Grass is Greenish, 2010
John McAllister
a note from Richard Hawkins
I've searched through almost every book in the house looking for a point of reference for talking about your paintings. I'd done most of the research on feuilleton (light and lyrical narrative) and papillotage (the flickering of the eye over paintings and, literally, butterflyification) but that didn't seem quite right. Then I got distracted by the sparkly tin on the wall in Liberman's photo of Bonnard's studio (both shimmery and thin at the same time), then the shallow space of Chardin's stone shelf and on to the incisive non-space of Matisse's "Large Interior in Red" (1948) and even ended up with haikus of dragonflies from Lafcadio Hearn but, still, nothing, nowhere ... no place any closer to what it means when paintings take as their primary subjects, as yours do, such simple yet gratifying things as lightness, brightness, breeziness, prettiness, summeryness, springtimeishness, lazy afternoonishness, blossomfulness and the minor and crepuscular chords of endazzlement and scintillation.
I'm back now again to my initial feuilleton idea and using adjectives like "rubicund" for the reds in Innerly Innerness, "rubiginous" for its rust colors, "rutilant" for its golds and attempting to resurrect a form of writing in which poetic description could be far-and-away enough justification for paintings that leave me, as yours do, with the distinct feeling of having been pleasingly charmed, captivated and satisfied.
I'm afraid, though, no matter what I write about them, there's no way I could convince anyone to like your paintings as much as I do unless they've spent the time seeking out great Bonnards, Matisses, Gaugins and Chardins and feeling utterly entranced and undone in front of them. My guess is that most viewers are going to be too embarrassed to appreciate your paintings. Your newest ones are too detached from the topicality that serves as a comfort zone for most audiences and have way too winsome of a surface in comparison to all the bland featureless screens and ugly hammed-up impasto that seems to capture all the headlines these days. And, frankly, your paintings are far too colorful in this strange world where colorlessness too often signifies seriousness and smartness.
I did come across this quote from Bonnard, though, and I think it helps,
"a painting is a series of marks that join together to form an object or work over which one's eyes may freely roam".
It is, granted, a bit of a blank-faced stare from the sketchbook of le Nabi très japonard. But "freely", I think is its point. "Freely" pops out as a belligerent little qualifier nestled amidst an otherwise suspiciously judicious, rather methodical statement about the procedures and expectations of looking at paintings.
If viewers could, for a moment or two, follow Bonnard's simple instructions in front of your new paintings, they might - to gush for a moment - witness the effusive ebullience and preposterous effulgence that I tend to see in your little wisteria-tinged coruscations.
- Richard Hawkins
a note from Richard Hawkins
I've searched through almost every book in the house looking for a point of reference for talking about your paintings. I'd done most of the research on feuilleton (light and lyrical narrative) and papillotage (the flickering of the eye over paintings and, literally, butterflyification) but that didn't seem quite right. Then I got distracted by the sparkly tin on the wall in Liberman's photo of Bonnard's studio (both shimmery and thin at the same time), then the shallow space of Chardin's stone shelf and on to the incisive non-space of Matisse's "Large Interior in Red" (1948) and even ended up with haikus of dragonflies from Lafcadio Hearn but, still, nothing, nowhere ... no place any closer to what it means when paintings take as their primary subjects, as yours do, such simple yet gratifying things as lightness, brightness, breeziness, prettiness, summeryness, springtimeishness, lazy afternoonishness, blossomfulness and the minor and crepuscular chords of endazzlement and scintillation.
I'm back now again to my initial feuilleton idea and using adjectives like "rubicund" for the reds in Innerly Innerness, "rubiginous" for its rust colors, "rutilant" for its golds and attempting to resurrect a form of writing in which poetic description could be far-and-away enough justification for paintings that leave me, as yours do, with the distinct feeling of having been pleasingly charmed, captivated and satisfied.
I'm afraid, though, no matter what I write about them, there's no way I could convince anyone to like your paintings as much as I do unless they've spent the time seeking out great Bonnards, Matisses, Gaugins and Chardins and feeling utterly entranced and undone in front of them. My guess is that most viewers are going to be too embarrassed to appreciate your paintings. Your newest ones are too detached from the topicality that serves as a comfort zone for most audiences and have way too winsome of a surface in comparison to all the bland featureless screens and ugly hammed-up impasto that seems to capture all the headlines these days. And, frankly, your paintings are far too colorful in this strange world where colorlessness too often signifies seriousness and smartness.
I did come across this quote from Bonnard, though, and I think it helps,
"a painting is a series of marks that join together to form an object or work over which one's eyes may freely roam".
It is, granted, a bit of a blank-faced stare from the sketchbook of le Nabi très japonard. But "freely", I think is its point. "Freely" pops out as a belligerent little qualifier nestled amidst an otherwise suspiciously judicious, rather methodical statement about the procedures and expectations of looking at paintings.
If viewers could, for a moment or two, follow Bonnard's simple instructions in front of your new paintings, they might - to gush for a moment - witness the effusive ebullience and preposterous effulgence that I tend to see in your little wisteria-tinged coruscations.
- Richard Hawkins
No comments:
Post a Comment