Friday 16 August 2013

The Art We Love to Hate - 2013.8.15

Once again, the summer into which all year long I have projected plans, ideas, intentions good and bad, a priori filling it to far beyond bursting with oceans of freedom and continents of unclaimed time, has passed like a flicker.
First, I moved my studio. A smart move. And a battlefield of wanton and deliberate destruction, compacting about 150m2 of studio into ca 20 m2 of ex-bedroom. The extreme down-sizing does not scare me, it's just rather tiresome walking into unsuspected walls, or tripping over the little furniture that is left.



But I am slowly getting the hang of it. The move itself and the year-long preparation are now a distant memory.
For all the trouble, I rewarded myself with a visit to Brussels, to the retrospective of Giorgio Morandi. A great, humble painter. He is one of those who help me accept the limits of my new studio. It seems so glaringly obvious, once you've seen the paintings, that it is possible to create a universe with merely a few bottles and tins, that you wonder why noone else is doing the same.



In fact, in the aftermath of every Morandi retrospective, tens upon hundreds of artists are so smitten, that you can see derivates everywhere, from painting to photography, for months on end. Unfortunately, these enthusiasts only ever attempt to emulate the 'good taste', the esthetic effects, and never touch the core.


Had Morandi ever been motivated by the search of Beauty, or good taste, he would never have created the silent, eloquent, singing works that he has.
All the more regrettable that the curators of Beaux Arts have once more subordinated the raw material - the paintings -, to their silly and superfluous agenda.


Curators are eager to prove that they're worth their salaries. That is not always a good thing. No way will a curator simply hang the works in chronological order, that would be far too easy, and smack of sloth! No, he/she spends sleepless nights conjuring up some 'concept' within which to accommodate the paintings, thus giving the exhibition 'meaning'.



Screw the paintings, they are merely instrumental. This curator has arranged them within 'thematic'groups: landscapes, flowers, still-lives..., adding exactly NOT A THING to the exhibition, except a load of confusion with the spectator as to chronology and evolution.



Another issue which one day wil cause me to die of heart failure, or of an unnecessarily violent suicide, concerns the layout of the exhibition. I know that most works on paper must be protected from direct sunlight. But can someone please give me one tiny good reason why oilpaintings, tableaux de chevalet, must at all times be kept as far away as  is inhumanely possible from natural light?



Years ago, there was a Morandi exhibition in Bruges, in the beautiful high-windowed stately rooms of the Groeninghe Museum. Let the paintings come to life in the light that pervades the work of the Flemish Primitives, and see what happens? Not a chance. Curators prefer electric lighting, the confounded idiots.



The Musée de Beaux Arts was designed with ample glass roofs for the benefit of exhibitions of painting and sculpture. So what do the curators do? They block up the sources of natural indirect (!) light, and bring in the spotlights.
Fact is, they hate painting...




And no, I haven't quite finished.








Thursday 15 August 2013

Summer has turned - 2013.08.13

This morning, summer has turned. The elements have started to conspire in order to overthrow the Rule of Summer. Regime change is on its way. New aromas in the air, early morning chill, changing light.



As I was cycling towards the river early this morning, the sun was about to rise. A gigantic salmon-pink cloud sailed in from the north-west, towards me. It occurred to me, for no logical reason and with no geographical rhyme, that it was destined for Hamburg. that is exactly where I pictured it, looming large over a hanseatic port in northern Germany. Hamburg. Or Lübeck, possibly. But certainly nowhere else.


It is good indeed, in these times of generalized dysfunction, to encounter such solid, irrefutable certainty so early in the morning. I believe we need these certainties, be they concerning the transient character and properties of a passing cloud.
And if at this point you find that can no longer follow my train of thought, well, then with regret I have to point out that your skills of empathy leave a lot to be desired. As if you had never dreamed on your way to work. And besides, am I to account for my subconscious ruminations? What is it with you?

Northwestern breeze playing the neck of my ink bottle like a flute.














Watch this space, as they say...