So what’s that supposed to be, then?

In idle moments of lockdown I’ve been catching up on some of the televised portraiture competitions from the Battersea Arts Centre. 

I paint, write, doodle on the keyboard, and am blessed with some exceptionally creative relatives, and so in a personal way I’m familiar with some of the tribulations of the creative process, but I know little of portrait work. Therefore the following observations may be tritely familiar to those who are better informed. If so, I apologise, but the fact is that I found watching these artists, struggling to achieve something inevitably very difficult, against the clock and under the glare of the TV cameras, inspiring and comforting during these anxious days of ambient death and disease.

Typically, in every programme there are three sitters, each of them drawn or painted within a four hour period by three artists - amateur or professional - who have already demonstrated their ability by submitting self-portraits. Naturally, all the artists featured had their own preferred way of doing things, which under the pressurised circumstances proved to be to their advantage, or not. Many techniques were employed, some conventional, some far less so, and the results weren’t always convincing or satisfactory. Nor were they necessarily “interesting” failures, although all the efforts were well intentioned, fuelled by a determination to succeed. Some were absolutely wonderful.

Given the nature of a competition, the objective being to win, understandably there were pressures to be daring, to stun, to elicit something more than the politely mouthed “wow” by the sitter (finally permitted to see what has been made of them, hiding their horror and disbelief), and so it was. The journey towards “getting there” could be fascinating, even if the destination sometimes disappointed.

Rather than attempting hyperrealist precision – impossible anyway given the time constraints – very often the candidate was trying to create something unexpected or even slightly wild, to add artiness and painterliness, consciously avoiding simple verisimilitude. Vagueness and abstraction might be introduced, along with colours and dynamism not objectively visible, qualities felt in some way by the artist to be latent in the sitter and needing to be emphasised, plus trademark special effects that they hoped would add something personal and appealing. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, or rather the four hours, the essence of the subject had to be captured, had to “look like them”, otherwise the attempt had – pretty much – failed. However much subjective sparkle is added, realism cannot be denied entirely

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A few things I noticed. 

Fairly early on in the process the artist will often “get” the look of the subject, so that one can say, “yes, that’s him” or “that’s absolutely her”. At this point one can see that they’ve captured that distinctive “look” perhaps almost in a shorthand way, a caricature or cartoonish kind of way. Sadly, infuriatingly, so often they then go on to labour their chosen medium until the likeness is lost among a mess of unfortunate brushstrokes and bright ideas that didn’t quite work out. 

Knowing when to stop, with any art form, is a skill that cannot be taught and is always situation-specific. When is the work finished? Is it ever? Surely an unnecessary cheesy adjective (like unnecessary or cheesy) could be removed here, a comma inserted there; that dark patch on the chin ought to be softened; that high note could be attempted again, the bass could do with a tad more echo. If the moment when it is best to stop is only 20 minutes into a 4 hour competition and everyone is watching, the temptation to “improve” will be well-nigh irresistible. Otherwise, what are you going to do for the next 3 hours 40? Tinkering can be so detrimental, hindsight so cruel.

On occasion, the first version of something, whether of a painting, a poem, or a piece of music, may be the best that can be achieved. If the artist is on a roll, is in the zone, in the flow, is inspired or is enjoying any one of those near-synonymous labels of rare but magical highs of creativity, the work pours out effortlessly from the unconscious mind, ready made, down the arms and out through the fingers, as it were. The first “take” may be the most inspired and absolutely right version that will ever be achieved. Usually, it isn’t. The form or content may be all there in principle, but polishing and tidying up are normally required.

Very often the artist (or musician or writer), has to work “against” something, which in practice is what he or she has already produced, either in the current work or a previous one. The first marks on the canvas (or other recording medium) may be feeble, crude, awkward, inarticulate and wrong. However, they need to be “got down” so they can be worked upon; a start has to be made somehow, otherwise indefinite floundering may ensue. Parts as yet undecided in detail will need to be blocked out, overall structure planned. You don’t want the left ear falling off the edge of the canvas.

Once the initial attempt has been made, then it can be altered, deformed and improved towards the final product, with details added and tweaks performed as deemed appropriate. This process is similar to but is not quite the same thing as “doing a rough draft and then writing it up properly” – as we were perhaps taught to do with school homework. No, this is a deeper creative process, perhaps closer to carving or sculpting – or even wrestling - than to editing or striving to be neat. 

Typically, despite many notable exceptions in all creative media, the artist doesn’t know in advance what the final product will look, sound or read like, although they may have a mental picture, and recognise it once achieved. Or, at the end, they may be forced to accept that what they have produced isn’t what they had in mind, isn’t good enough, doesn’t “work” – or is acceptable only as something other than what they had intended.  Only once the creative process is well under way they may discover what it is that they are in fact trying to do; they may surprise themselves. In an essay published in 1998 the late Jenny Diski wrote: “One of the great pleasures of writing for me is starting out in the wrong direction and discovering how all points can eventually lead to home”. That particular writer evidently had her own demons, but more generally it can be said that a creative individual works his or her way into a work of art of any kind, writes into it or paints into it or plays into it - into it and against it - slowly finding out what it will be, experimenting, withdrawing, plunging in again, trying this and that until they have it.

Particularly annoying - or in a more positive assessment particularly revealing and informing - is when the painting, piece of music or item of text is completed, or nearly so, and then its creator suddenly realises in a eureka moment of supreme horror / excitement how it should have looked (sounded, etc), how or what it was “supposed” to be. The response at this moment may be despair, rejection, abandonment, exhilaration, a risky attempt at “fixing” the problem, or it may be the start of a motivation to go on to the next thing. There has to be a mechanism whereby a creative person moves from one project to the next, and this could be one of the components. 

This late-in-the-day realisation may be accepted as just another stage in the “working against” principle, part of that uncertain and meandering journey from first daub, scribble or squawk to finished masterpiece. Under normal circumstances that’s all to the good. Unfortunately, if the four hour deadline is approaching, for those brave bared souls on public display, it may be too late. Let’s hope that – at “time’s up” - what they’ve done is good enough.

The emptiness aesthetic

There can be few positives extractable from this current global tragedy. One of them is the friendship, kindness, generosity and altruism of neighbours and strangers alike, qualities which so often lay dormant until activated by disaster. It’s good to know that they still exist. Still the same old country.

The second benefit, although in a normal sense hardly desirable, is the enormous reduction in activity in almost everything. Suddenly, the world is a quieter place. Environmentally this is good, and it would be even better if some degree of it could be sustained when normality returns. If this terrible episode doesn’t conclusively define and condemn what a disaster so-called globalisation has been, and lead to a fundamental change in how we manage our world, then we’re all stuffed.  Already over the last few days the sky looks bluer - probably just a meteorological coincidence - with the Spring flowers at their best.

 People are naturally gregarious, and enforced separation is distressing for many, as it is for me, grumpy introvert though I am. But when I see on the TV news images of commuters on the Tube, squashed together, noses in armpits, breathing in each other’s diseases, my reactions are a combination of nausea and relief that I’m not involved, although at many times in my life, normal times, I’ve been happy to endure and even to enjoy such conditions myself. There are sensory and psychological pleasures in congestion and busyness; they are among the appeals of a great city, expressions of life at its most intense and, some would say, most civilised.

While urban vitality is important, conversely, there’s something to be said for emptiness and quiet among the bustle. In London, the many parks, squares and commons cater for this need, and contribute their particular loveliness to this greatest of cities, throughout the seasons. Many other British towns and cities are similarly blessed; many aren’t, and finding a pleasant spot, quiet but safe, may not always be so easy. But for now the streets are empty too, and that is unusual and unnatural.

As an older person, rapidly approaching the official threshold of coronavirus vulnerability, I remember years with much lower population densities, little vehicular traffic, and tourist destinations which could be enjoyed in relative peace. When I think back to my suburban childhood the essential quality I recall is that of peace and quiet. You could actually hear how quiet it was; just a kind of distant gentle hum.  Not much traffic, no unwanted intrusions of other people’s electronics (except for “The Archers” theme tune wafting across from the old ladies round the corner - dumpty dumpty dumpty dump etc), just the occasional Vulcan bomber which was tremendously noisy and made your ribs rattle if it flew low. Today, scarcely a couple of miles away from where I grew up, as I draft this blog, the only sound I hear is lawnmowers and, bizarrely, the jingle of a cruising ice cream van. Though the ultimate reasons for this state of acoustic affairs are appalling, purely as background, as ambient sound, it makes me happy, reminding me as it does of more satisfactory times.

Cities are primarily about people, but as architectural and geographical entities they have other roles to play, including visual and spiritual ones. As someone who likes to draw and paint cityscapes I know I’m not the only one who has preferred to exclude people and / or traffic from the painted scene. Artists far better than I have exploited the same instincts for urban visual emptiness, whether they were trying to portray alienation and loneliness, a mood of noir, desolation ecstasy, a sensation of space, an architectural peculiarity, a time of day, or otherwise. In my case this habit has been enforced  partly because of painterly incompetence, but also because I love the paradoxical quiet sometimes to be found in the heart of a major city. It’s a state of mind I like to experience and to express as best I can on paper or canvas. It’s the sound of early Sunday morning. 

                                                        Notting Hill      ©  R. Abbott 2014

 Now, it seems, in the last few days, we have had this quietude thrust back upon us, unasked for - the empty streets and parks, empty squares, empty cities. Not so much a month of Sundays, as an unknown number of them to come.

Sensible advice therefore would be, for someone like me, to enjoy the sight while it lasts, to make the most if it. Much more sensibly, the advice is, not to. So I can’t, even if I wanted to. I have to imagine it instead. All the same, artistically, aesthetically, selfishly, I can’t help thinking that it’s a kind of missed opportunity.

 
Meanwhile I’d happily exchange this nightmare for a chance to inhale some armpits on the Tube. Armpits aren’t great, but in a normal world they’re rarely lethal. Stay safe.

Mayola

My visits to art exhibitions are usually alone, or with a close family member, and it’s rare that I’m accompanied by a friend. On Saturday, however, such was the case at the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition, and I found great pleasure in discussing what we liked and disliked, what worked for us and what didn’t, comparing thoughts and observations.

Over many years I’ve attended the Summer Exhibition, not infrequently leaving with the thought “never again”. Whatever one’s views on art, whatever one’s tastes, it’s always quite an event, it’s sure to be interesting, sometimes provocative and infuriating, and likely to be fun, as it was exceptionally so last year, when curated by Grayson Perry. Though my friend is a frequent visitor to traditional art exhibitions and collections, and even at one time produced a bibliography of pop art, he finds that modern art, so-called, too often leaves him (as it does me) with a reaction of “so what ?” This was his first visit to a Summer Exhibition.

This year there was an underlying animal theme, plus everything else one has grown to expect, from crude sociopolitical propaganda right through to the yawn-inducing must-have “pile of old rubbish on the floor” exemplar of the “pile of old rubbish on the floor” school of pretentiousness, plus the usual Academicians with their increasingly tired views of splotchy skies over the Channel or the Gove-haunted squares of South Kensington, on offer at pisstakingly egotistical prices. Quite remarkably blatant were parodic updates of Bruegel and Bosch, Hopper and Hamilton, Riley and Ruscha, in a show curated by Jock McFadyen, or as the sponsor’s preface in the catalogue calls him, Jock McFayden. Whatever his McMoniker, his evident painterly USP consists of large indifferent skies separated from large indifferent foregrounds by a thin horizontal band of decayed commercialised urbanised grot. What not to like ?

One of the purposes of art, allegedly, is to challenge the status quo, but this year’s show lazily endorses the assumed left liberal metropolitan stance on current subjects of concern and controversy, Brexit included, and could have been compiled by the BBC. This year there were more paintings on display than ever, climbing crazily up the walls well out of comfortable viewing range, and there was some carelessness in what we are now supposed to call the metadata. One work by George Shaw, of a wonderfully drab suburban back-lot (Coventry, presumably), is transposed with its neighbour in the catalogue. 

“Would I want it on my living room wall ?” and “would I want to sit looking at it ?” are criteria my friend and I share. Well, I adore tigers, but … “Does it make me dead jealous that I didn’t do it myself ?” is an additional conceit of mine, and this year there was only one such qualifying work. It didn’t grab me initially, but I photographed it, and only later did I get the “wow” moment of awe and envy. The painting is called “Mayola”, and is by Salvatore Fiorello. “Mayola” is an odd word; perhaps suggestive of a kind of pandemic of paralysis and depression induced by a protracted spell of prime ministerial uselessness, or alternatively a healthy brand of unsaturated fatty acid-enriched cooking oil. What can it mean ?

“Mayola” (detail), Salvatore Fiorello

Oil on linen, on sale for £700, and featuring the backs of houses, it’s very much my kind of thing. Since the catalogue no longer lists the addresses of contributors – presumably in case enraged viewers want to get at them and do them harm – there’s no clue as to where Signor Fiorello resides or operates, and googling him elicits little. Like so many contributors to the Summer Exhibition over the years, it appears that he’s conspicuously talented but relatively unknown. My initial impression was that the subject of the painting was somewhere in London, most probably East, just possibly South, an outside chance of somewhere else. Pure guesswork, though informed by a lifetime of wandering around such locations with their characteristic domestic vernaculars and subtly unique ambiences. I took a gamble and consulted the A to Z. To my slight surprise and considerable delight the index lists a Mayola Road in Clapton, E5, not far from where my paternal grandmother spent part of her childhood. Yes, that would fit, absolutely, spot on, although, as I say, it’s only a guess. There’s no other Mayola in the capital. 

It would be great if the artist in question were to read this blog and to contact me. I’d certainly like to know more about him and see some of his other work. Once upon a time one used to read, sprayed onto walls and railway bridges, that ‘Clapton is God’, but for me, this year, and wherever it’s supposed to be, “Mayola” was the star of the show.

Painting with two fingers

In too many places around the world we see odious, corrupt, thuggish, hypocritical, criminal regimes holding on to positions of absolute power - evidently for the primary purposes of personal greed and self-preservation. Sickos and their henchpersons who want a controlled reality to stay the same for ever, regardless of the fate of millions or the wellbeing of the planet. Luckily we are relatively free from that kind of thing here. In the UK, though our politicians routinely ignore the wishes of the common people, though – if you read ‘Private Eye’ – corruption is endemic, though so often our news is a saga of incompetence, betrayal and hypocrisy, and though voting changes nothing, we are fortunate that we can – if necessary via the medium of paint – stick two fingers up to the lot of them, without fear of arrest … or worse. 

Therefore it is particularly gratifying that this year’s Royal Academy Summer Exhibition, the 250th, and overseen by the wonderful Grayson Perry, includes a great deal of two-fingered content. Much of it is funny, makes a point, might even be seen as subversive. Well, I hope so. The spectrum of material ranges from visual puns and absurdities, bling poodles and carpeted bears, via parodies of famous paintings and a standard yellow ‘new development’ direction sign reading “Unaffordable Housing”, to the Korean Kims studying a Duchamp-esque urinal, and a POTUS strategically placed against a spread-legged Miss Mexico.

Protest against the freaks and monsters who run our world is always healthy, and it is good that art can be harnessed in this way – as it always has been. Art, protest, humour, propaganda, subversion, and resistance have a long, intimate, and worthy history. Art as fun, art as protest. Totalitarians and obsessives of all sorts have a phobia of fun, for that is invariably their Achilles heel, and – anatomically improbably – their blindspot too. They never see how unintentionally and absurdly funny they and their strutting little empires are. 

So far so good. There’s nothing quite like humour for getting one on side. Piss-taking can be irresistible, especially when there are brightly decorated rooms full of it. However, expressing a political opinion or being disrespectful are not the sole purpose of art, nor is being hilarious, as it so often is at this show. This exhibition is brilliant as a one-off, but I hope it doesn’t become too much of a habit. Equally I hope there won’t be a return to the years of accommodating the endless dreary fixations of elderly academicians (there’s only a handful of that sort of thing this year), views of smug studios with window views of south-west London or overpriced (and also smug) excursions to European art cities, or a return to the shock-horror of the shock-horror merchants, or to the studiedly difficult genre of the deeply meaningful daub that only clever people ‘get’, a world where any old rubbish can be said to be Angst No. 93 or Dalston Junction or made into a neon sign. Let’s have art that is enjoyable, understandable, and well made.

As ever, the Summer Exhibition this year is eclectic, and there is far more to it than I have suggested so far. Besides the humour and the schoolboy smirking, there is great painting as well. There’s imaginative and technically accomplished design, as well as the usual contingent of the dire and the WTF. I’m not even sure what Hockney is trying to achieve this time, and the Anish Kapoor contraption in the courtyard is only slightly less meaningless than his oversized red twisted paperclip thingy at Stratford East. But I bet the Japanese visitors like it.

Overall, though, I found the exhibition hugely enjoyable, as did, very evidently, others who were there at the same time, on Saturday. Most of them grinning, some laughing their heads off. More than anything, as I emerged afterwards into a blisteringly hot Piccadilly, it made me want to get out my paints again.

David Hockney at the Tate

One of the most enjoyable art exhibitions I’ve ever attended is “Hockney” at Tate Britain, which I visited on Friday evening. Once I’d shaken off the two awful middle-aged English women uninterested in the exhibition but nattering loudly about their shopping or their periods or whatever sexist derision their appalling behaviour merits (I doubt that they even know who they are, but they were among the 7.30 entry), I could immerse myself in this magnificent display of six decades of genius. I was again distracted briefly when I found myself in front of one of the portraits – I think it was a small drawing of ‘Celia’ - and standing next to a young man who was almost laughing with pleasure. “This guy certainly had some fun” he chuckled, seeing my intrigued expression. I’d never thought that before, never realised it, nor heard anyone make that remark with respect to Hockney, despite umpteen books and TV programmes about the great man but, yes, absolutely spot on. Hockney has had years and years of fun. Got it in one. I replied that nobody would do all this unless it was fun.

And yet so many “modern artists” would, humourlessly churning out acres of pointless tedium, exhibiting stuff that was surely boring to make and even more boring to look at, all very serious, all very meaningful, hoping to shock (ooh, I’m shocked), to make some portentous statement about an unsatisfactory world, to acquire the approval of an “art establishment” pathetically still obsessed with what Betjeman once called “with-it-ry”. Pained souls out to impress themselves, rather than to enjoy life and art while giving pleasure to their audience. With David Hockney it is different - the sheer joy of being alive, of observing, of playing, of experimenting, of seemingly effortless achievement (of course it isn’t effortless at all), of enjoying the physical attributes of paint and of other media or techniques, of glorying in the dazzle of colour and the infinite possibilities of form, of giving his prolific gifts to the world. A one-man parable of the talents.

Not that everything which Hockney has attempted has succeeded fully or been of unvarying top quality – it’s just that most of it has. And everyone will have their own thematic or stylistic preferences. To me, what sometimes falls a little short in matters of execution – some of the Yorkshire tree paintings perhaps – still impresses nonetheless, it gets to you, overwhelms you by its scale and quantity.

I’m not sure what is my favourite Hockney period or theme. There’s so much from which to choose. Occasionally I surprise myself; although not a doggie person, I adore his doggie pictures. I first came to Hockney via his 1960s Los Angeles paintings, and still they astonish by their size and the intensity of their colour. When I first visited LA in 1975 it was partly in response to Hockney’s portrayal of the city. I tried to see it through his eyes, through his owly spectacles, the streetsigns saying “Wilshire Blvd”, the ridiculously tall spindly palms, the glare of the sunlight, the strength of the shadows. In this way I fell in love with the city.

Though I  generally don’t think much of cubism I like his quasi-cubist experiments with Polaroids and his multiple perspectives of the Grand Canyon, with their improbable yet believable and exhilarating colour contrasts. Many of his East Riding landscapes, his wolds and woods, I admire greatly, they make me want to go there and roll around. A series of charcoal drawings of Yorkshire tree scenes, on show in this exhibition, demonstrate once again his superb skills as a draughtsman; from across the room they appear photographic, close up they are almost abstract. Since I am not a great fan of technology I was surprised at how much I enjoyed his multi-screen videos of the changing seasons in Woldgate Woods, and also his i-Pad sketches, many made at or near his home in Bridlington. Often banal subjects (but then I’m a great sucker for streetlamps) portrayed with bizarre choices of colour, all of them are expressions of joy at the appearance of things, the pleasure of being alive, exercises in fluency with a new medium.

Somehow, across the decades, and via multiple techniques, Hockney has rediscovered impressionism, and landscape art in particular. A truly great artist in the British tradition – a one-off, doing his own thing, giving pleasure, enjoying life, being positive and uplifting, aware that fun is the one thing that money can’t buy. And still active and imaginative well into his seventies. It’s good that we can see him at the Tate this year, as well as at Saltaire and elsewhere.  A national treasure who one day will surely deserve a permanent gallery all to himself.