tàpies, Escala vermella I (1983
Similar to Escala vermella I (1983) many of Tàpies’s works ask us to imagine the story of what we don’t see in the image. In one particularly poignant image, Negre I Rogenc I (2006), we see black brushstrokes transform into someone dying on a battlefield before our eyes. As the figure on his knees bends down in defeat, the blood drips from wounds and stains the ground. Planes fly overhead and before we know it we are on the battlefield of WWI in mourning for the figure that is infact no more than a few strokes of black paint. In another example, four images, each with a minimum of lines nevertheless clearly portray dismembered body parts: feet, an eye, genitals, hands. And each of them is wounded by the red stain that nevertheless is only present in two of them.
 
Antoni Tàpies, Dues mans assenyalant, 2011
What is it, I wondered, that makes Tàpies’s pictures so devastating? How can a few abstract lines evoke the destruction of history?  It’s something to do with, once again, the looseness of the brushstroke, the apparent loss of control, the strokes that trail off into nothing. And in addition, as we saw in Förg’s abstractions, there is a sense of innocence and childlikeness to the drawings and paintings, evocations of something lost. The body crossed out, indicating either erasure or that something is not right and a need to start again from the beginning. The madness of the unordered and the unruly, the anger and violence of a single line is nowhere more profound than in Tàpies’s paintings.

Antoni Tàpies, Vernis I, 1989
The exhibition is also supposed to be about matter. These are not vintage Tàpies images with sand and plaster, dirt and other substances on the canvas. In fact, I found most of the images, both by Tàpies and Förg to depart from questions of matter. That said, however, there is a lovely juxtaposition of Tàpies’s works in varnish, where varnish bleeds over the surface of paper, and those that use paint which is absorbed by thick luscious hand made paper.

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Derain, Balthaus, Giacometti, An Artistic Friendship

Alberto Giacometti, Aika, 1959
The goal of this exhibition is to bring together the lives and work of the three artists to illustrate their mutual influence, and consequently, to appreciate the art of each in a new light. For me, the exhibition works to illustrate one thing: the extraordinary imagination and unique talent of Alberto Giacometti. Hanging next to works by Derain and Balthaus, Giacometti’s paintings and sculpture are more moving than when viewed on their own, if that is possible. The exhibition will convince everyone who sees it that Giacometti was a genius in his own time, and remains one today.
 
André Derain, Geneviève à la Pomme, vers 1937-38

Giacometti’s portraits are exquisite. That he made them all in various shades of grey while the other Derain and Balthaus were still using a full color palette must have been so daring at the time. It is true, the subject matter and form of what the three artists paint may be similar at times, and again the texture of the paint as Giacometti explored it may resonate with the same in the work of the other two. But Giacometti takes everything to an extreme that sees his painting stand out in unimaginable ways, thus lifting his art into a whole different realm. The other two don’t go to the same extreme of placing frames around frames around frames, both within and external to the canvas of a portrait. I have always understood Giacometti’s portraits to be about entrapment, much like the sculpted figures are stuck to the base of their statues. The portraits are like sketches; they are worked over again and again in pencil, rubbed out, smudged, drawn again. The heads make the figures anonymous, held within a drawn frame, then that of the canvas, and again by that of the picture frame. There is always something unfinished about Giacometti’s portraits, as if the reworking wants to go on into infinity. It is as though he wouldn’t let the figures go until he was finished, so they become eternally trapped in a mise-en-abîme of frames. I also noticed in the portraits on display here that the space behind the head often opens up within the painting, as if the figure is on a stage with exits and entrances, curtains and backdrops. This changes everything: because the figures are free to end the performance and leave the stage whenever they want.
 
Alberto Giacometti, Apple on the Buffet, 1938
If I have to admit a similarity between or mutual influence of Derain, Balthaus and Giacometti, it might start with apples on tables. All three are interested in still life, and all three put apples on tables. For the other two, there is usually the attempt to create a scene, with a cloth, a knife, water, and for Derain, even the woman Geneviève. Thus, for Derain and Balthaus, apples on tables are placed in a narrative. Giacommeti pushes further towards abstraction. He takes the image over the edge so that still life becomes literally that: lifeless, frozen, to the point where everything is taken out of the picture until all that is left is an apple on a table scratched into and onto the surface of a grey painting. It’s similar to the portraits in which Giacometti removes human the expression until they become “portraits.” Likewise, the still lives verge into abstraction until they are a composition in a frame, as both become the genre in skeletal form.
 
Alberto Giacometti, L'Homme qui Chavire, 1950-51
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I thought the greatest indication of the expanse between Giacometti and the other two was realized when Derain and Balthaus made traditional costumes for Cosi Fan Tutti, while Giacometti made the tree by which Vladimir and Estragon wait for Godot. From classical opera to absurdist drama, it’s difficult to find the connections. I was struck in one of the final rooms by a hanging of two paintings with Giacometti’s L’Homme qui Chavire, 1950-51 placed between them, in the middle of the room. The movement of Giacometti’s fragile figure in the wind is breathtaking to be sure, and the resonance of the movement between sculpture and paintings is identifiable, Balthaus and Derain put women not men in motion in their paintings. For Giacometti, it’s almost unheard of to place women in motion. Rather, in his painting and sculpture, men move while women are stuck in their iron base, in the frames around them, and by extension, in the dark reality of the world of their time. Some might want to argue that Giacometti’s vision of women was misogynist, but to me it’s realist, and even more so next to the fantasies of Balthaus and Derain.