Posts tagged ‘Exhibitions’

Oct 10

Late Turner at Tate: Repetitious repertoire with moments of genius

I think I may be almost alone amongst my British compatriots when I declare that I am not a huge fan of J M W Turner. In fact I’m fully expecting to receive a raft of hate mail when this review goes live on my blog and I conclude that Tate Britian’s latest exploit of this undoubtedly revolutionary British Artist is all a bit insipidly, uninterestingly “pastel”. Now don’t get me wrong, I am well aware that Turner was a master of his times, and likewise that he was crucial in the development of the impressionist, and then expressionist art movements that changed the world of art history. I do not doubt that without him, the whole revolution of modern art may never have seeded in quite the way it did, if at all. And I recognise that in so far as great British artists go (of which there are few), he is almost certainly one of the best. Yet when I am faced with a painting by Turner, I cannot help but feel depressed, and a little uninterested, my attention somewhat wondering away from the smudged colour palette, the greys and the pastels.

Tate Britain’s new Turner exhibition has opened with considerable fanfare. This is insuperably the case when any Turner show is opened in the UK, but the problem is, we’ve seen so much of the work before. Such is the result of an exhibition of Turner being shown at Tate, the very same museum which was bequeathed hundreds of Turner works a short time after his death. Since the exhibition focuses on “Late Turner” (works produced between 1835 and his death in 1851), it almost certainly features the lion’s share of the Turner Bequest, meaning that there is very little new to be seen by we London regulars. Still, one cannot doubt the scale and ambition of the show, which ably demonstrates that Turner was perhaps at his innovative best in this final period of his life. While the artwork is still trenched in the rigid tradition of the prescribed artistic and aesthetic tastes of the time (antiquity, pastoral landscape, naval scenes and the like), Turner was presenting canvases which aimed to capture more of an effect than a historical narrative. Even his history and antiquity paintings (of which there are many) focus more on the breathtaking light of a sunrise or sun set, or the moody effect resulting from a foggy encounter, than the story itself.

Regulus (1828)

Peace – Burial at Sea (1842)

Ancient Rome; Agrippina Landing with the Ashes of Germanicus (1839)

So to give the show its dues and focus in on the “good”, one cannot help but be stirred at times by some of Turner’s more atmospheric works, such as his paintings of stormy seas in Snowstorm (1842), so cyclical like a washing machine drum that you feel as though you are swept out at sea yourself – an effect which just can’t be captured from a postcard reproduction of the work. Mention also has to go to the stunning effects of light achieved by Turner – for example the burning glow of the Fire at the Houses of Parliament, and the incredible blinding light captured in his painting Regulus (1828) – an effect so well captured that I felt compelled to look away from the painting, as though I was staring into the sun itself.

Snowstorm (1842)

The Blue Rigi Sunrise (1842)

Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons (1834)

For me though, the success of the show – its scale – was also its downfall, as with so many Turners from the same period exhibited all together, one couldn’t help conclude that it was all a bit samey, and repetitive – a feeling also engendered by the RA’s Monet show a few years back, when one water lily after another began to look like a single mesh of watery wobbly lines so that you could no longer distinguish between them. This feeling is proliferated at Tate’s show by the unfortunate decision to paint the walls in the same predominant colour as the paintings, so that in one room, a gallery full of dull yellow paintings feels even duller and more dated thanks to the same colour having been painted on the wall. If only the whole show had been curated like the middle room, where Turner’s square and round paintings were hung on dark walls and spot-lit to magnificent effect. Under those conditions, the works really came alive.

So coming out of this exhibition, my conclusions were as follows: Turner left me flat, not so much because of his work, but because of the way the show had been put together. Too much, too samey, and horrible decisions regarding wall colours. What Turner was brilliant at was capturing light, and it is this, set against dark backgrounds, that Tate should have concentrated on, to give Turner’s final years the kind of exhibition they perhaps deserve.

Fishermen at Sea (1796)

Late Turner: Painting Set Free is showing at Tate Britian until 25 January 2015

Apr 10

Paolo Veronese – The Martydom of Saint George

London’s National Gallery is celebrating one of the gems of Italy’s and more specifically Venice’s Renaissance age: Paolo Veronese (1528-1588). In its new exhibition, Veronese: Magnificence in Renaissance Venice, the National can’t help but put on a show. In celebrating the work of this artist, whose paintings epitomise the magnificence and theatricality of Renaissance Venice with huge historical and religious canvases, bold colours and a wonderful aptitude for painting figures, classical buildings and sensational drapery, the National Gallery brings us one big hit of a painting after another. It’s almost a problem for the exhibition, which has collected together so many brilliant, vast masterpieces, that the visitor is bamboozled, unable to concentrate on any one painting in particular.

So being the great public service blogger that I am, I decided to solve this problem with a neat solution – to focus on just one of the utterly brilliant paintings on display, and the one which took my breath away over and above all the rest.

Paolo Veronese (c.1565), The Martyrdom of Saint George – on loan from the city of Verona (image source: wikipedia commons)

Painted in 1565, The Martyrdom of Saint George was created at the apex of Veronese’s illustrious career. Measuring some 4.2 metres in height, this vast canvas offers us all of the glorious elements that make Veronese’s paintings sing like a grandiose opera almost half a century after they were painted. Depicting the moment when Saint George, a Roman soldier, accepted his martyrdom after refusing to worship pagan idols, this moment of dramatic realisation is captured with skilfully applied light (just look how our eyes are drawn to that perfectly lit torso and the outstretched arms of the martyr), and a brilliant composition, with clouds tumbling upwards into paradise, where the Virgin and Christ child appear with Saints Peter and Paul along with the allegorical figures of virtue: Faith, Hope and Charity.

The balance of the painting is brilliant, with the cerulean blue sky echoed in the drapery beneath Saint George, in the clothing of the turbaned man on the left, and up in the celestial clouds at the top, while the figures are variously placed at different heights, intensifying the feeling of drama and the sense of audience participation in this dramatic moment of religious history.

Of course this painting is but one in an amazing collective celebrating the genius of the often overlooked Venetian master. And at the risk of being quite overcome by it all, you may as well go along and revel in the glory.

Veronese: Magnificence in Renaissance Venice is on at the National Gallery, London until 15 June 2014.

Sep 2

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Genius of Geometry: Patrick Caulfield

When I attended the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition in 2006, I was completely stunned by an artist to whom the Academy had dedicated a room of its annual summer show: Patrick Caulfield. Born in London in 1936, and died in 2005 (hence the tribute paid to him at the following Summer Exhibition), Patrick Caulfield’s flattened geometric black-lined block coloured works have now become synonymous with the age of British pop-art, although it was a title which Caulfield actually rejected. And he was probably right to. While his works, largely acrylic on canvas, share many of the characteristics of the pop art age (bold colouration, simplified forms, black outlines), pop art promoted and impersonated the commercial world, while Caulfield’s works actually reference art historical notions of representation; from still life to pictorial depth, albeit represented in his characteristic paired down flat colours and simple linear expression.

Early output

Pottery (1969) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Foyer (1973) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Café Interior: Afternoon (1973) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Wine Glasses (1969) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Battlements (1967) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Dining/ Kitchen/ LIving (1980) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

It only took one glance that summer of 2006 at the perfectly painted lines and faultless application of block colours used artfully to depict rooms and places, café scenes and still lifes to know that I was completely in love with Caulfield’s works. While I adored the sparse simple images of his 1960s work, my real admiration was reserved for the knockout creations of the mid 70s, when Caulfield started to play with styles, integrating into his then renowned geometric works hints of trompe l’oeil photorealism. So in works such as Dining/Living/Kitchen for example, Caulfield paints a scene characterised by black outlines, block shadows, dispensed brushwork and anonymous handiwork and inserts into it a casserole dish so perfectly represented that you would swear a photo had been collaged onto the background. This technique is used with spectacular success in After Lunch, where the window (or is it a picture hanging on the wall?) looking onto an Austrian landscape is photorealistic to an awe-inspiring standard, while in Happy Hour, the wine glass at the painting’s centre actually reflects in its sheen a realistic depiction of the bar which, elsewhere in the painting is only represented with paired down flattened forms. Absolutely brilliant.

Tromp L’oeil brilliance

Happy Hour (1986) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

After Lunch (1975) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Still Life Autumn Fashion (1978) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Interior with a Picture (1985) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Second Glass of Whisky (1992) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Caulfield’s work not only thrilled me; it also inspired me. I am much indebted to the influence Caulfield had upon my own work – my painting Vintage Q, painted that summer immediately after seeing the RA show, is directly inspired by Caulfield’s technique, while Q4 and Q5, which followed suit, are likewise. Meanwhile, I think much of the interior design I put into place around my apartment flows directly from his mix of contemporary block colours, and interlaced with hints of rich, detailed damask patterns.

Later works: light and shadow

Room 3-95 (1995) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Trou Normand (1997) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Bishops (2004) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Hedone’s (1996) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Rust never sleeps (1996) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

Fruit display (1996) © The estate of Patrick Caulfield

So for that reason alone, Caulfield has always stuck in my mind, but imagine my delight when this summer, a solo show held at Tate Britain afforded me the opportunity to see Caulfield’s works all over again. In 5 exquisite galleries, a comprehensive selection of Caulfield’s works took us from his most simplistic 60s creations (a simple grey well reduced to flattened, even more simplified forms; a bend in the road, some castle battlements (above) and so on), to his brilliantly innovative 70s works, where trompe l’oeil dazzles the senses and shines amongst the flatter planes of the large-scale block colour canvases, and then onto the 80s and beyond, when Caulfield began to experiment more with light and shadow, not focusing so much on the thick outlines of black, but expressing an object with shadows and throwing light, albeit in block-colour form.

My works: inspired by Caulfield

Vintage Q (2006 © Nicholas de Lacy-Brown)

Q4 (2007 © Nicholas de Lacy-Brown)

Q5: Chez Helen (2008 © Nicholas de Lacy-Brown)

I realise that in writing this review, I am somewhat missing the boat, seeing as the Caulfield show at Tate ended last weekend. But that is no reason why the genius of this brilliant artist should not be applauded to the full – an artist who took 60s simplification in an altogether more mentally complex direction; whose works have become iconic in the chic interiors of London’s cool hotels and boutiques; and whose images have been fundamental in shaping my own creative output as an artist.

Patrick Caulfield, the quiet revolution (reinesnotebook.com)

Aug 3

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Carl Randall steals the BP Portrait Show

Like so many of these annual open-submission art prizes, the annual BP sponsored National Portrait Gallery BP Portrait Award is very often a bit samey. Each year you get the same collection of oversized hyper-realistic magnified photo-like portraits, showing a person’s every vein and blood vessel, the sparkle in their eye and the grey in their hair. While these works undoubtedly demonstrate an often astonishing skill for painting photographically, the same does not automatically equate to a work’s having any artistic merit. Is it original? Does its composition have the power to move or inspire? Is the sitter’s story told in some original or dynamic way? Give me the coarsely applied brush strokes and unrealistic green-tinted skin of a Van Gogh portrait any day. If a painting looks like a photo, then in my view it should remain a photo.

This year’s BP show has its fair share of these oversized gormless faces filling the walls in all their unappetising detail, as well as a few rather questionable works – the kind which have been executed so badly that the old “my child could have done that” exasperated statement seems a little inadequate. But happily, this year’s BP Award also offers up some truly ground breaking and original work, paintings whose execution is so accomplished that you find yourself staring closely to find a single line of these meticulously detailed works out of place; works which have been composed with such imagination, insight and at times humour, that the entire collection of the National Portrait Gallery should be bypassed before first indulging in these paintings.

Hakone (oil on canvas © Carl Randall. Reproduced with the kind permission of Carl Randall)

Amusement Park (oil on canvas © Carl Randall. Reproduced with the kind permission of Carl Randall)

Sushi (oil on canvas © Carl Randall. Reproduced with the kind permission of Carl Randall)

I am talking about the works of Carl Randall, a British born and trained artist, but whose work is so immersed in Japanese culture, that my assumption for at least the first 10 minutes of being mesmerised by his works was that he originated from Japan. For despite his London Slade training, Randall took inspiration when spending time in Japan following his receipt of the prestigious Daiwa Anglo-Japanese Foundation scholarship which he won in 2003. This enabled him to continue his painting career in Tokyo, during which time he was selected to be artist in residence in Hiroshima city (to document survivors of the Atomic Bomb) and he was chosen to represent Japan as artist in residence at the 2007 Formula 1 Races. From there continued what is quite evidently a love affair with modern Japanese culture, which he has since captured in multiple brilliant canvases and sketches which show Japan in all its quirky, colourful and inimitable character.

Shoe Shop (oil on canvas © Carl Randall. Reproduced with the kind permission of Carl Randall)

Fireflies (oil on canvas © Carl Randall. Reproduced with the kind permission of Carl Randall)

Electric Tokyo (oil on canvas © Carl Randall. Reproduced with the kind permission of Carl Randall)

I was first acquainted with Randall’s work at last year’s BP Portrait Award, when his black and white painting of some glum-faced melancholic city residents sitting up at a sushi-bar on a commonplace working day (Mr.Kitazawa’s Noodle Bar) won him the BP 2012 Travel Award. This enabled Randall to return to Japan, and undertake a new artistic adventure, painting a new collection entitled ‘In the footsteps of Hiroshige: Portraits of Modern Japan’, which are exhibited at this year’s show.

Mr Kitazawa’s Noodle Bar (oil on canvas © Carl Randall)

I urge all those living in, and passing through London to head to the BP Portrait Award just to look at these brilliant paintings which are both evocative of modern Japan, but also verge on the slightly surreal and idealistic, a sense captured by Randall’s portrayal of slightly deformed head shapes and frequently distorted proportions, as well as his use of vivid colouration and quixotic backdrops. This for me produces the perfect combination of compositional originality and skillful figurative narration. Some, like Randall’s cerulean-coloured Onsen almost remind me of Hockney but with, dare I say it, a more refined execution and altogether superior finish, while his homage to sumo wrestling (Sumo) contains an almost parodied exploration of light and shadow, the likes of which was so central to the atmosphere created in George Bellows’ boxing works, recently shown at the Royal Academy.

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Photo-realistic, boring, overly magnified these are not – they are true art to my mind – portraiture that tells a real story beyond two eyes, a nose and a mouth. I truly hope that Carl Randall represents the future of British portraiture, and that more works like his will fill the BP Portrait Award in the future.

Shinjuku (oil on canvas © Carl Randall. Reproduced with the kind permission of Carl Randall)

The BP Portrait Award is showing at London’s National Portrait Gallery and entry is free. It runs until the 15 September 2013 before touring to the Aberdeen Art gallery from 2 November 2013 to 1 February 2014, followed by the Wolverhampton Art Gallery from 3 March to 14 June 2014.

Carl Randall’s website is well worth a visit – also check out the “Japan Portraits” documentary which provides a fascinating insight into the artist in action. You can also find Carl on facebook and twitter. I would finally recommend the superb book Carl Randall: Japan Portraits which is available from the NPG bookshop.

All images are reproduced from http://www.carlrandall.com with the kind permission of Carl Randall

May 1

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George Bellows: Modern American Life

Bulging, twisting angry red bodies reminiscent of Francis Bacon’s cannibalistic, melting forms; great muscular bodies gripped in a violent embrace; long horizontal lines capturing the figures within an illuminated, elevated fighting platform; and a blood-thirsty zealous crowd, their faces hideously disfigured as they vie for blood, sweat and mighty great punches on their night out at the boxing ring – these are the captivating images of the 1900s boxing underworld for which the American artist, George Bellows, is renowned, and which form the focus of the Royal Academy’s new exhibition: George Bellows 1882-1925 Modern American Life. Yet as the exhibition attempts to point out, Bellows painted much more than the poignant punches of his most famous images.

I wasn’t aware of Bellows before this show – and I excuse this gap in my art historical knowledge by virtue of the fact that this is the first Bellows retrospective to ever come to the UK, and because, to my knowledge, no or few Bellows works are held in the UK national collections. Moreover, while Bellows was a classmate of the much celebrated Edward Hopper, his career was much shorter – he died at a poultry 43, barely before he had ever got going. And yet the works which he did complete in his short life present us with an unparalleled view of turn-of-the-20th century New York, focusing on the many facets of a city in flux; from the gritty and sinister sweaty boxing underworld and the bustling expanse of Times Square, to the elegant perambulations of the richer citizens in out of town parks; from traumatic, emotionally intense depictions of war, to almost fantastical, saccharine scenes of picnics and fishermen in the outer countryside surrounding the city.

Club NIght (1907)

Stag at Sharkey’s (1909)

It’s perhaps no wonder that Bellows was so undyingly fascinated by New York City. Coming from a comfortable middle-class Ohio background, he would have been unprepared for the extremes of the city when he arrived there at just 22 years of age. Yet falling under the influence of artist Robert Henri, who was his teacher at the New York School of Art and who encouraged his students to eject the idealised and sentimental depictions of life favoured by the art scene at that time, and instead pursue a more unique expression of reality, Bellows soon found himself seeking out the more insalubrious, undesirable quarters of the city, and there depicting some of his most renowned works, from groups of naked immigrants bathing in the city’s dirty rivers, and builders clearing vast blocks of the city to construct a huge new homage to the modern railway, to the great bustling, smokey squares of central New York, full of workers and citizens from every spice of life, and of course those wonderfully intense boxing masterpieces.

New York (1911)

But Bellows did not limit himself to this harsher side of New York. Following his initial trawl through the unsavoury and illegal hangouts of the city, he soon moved onto depictions of a more civilised, elegant facade, with paintings of strolling couples, of elegant groups laden with white parasols and large sunhats picnicking out in the parks like something straight out of Seurat’s paintings of Paris, and of families walking out amongst snowy hills and landscapes. This is a changed side of Bellows, but no less fascinating to behold, not least because it somehow fits uneasily into the common perception of the New York of these times, and because, by comparison with Bellow’s earlier body of work, this happy, idle lifestyle appears almost reckless in its apparent disregard for the hardship of the real gritty city which lay at the heart of the nearby urban sprawl.

A Day in June (1913)

Summer Night, Riverside Drive (1909)

Blue Snow the Battery (1910)

Yet for all his insightful depictions of a modern American life, perhaps the most captivating works of Bellow’s career were those which had no connection to America whatsoever: At the centre of the exhibition are Bellow’s depictions of war, works inspired by the horrors of the First World War in Europe which Bellows had read about in the American press. All five resulting paintings, four of which are on show at the Royal Academy, are conspicuously anti-German, showing the Germans in a devastating light as the perpetrators of previously unseen levels of horrific savagery, such as the Massacre at Dinant which depicts the unprovoked, summary execution of Belgian civilians following the sacking of their town which stood in neutral territory, and The Barricade, which shows the Germans using Belgian innocents as a human shield. The paintings are emotive, powerful and really quite breathtaking.

Massacre at Dinant (1918)

The Barricade (1918)

The Germans Arrive (1918)

Likewise exceptional was the next room showing Bellows lithography – his brilliant printworks which were likewise used to stunning effect in depicting similarly shocking scenes such as The Law is Too Slow which shows an African American being burnt alive at the stake while surrounded by an apparently calm, even entertained crowd of white Americans. In his print works, Bellows shows himself as a master printer – he uses dark and light to maximum effect, while his faultless illustration of flesh tone in the print version of his later boxing scenes easily outstrips the paintings of the same subject.

The law is too slow (1922)

Splinter Beach (1912)

Counted Out No.2 (1921)

After this highpoint of the show, the exhibition ends on something of a low in a gallery of overly insipid, saccharine fantastical depictions which look almost Chagall-like in style and appear to represent an uncomfortable diversion from Bellows more intense former work – even his later boxing paintings have nothing like the level of intensity as his boxing works painted 15 years before. The gallery is full of twee and sometimes stiff family portraits which resemble the work of Manet but without anything close to his emotional depth, as well as landscapes which are so excessively sentimental with their white horses and picture-perfect symmetrical mountain landscapes that Bellows’ former teacher, Robert Henri must have been turning in his grave – or at least would have done had he not outlived Bellows.

The Picnic (1924)

The White Horse (1922)

A Fisherman’s Family (1923)

George Dempsey and Firpo (1924)

For George Bellows died shortly after depicting these more sugary of his works, suffering from a sudden ruptured appendix and peritonitis. His career was one cut short, but perhaps just in time before his later My Little Pony style of painting threatened to overshadow the truly superb achievements of his former body of work; an oeuvre which now stands out, next to the likes of Edward Hopper, as a truly unique collective depiction of modern American life.

George Bellows: Modern American Life is on at the Royal Academy until 9 June 2013. Details and tickets can be found on the RA website.

Apr 10

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Mallorca (Part VII) – Day 4: Palma, city of art

After two days of travel both Westwards along to Andratx, and Northbound along the rickety mountain pass of the Ferrocarril de Soller, we thought that it was probably about time we stayed put in Palma for once. After all, the city is close to bursting at the seams with cultural, gastronomic and historical attractions for the discerning city visitor, so it was only right that we should spend a day pursuing such pleasures (also, being that the Saturday was the one day between an almost solid block of Easter public festivals when all the museums were actually open, we thought we had better make the most of it).

I’ve already mentioned that Palma is a city which is exceptionally well-endowed with art aplenty, especially in proportion to its size. In Palma, not only do you have the temple to contemporary and modern art that is Es Baluard, but in addition there are two museums founded by the formerly super-rich March family, one by Juan March and the other by his son Bartolomé, both of which boast an impressive array of contemporary art; there are various bank-owned foundations, displaying, usually for free, their own permanent collections and temporary exhibitions; and in addition there are a spattering of privately owned art galleries and collections rising up all over Palma’s elegant historic streets.

The Palau March

Sculpture out on the terrace of the Palau March

It was to the two March centres of art that we ventured first, starting with the impressive Barbie pink, colonnaded private palace of the Bartolomé March household, the Palau March, which sits astride both the Almudaina palace and the Cathedral, thus demonstrating from its position alone just how unfathomably rich Señor March must have been.

Upon entering the palace, you arrive on an open colonnaded terrace with commanding views over the Avenida Antoni Maura and the port beyond it, views which could however be missed, such are the array of attention-grabbing contemporary sculptures on display. Amongst March’s fine collection are some of the biggest names of 20th century sculpture, from an organic, curvaceous twin structure by Barbara Hepworth, to an impressive bronze torso by Rodin. However, of the various sculptures on show, our favourite had to be the sculpture by Joan Robert Ipousteguy (Untitled, 1920), an entirely captivating piece, were an almost fused interlocked embrace of two lovers carved in a smooth rounded marble is interrupted by the odd hole or chasm, inviting the viewer to peer into the sculpture for the details which lay, almost hidden from view, inside the marble, such as the passionately intertwined tongues of the kissing lovers, to a view of a small air pocket, seemingly created in the gaps between their bodies, in which defined body parts can just about be made out. How the sculptor achieved such startling detail in the most inaccessible of places I will never know.

Hepworth, Autumn (1966)

Joan Robert Ipousteguy (Untitled, 1920)

Inside the Ipousteguy

Rodin torso

Having been enthralled by the sculpture on the outside, we were equally captivated in the inside of the palace, first by a vast 18th century Neopolitan nativity scene, full of fantastic details, including scenes of whole villages, shops, dwellings and landscapes asides from the main nativity scene; second by a collection of superb Dali print works, which were religiously charged throughout. Then, moving upwards through the palace, we gazed in wonder at some of the ceiling frescos which had been painted there, as recently as the 1940s. One scene in particular, in which a series of gymnasts hanging off variously sized hot air balloons were rising and falling in the illusionary airspace, was particularly original in its depiction – it certainly beats the normal scenes of cherubs and angels.

Leaving the palace, and soaking in sunshine over a cafe on a cobbled terrace beyond, we headed up through the colourful yellow and green Plaça Major, full of street performers and excitable tourists and locals alike, past Palma’s ancient olive tree, and onto the second of the March cultural foundations, this time founded, from what I can gather, by Bartolomé’s father, Juan March. His collection forms the Museum of Contemporary Spanish Art a superb collection of the Spanish greats such as Dali, Picasso and Miro as well as many lesser well-recognised names. While the collection is quite small, it’s free to see, and held within the beautiful old palace where Juan March was born.

The Plaça Major

My particular favourite of the collection was the transformation of Velazquez’s famous Las Meninas into a modern domestic scene by Spanish art duo, Equipo Cronica. As I have since discovered, this is one of many reimaginations that the duo have made of Las Meninas and other iconic Spanish works. We also thoroughly enjoyed a temporary exhibition of the work of artist Eduardo Arroyo, who through both photography and painting created a whole series of magnificent portraits, of both famous artists and personalities, and people personal to his own life. I particularly enjoyed his photographs, covered with round stickers to create a polka-dot veil, semi-obscuring the portrait, a little like Lichtenstein but taken one step further. Also particularly original and whimsical were his painted parodies of artists such as Van Gogh and Fernand Leger.

Equipo Cronica, The Little Room (1970)

The Eduardo Arroyo exhibition

Eduardo Arroyo’s portrait of Leger (in the foreground)

Subsequently, and I’m not entirely sure how (it’s exhausting me even describing it), we wandered into yet another art gallery following the March foundation, this time the Fundacio La Caixa, a brilliant cultural foundation run by the Caixa bank and held within the stunning modernist building which used to house Mallorca’s Gran Hotel (see my photography post tomorrow for more on Palma’s modernismo architecture). The foundation lays on various temporary exhibitions throughout the year, such as the one currently on show examining past and modern high rise buildings and towers. But my favourite aspect of the foundation is their permanent collection, and in particular the works of Mallorcan artist Anglada-Camarasa, who painted vast canvases literally alive with a plethora of vivid colours used to describe pictorially the spirit and fervour of Spanish gypsy culture, flamenco, fiestas, and Valencian costume.

Anglada-Camarasa’s vast work, Valencia (1910)

Exhausted, and almost overwhelmed by the artistic capacity of what is fundamentally a small Spanish city, we lunched and rested before setting out for more of a tranquil afternoon within the shady narrow back streets of the historic core of Palma in the vicinity of the Cathedral. There, not far from the Plaça Major, we indulged in a time of contemplation in the stunningly tranquil sun-dreched cloisters of the Real Convento de San Francisco, followed by a further dalliance with history`in the nearby Arab Baths, the last surviving wholly-Moorish building in the city, and also with its own seductively serene gardens in which to enjoy the sunshine dappled through the verdant hanging palms, lush ferns and vivid pink geraniums.

The cloisters of the Real Convento de San Francisco

…and the Convent’s stunning exterior

The Arab baths and gardens

Finally, believing the day’s activities to be at an end, Palma pulled out yet a further artistic treasure from its magic hat of apparently ceaseless culture – the Museo Can Morey de Santmarti which holds a vast and completely impressive collection of some 200 lithographs, etchings and other prints by Salvidor Dali. And thus ending the day as we had begun it, we gazed again at the thrilling works of this Surrealist master, but this time doing so almost on our knees, such was the exhaustion of our legs after so comprehensive a day of artistic and historical discovery – a state of physical exhaustion which is clearly testament to the sheer abundance and variety of attractions on offer in this utterly compelling Mallorcan city.

All photos and written content are strictly the copyright of Nicholas de Lacy-Brown © 2013 and The Daily Norm. All rights are reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of the material, whether written work, photography or artwork, included within The Daily Norm without express and written permission from The Daily Norm’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Mallorca (Part I) – Day 1: Banoffee bienvenido back to the good life (daily-norm.com)
Mallorca (Part II) – Photography Focus 1: Semana Santa (daily-norm.com)
Mallorca (Part III) – Day 2: Port d’Andratx and Es Baluard (daily-norm.com)
Mallorca (Part IV) – Food Focus 1: Forn de Sant Joan (daily-norm.com)
Mallorca (Part V) – Day 3: Moorish Mallorca and the Sóller Ferrocarril (daily-norm.com)
Mallorca (Part VI) – Food Focus 2: Simply Fosh (daily-norm.com)

Jan 18

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Paris: la visite d’art – Exhibition 2: Bohèmes

With a second day comes a second exhibition direct from the city of love, light, and above all things, art. Paris, inspiration to so many creatives over the years, is host to a sensational array of art exhibitions this Autumn/Winter season, and I could not wait to rush over on eurostar to get my fill.

Our second show, after Hopper, was also the second of two big blockbuster shows being held consecutively in the mammoth greenhouse-come-palace otherwise known as Le Grand Palais. Entitled Bohèmes, this exhibition promised to be an enriching exploration of the bohemian age of Paris, when pearly green absinthe dripped from sugar on a balanced spoon in little grimy bars on the step hillsides of Montmartre, when dandy artists courted flirty prostitutes and cabaret dancers, and when the true spirit of the artistic revolution was born.

L’Absinthe (Edgar Degas, 1876)

It was the inevitable consequence of the impressionist age, when artists and intellectuals alike broke free from the shackles of Napoleonic Paris, zealously keen to explore the new modernised world, an age with re-written moral values, re-examined sensibilities, and artistically a blank-canvas ripe for the most extravagant exploration. It was the age of the bohemian revolution, the time of Toulouse Lautrec, the Moulin Rouge and the can-can, and surely the most charming age of all Parisian history.

It was with a high degree of excitement then that we entered our second expo in the Grand Palais, ready to indulge in Le Chat Noir, the decadence of dandyism, and the melancholy of alcoholic introspection. And yet what we were faced with was a huge long gallery full of dank old paintings…of gypsies! This was not at all what I had expected, and I must admit to being quite put out by this start to the show. Unenthusiastically, we browsed the nondescript works, before turning the corner, only to find more. Gypsies in Romania, Gypsies in Spanish Seville, all painted in a very classical, traditional fashion, each in turn failing to inspire me (I also thought it was rather ironic that this exhibition was even on show in Paris… after all, wasn’t France the country which was recently so caught up in a scandal with the Romani communities?).

However soon enough, the exhibition changed for the positive. Depictions of the gypsy communities became all the lighter, more colourful and lighthearted. Enter Van Gogh, with his fresh, turquoise skies and bright yellow gypsy caravan near Arles, and Renoir with his iconically idealistic portrayal of a gypsy girl. Then there was the great Courbet, the artist much lauded for kickstarting the spirit of the artistic revolution, and his highly original self-portrait, Bonjour Monsieur Courbet.

Gustav Courbet, La Recontre ou Bonjour M. Courbet (1854)

Van Gogh, Gypsy Camp near Arles

Auguste Renoir, En été / La bohémienne (1868)

So why all the gypsies? Well apparently, the origin of the word “bohemian” is from the French word bohémien, which is the french word for gypsy, allegedly because the French believed the Romani people to have come either from or certainly through Bohemia (now the Czech Republic). From the gypsy connotations, the word gradually became used to describe people who were “socially unconventional” and so the bohemian concept was born – the art lovers, the dancers, the scandalous inhabitants of Montmartre – all were part of a mass bohemian revolution, where social conventions were cast to the weakening winds of the past, and free spirited minds were unleashed upon the world of art, love and leisure. And it was to this time, at the end of the 19th century, when bohemianism truly came into its own, that the exhibition finally wandered, casting behind the historical gypsy poses, and taking us to the heart of the bohemian insurrection of 19th century Paris.

From hereon in, I was in art heaven. From Courbet’s dashing self-portraits, and depictions of the artist’s arteliers (art studios), to the vibrant artistic community of Montmatre, with its cafés, its dance halls and its Moulins aplenty, these paintings unleashed an age of debauchery, of charm and of vivacious artistic liberty which was almost unique to the Montmartre region and a decisive factor in why I came to adore Paris as a young school boy first wandering into the Place du Tertre.

Paul Signac, Le Moulin de la Galette (1884)

Van Gogh, Coin a Montmartre, le Moulin a poivre (1887)

Ramon Casas, En Plein-air (1890)

But not only did the exhibition feature the paintings of bohemianism, but also recreated their world. The café scenes were displayed in a mock up café with long benches, peeling walls and posters from the infamous cabaret Le Chat Noir and the artist’s hangout, Le Lapin Agile, while the depictions of the ateliers were hung on the walls of an artist’s studio. Playing in the background was the music of two operas – Bizet’s Carmen, the opera about Seville’s most famous gypsy protagonist, and of course Puccini’s La Bohéme, a story of the quintessential bohemians in 19th century Paris – the starving writer and his equally hungry artist friend, scraping together a living while falling in love with prostitutes and suffering the full potency of love, romance and the horrors of a poverty-ridden death.

Ramon Casas, Madeleine or Au Moulin de la Galette (1892)

Santiago Rusiñol, Café de Montmartre (1890)

Steinlein, poster for Le Chat Noir

The atmosphere conjured by the paintings of that time are like a snapshot onto an almost impossible age of charm. Of course it’s easy to romanticise poverty and decadence, in times which were hard, often miserable, and tragic, and yet there is something about that age which fills me with incredible inspiration, as though the artistic spirit which was kindled in that time has never burnt out, pervading through the centuries and igniting the artistic spirits of a millennia of new creative generations.

Ccharles Amable Lenoir, Rêverie (1893)

I only wish that you too could be inspired by the paintings on show… however these photos will have to be enough. Having just checked the website, I see that this great show finished at the weekend, drawing this fascinating study of bohemia to a close, but reopening a chapter of artistic revolution whose impact will live forever.

I leave you, for completeness, with the Norms’ very own version of Degas’ L’Absinthe (above)… it wasn’t featured in Bohémes, but clearly should have been.

L'Absinthe Norm (acrylic on canvas, 2011 © Nicholas de Lacy-Brown)

À bientôt

Paris: la visite d’art – Exhibition 1: Hopper (daily-norm.com)

Oct 12

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Switching the artistic spotlight onto Liverpool: The John Moores Painting Prize 2012

In 1957, Sir John Moores, one time head of the clothing catalogue giant, Littlewoods, established his painting prize. His aim was to draw the attention of the artistic world from the bright lights of London, and instead to illuminate the talent and creativity of the North. Of course, inevitably, being that the prize, like the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition, is open to submissions from artists all over the country, it doesn’t necessarily steer that spotlight any brighter over Northern artists than those from the South. Nevertheless, every two years, when the prize, and the exhibition that goes with it, is held at the Walker Gallery in Liverpool, it certainly does its bit to place Liverpool on the cultural map. In fact, some go so far as to call the painting prize the Oscars of the British painting world. It is certainly renowned for spotting rising talent, with previous winners reading like a roll call of the most influencial artists of the last 50 years of British painting, from David Hockney and Richard Hamilton, to Peter Doig.

Paul Collinson’s Temple of Ancient Virtue (2010)

This year, the exhibition is shown as part of the Liverpool Biennial, which also includes other forerunners of the Liverpudlian art scene, such as Tate Liverpool on the Albert Docks. It contains some 62 paintings, whittled down from some 3000 hopefuls (which included my painting which was disgracefully turned down) by a panel of judges which included creative director of the BBC, Alan Yentob, and Iwona Blazwick, director of the Whitechapel gallery as well as previous exhibitors.

Ian Law, M is Many (2011)

This year’s prize was as varied as ever, but perhaps more manageable than the larger Summer Exhibition – it only fills a few galleries, and in those, the paintings are mercifully spread out so as not to bamboozle the viewer with a “salon style” hang. Of course, as is inevitable in any contemporary art prize, this show had its fair share of “works” whose artistic merit remained highly questionable, like M is many by Ian Law, which basically depicts a black line on a white canvas which, because of its purely geometric form manages to resemble an “M” without doing anything else (oh, and it won a prize, by the way), or Oscar Godfrey’s Mineral 9, a badly painted green curve on a white background, which, if painted with his phlegm may have had more merit, although the colour resembles little else.

Oscar Godfrey, Mineral 9 (2011)

Luckily for those of us who had traipsed several hundred miles from London to visit the exhibition, many of the other paintings showed much more promise. I really loved Emma Talbot’s, The Good Terrorists, which showed a cross-section of a large Victorian looking townhouse, with a number of faceless characters getting up to all sorts in the various rooms of the house. Somehow it seemed quite spooky to me, whether it was because of the faceless individuals who were yet full of expression, or because the roof of the house, with its shattered window, resembled the creepy hotel in Hitchcock’s acclaimed thriller, Psycho. The attention to detail made for great viewing, and I like the way that both the interior and exterior of the house could be seen in tandem.

Emma Talbot, The Good Terrorists

Damien Meade’s Talcum (2011)

Also on my watch list were Virginia Phongathorn’s Comma (Test Piece for an Eye Break) which to my mind looked more like a figure wearing headphones rather than a grammatical symbol, and also reminded me of the work of Philip Guston; I also liked Damien Meade’s Talcum, which looked much like a figure from Cluedo with a super-realistic painted sculptural mess upon its head, and Paul Collinson’s Temple of Ancient Virtue (above) which, painted with blurred edges like an off-focus photograph cleverly combines two forms of abandonment – the relics of an abandoned past, and dilapidated graffiti-covered snack bar of the recently vandalised present. I must also include in my favourites list Elizabeth Magill’s Sighting – too fantastical for some tastes maybe, but this piece really excels in close up, where a mysterious forest atmosphere is filled with little bubbles, specs of glittering dust and nearly missed magical hummingbirds. A wonderfully figurative piece for so contemporary a show.

Virginia Phongsathorn’s Comma (2011)

Elizabeth Magill, Sighting

What is perhaps best of all about the John Moores prize is not that it promotes Liverpool, although there is much to be said for that, but that it promotes painting, a so often overlooked media in the modern age, but one which will, in my opinion, outlive the age of installation, and remain at the centre of art history and art present for centuries to come.

The John Moores Prize is showing at the Walker Gallery until 6 January 2013.

Architectural Innovation in Liverpool (normsonline.wordpress.com)
Liverpool Biennial 2012: Where stalkers are stalked and lifts smash into the pavement (telegraph.co.uk)
In pictures: Liverpool Biennial (bbc.co.uk)

May 21

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Damien Hirst at Tate: Repetitive, super-sensationalised science-show which is strangely enjoyable

The blockbuster show of Tate’s annual exhibition calendar, a retrospective to YBA supremo Damien Hirst, has been long anticipated by London’s art scene as well as the purveyors of trashy gossip magazines and followers of The Only Way is Essex alike. And such is the pull of Damien Hirst – this isn’t highbrow fine art, it’s not oil paintings fastidiously executed or sculptures miraculously carved from marble. This is a highly-commercialised , over-exposed fair ground of cut up creatures and stomach-churning curiosities, highly laminated multi-coloured, multi-formed collected lacquered lustre and sparkling, extravagant and utterly pointless bling. And where there is bling, that twinkle to attract the masses, you don’t need to be erudite and sophisticated to pull in the crowds. This is Tate doing household gloss paint, not oil paint.

Damien Hirst, Lullaby, the Seasons (2002) (detail)

Damien Hirst, Arg-Glu (1994)

To give him is due, Mr Hirst is unapologetically tawdry . He doesn’t at least pretend to be the next Caravaggio. He makes art for a modern generation, a generation which consumes weekly updates on Katie Price’s deflating boobs rather than a good Jane Austen, who are only too aware of drug culture, who over use and abuse pharmacies in their hypochondriacal self-obsession, and are ultimately attracted by the latest trend, sensation or sparkle. No wonder Damien Hirst has been successful. He only had to stick diamonds to the fatalistically familiar skull and reproductions started springing up in homewear stores up and down the country. He took polka dots and made them uber-cool. Yet the Spanish have been celebrating the steadfast spot in their flamenco garb for centuries. Commercially clever Damien Hirst surely is. Super-skilled artist? I have my doubts. Yet without the guise and mystique of art to promote him, wouldn’t all of Damien Hirst’s oeuvre fall into a science museum/ interior design shop/ chemist/ butchers/ fishmongers where it belongs?

Damien Hirst, In and Out of Love (White Paintings and Live Butterflies) (1991) (detail)

There weren’t many surprises in the show. Such has been the success of Hirst’s publicity machine that almost every work is almost instantly recognisable.The dot paintings were predictable, and there were an AWFUL lot of them. The great shark looms menacingly at the centre of the show. Either side of the shark, the sliced-in-half cow and calf, a few other fluffy sheep and birds (all in formaldehyde) are flanked by those repugnant rotting flies. All around the animal detritus, the repetitive spot motif translates into the pharmacy cabinets with row upon row of pill bottles, and then to the pills themselves, painstakingly laid out on shelf upon shelf, while next door you have fish, all laid out in the same direction, apparently “for the purpose of understanding”. Then you move on to the butterflies – the simpler butterfly pictures were a disappointment – the beautiful creatures had been clumsily placed onto thick gloss paint which messily spilled onto their delicate features.

Damien Hirst, Doorways to the Kingdom of Heaven (2007)

Much more impressive were the complex butterfly collages which were symmetrically placed to form incredible stained-glass window formations, not to mention the room which was full of live butterflies, their chrysalises forming their own kind of natural art as they attached themselves onto the blank canvases hung on the walls. There too were the “spin paintings” (basically paint chucked onto a fast moving canvas) and then, as though to emphasise the repetitive nature of Hirst’s work, a “bling” version of everything – the pill cabinet replaced with crystals, the coloured spots painted on a gold background, a smaller shark floating in a black tank rather than white, and butterflies stuck onto a gold canvas. There was also a superfluous obsession with cigarettes and ashtrays, used in Hirst’s art to make the oh-so novel point that one day we might die. Clever.

Damien Hirst, Judgement Day (2009)

Damien Hirst, The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living (1991)

So it was all rather predictable, and very repetitive, but strangely, and I hate to admit this, enjoyable. The insides of a cow are fascinating, not least when you get to walk in between the two halves of a once unified body. Looking down the huge throat of a shark at close quarters, shivering with horror when faced with its ghastly serrated teeth and menacing empty eyes is a unique experience, and the opportunity to appreciate the startling natural beauty of a multi-coloured catalogue of butterflies was a wonder. So too is it fun to look upon row upon row of multi-coloured pills and reflect on how many beautiful colours exists amongst a group of medicines which appear so mundane when viewed in isolation, or to appreciate the great skill of gravity in making such vivid and striking splashes when paint is spun around a canvas.

One of the spin paintings

However one can’t help but conclude, upon later analysis, that all the things you enjoyed at the exhibition were just examples of the splendour of nature itself – the beauty of butterflies, the complexity of animal organs, the results of a spinning mechanism whose beauty is owed simply to chance. And yet if we had seen these things in a science museum, would we have given them a second glance? The isolation of the mundane within an artistic context certainly gives the objects the mystique and glamour which makes them deserving of our attention. But it is ironic that so much of what is praised of Damien Hirst’s work is what has simply been left to nature, or to chance.

Damien Hirst, No Feelings (1989)

Damien Hirst, For the Love of God (2007)

I cannot overly bemoan Hirst for creating a show which offers the chance to interact with his work, to engage with nature, and to enjoy thinking about what is, and what is not, art. I was also pleased that Tate did not try to swamp the visitor with overtly complex and inevitably meaningless lectures on what the art is supposed to mean and how it should be interpreted. Rather, on the whole the visitor was left to enjoy the show relatively uninterrupted, although Hirst’s titles are quite often unnecessarily convoluted and embarrassingly pretentious, not to mention barely related to the work titled. But what really does make me feel uneasy is the knowledge that hardly any of the work on show has been made or created by Hirst himself, that there is no indication of any artistic talent, only of clever ideas.

Damien Hirst, The Anatomy of an Angel, 2008 – but who sculpted it??

As an artist myself, the most enjoyable thing about an exhibition for me is the chance to interact with it, to look at the art works and learn from the techniques, to appreciate the variation in skill and representation. In this exhibition that opportunity to interact with the work was lost. There is only so far you can be captivated by a medicine cabinet or a canvas packed with dead flies. In the latter butterflies gallery for example, where butterflies were used like stained glass windows, there was a sculpture of an angel, partially cut open to reveal the anatomy underneath. The sculpture was at first captivating, but the fact that I did not know who sculpted it, and whose skill I was appreciating really left something missing for me. The fact that most of these works are made my some factory process leaves me dead inside, just as I would be if someone asked me to study supermarket shelves for an hour.

For me, much of what is produced under the “Damien Hirst” brand will never be true art. It may be design, it may be the work of some unknown worker in the Hirst factory, or it may just be well preserved science, but it so often lacks the prerequisite skill to be art. Others will fiercely oppose my view, but that’s the great thing about the creative world. It makes us think, and in that respect alone, Damien Hirst is undoubtedly successful.

Damien Hirst, Sympathy in White Major – Absolution II (2006)

Damien Hirst at Tate Modern, London, is on until 9 September 2012.

Damien Hirst – A retrospective at Tate Modern (hollybees.wordpress.com)
‘Britart’ star Damien Hirst gets U.K. retrospective (ctv.ca)

May 14

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L.S. Lowry is coming to Tate Britain

I was thrilled by the news last week that Tate Britain will be honouring the work of frequently overlooked British industrial landscape painter L.S. Lowry from 25 June to 20 October 2013. The only frustration is that I have a whole year to wait until the spectacle hits London!

Lowry has long been one of my favourite British artists, ever since my parents purchased a tiny cottage in rural Isle of Wight almost 20 years ago, and along with the various odds and ends left in the cottage by the previous owner, there was a strangely gloomy yet enticing industrial scene hanging on the wall together with a group of funny little people walking around in the foreground.

L S Lowry, Street Scene (Pendlebury)

I was strangely fascinated by the image, which bared very little resemblance to the fresh, green bucolic landscape surrounding the cottage. Rather this industrial scene was rather bleak, in monotone shades of browns and greys, with vast forests of chimneys puffing smoke into the air in a continuous, unyielding fashion, while the workers all dressed in the same earthy tones looked the same – small cogs in a spiritless industrial machine. Despite its apparent despondency, the painting fascinated me, for it showed a snap shot of the humdrum of modern life, but in a style which was both naive but accessible. I had been introduced to Lowry, and I have been hooked ever since.

L S Lowry, A Market Place, Berwick upon Tweed (1935)

It is perhaps because of the naivety of Lowry’s draftsmanship, such as his figures, which are often referred to as “matchstick men” which has caused him to be relatively overlooked in the history of British art. I have often looked on amazon, for example, for a catalogue of Lowry’s oeuvre, but have found publications of his works to be woefully lacking. The only exhibitions I have attended of his works have been small scale sales of limited edition prints in private galleries, and I must have bemoaned the lack of a retrospective show of his work on at least a dozen occasions. It is therefore with great excitement that I await Tate’s show, and in the meantime fully intend to get everyone else excited by a small gallery below of some of Lowry’s works.

L S Lowry, Huddersfield (1965)

Bleak and grey as ever, the works rarely diversify from depicting scenes of industrialised Northern England where Lowry was born and worked and which, during the years of Queen Victoria’s reign had become a hub of industrialised growth leading to a population boom but a vast decrease in living conditions. Lowry demonstrates that England is not all lush green and pleasant lands as captured in works by Constable, or grand waterways and misty sea views as pronounced with such effect by Turner. Rather, these industrialised landscapes are typical of much of the country, even to this day, and Lowry’s paintings not only reflect upon the 20th century urban landscape, but also focus on the everyday lives of the ordinary masses. Yet in doing so, he rarely focuses on a single individual. Rather, through painting large groups, Lowry represents a typical city day for what it really is – large groups of people, all stripped of personality, as towns become influxed with workers, and the individual merges into one roving mass. Like the impressionists before him, Lowry is a proponent of the ordinary, but unlike the Manets and Degas of this world, Lowry depicts lives as most of us see them – crowds of faceless individuals, who represent statistics, but whose stories remain locked in the crowds.