April 29, 2006
Leaf Twenty Nine: Unfold
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Leaf Twenty Nine: Unfold, 2006, HTML, 365 x 265 pixels
April 28, 2006
Leaf Twenty Eight: Throw
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Leaf Twenty Eight: Throw, 2006, HTML, 365 x 265 pixels
April 27, 2006
Leaf Twenty Seven: Slip
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Leaf Twenty Seven: Slip, 2006, HTML, 365 x 265 pixels
Motherwell's "The Little Spanish Painting"
From a November 24, 1971 interview with Robert Motherwell by Paul Cummings for the Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution:
PAUL CUMMINGS: I think it was the end of 1941 or thereabouts that you painted The Little Spanish Prison which seems to be a key picture of that period. What is there about that painting that you feel is so important at that point, say as it changed or remained the subsequently?ROBERT MOTHERWELL: Actually it was the first year I began to paint seriously. Before that I was a student who painted on the side. And I would imagine that that was the first picture in which I hit something that is deep in my character, as two years later when I made my first colleges I hit something else that is deep in my character, and as seven years later in making the first Spanish Elegy I hit a third thing that's very deep in my character. But what it is I don't know. What it stands for I don't know.
William C. Agee writes: "In the early 1940s, Robert Motherwell interpreted Mondrian’s verticals in the crooked bars of his witty painting, Little Spanish Prison (Museum of Modern Art, New York)."
Giovanni Joppolo writes that The Little Spanish Prison refers to the Spanish civil war, where "on a lemon-yellow yellow ground take shape six vertical bands of moderate white color and a small magenta horizontal bar, the whole painted in a free and significant geometry," which remotely recalls, "Mondrian with the reality of the bars of prison which lock up the yellow of the Spanish flag."
I've always been interested in this painting. But Mondrian? That's too obvious, and maybe not that significant.
I like that this is a stripe painting unconcerned with presenting nice, even stripes; they're wavy and vary in width and color, like stripes on a sheet hung on a line blowing in the breeze. Physically, what one sees on the canvas- the lines and paint- don't really make the image of a strong prison; they're not straight and hard and strong.
However, the fact that the red rectangle is more square and locked-in place provides a visual focus point; focus on the red rectangle and the wavy yellow and white lines appear somewhat in the periphery, as if we look out at a distant red rectangle, and the yellow and white lines are closer to our eyes and face, becoming something that is felt, that we may be looking out of instead of at. We are peering through bars looking out of or into a space.
It isn't clear who is in prison, and why a prison would be called small; is this a prison of one? Is it something from which we free ourselves? Is this painting, close to the size and appearance of a flag hung lengthwise, breaking down, shimmering, loosening so that we may find our way beyond it, to find a place of greater personal control- freedom- in the red rectangle that is a great distance from these bars?
Rather than Mondrian, I think Matisse's Tête blanche et rose is a more apt comparison in terms of graphic quality, paint, and texture, and also because of the feeling of lines against the face. The bars in Manet's Le Chemin de Fer seem a more important predecessor in terms of spatial depth, as something to see through. And the shawl in Courbet's The Sleeping Spinner is a model for how paint is handled, how it is a material thing with physical properties that is used to depict and create illusion. Finally, Goya's Group on a Balcony, a model for Manet, is a painting with mysterious shadowy figures and very theatrical lighting. Images of each are below.
Aside: in The Devil's Cloth : A History of Stripes, Michel Pastoureau "traces the negative connotation related to stripes in cloth and clothing in Western societies as evidenced by documents and illustrations from the Middle Ages until today. He begins with the Carmelites' scandalous use later banned of striped monks' habits in the 13th century and gives numerous examples of striped clothing "marking" marginalized members of society: prostitutes, mimes, domestic servants, bankers, criminals, and, sadly, concentration camp inmates. He admits that the use of stripes on coats of arms is not pejorative and that stripes have been used successfully in modern fashions (Amazon)."
Read Joe Fyfe's review The Devil's Cloth.
April 26, 2006
Leaf Twenty Six: Wire
Leaf Twenty Six: Wire, 2006, HTML, 365 x 265 pixels
Andre Cadere at Art: Concept by James Hyde
Ever since, as an undergrad, first reading about and seeing pictures of his barres I have been interested in Andre Cadere.
| FindArticles > Art in America > Nov, 2005 > Article > Print friendly Andre Cadere at Art: Concept James Hyde
The form of Cadere's barres de bois is exceedingly simple: they are wooden rods of varying length composed of sections painted in primary colors. In total, he made about 180 barres. All have a disarmingly handmade quality; the plainly painted individual units are fitted together the way a careful child would stack blocks. The smallest barre in the show was baton-sized and mounted horizontally on a wall. There was a longer piece propped against a wall and another floor-piece, consisting of 8 batons of 12 units each, which diagonally bisected the gallery. Cadere valued his works as conversation starters--props for opening dialogue. This is consistent with the formal patterns of the barres themselves. Cadere maintained he had a mathematical system for the patterns of colors on the barres, but would include an error, though he wouldn't say what the system was or what might constitute the error. The small wall-mounted barre here consists of 12 units--four black, four red and four yellow. The irregular, rhythmic sequence tempts one to decipher its logic, but even with this simple piece it is virtually impossible to grasp the pattern. In the process of trying, however, the viewer opens a dialogue with the work. While the colorful barres are exquisite to look at, Cadere is best known for how he presented them outside the gallery. He would turn up at bars, cafes, openings and art fairs carrying his staff-length rods. Sometimes, although uninvited, he would place them in galleries and museums. These actions were a utopian assault on the art system, but also had an edge of self-promotion. This contradiction suggests that Cadere was proposing a revision rather than a destruction of the status quo. Cadere's typewritten records of the times, dates and places of his appearances with his barres lent an elegiac note to the show. There were also numerous pictures of Cadere, youthful and earnest, a modern shaman with rod in hand. The show included a single grainy black-and-white photo of him hoisting what must have been his largest barre--a log-sized example--on his shoulder. In the image, the artist looks toward the camera with an expression of burden and challenge. As staffs or batons, the barres are images of mobility. They are also mobile in terms of medium, slipping poetically through received categories of performance, painting, sculpture and documentation. You can also think of the barres as dashes (in French, this is one of the meanings of barre), because of their ability to connect things and people. Thirty years on, even without the artist's presence, they haven't lost this power. COPYRIGHT 2005 Brant Publications, Inc. |
April 25, 2006
Leaf Twenty Five: Loop
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Leaf Twenty Five: Loop, 2006, HTML, 365 x 265 pixels
April 24, 2006
Leaf Twenty Four: Press
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Leaf Twenty Four: Press, 2006, HTML, 365 x 265 pixels
April 23, 2006
Leaf Twenty Three: Screen
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Leaf Twenty Three: Screen, 2006, HTML, 365 x 265 pixels