Self-Sufficiency, Slowness, and Figuration
Cameron Bennett
Master of Fine Arts
Art Institute of Boston
June 2011
Abstract:
For the
contemporary realist painter in a mechanized, technologized society, questions
about the relevancy of painting itself, as well as figuration, abound. One way to establish relevance for such a
painter is to re-address not just the content of his or her artwork, but also
how a work is created. In stepping away
from technology and embracing a process which calls upon the artist to meet his
or her needs self-sufficiently, unmechanically, a
union occurs, one which brings together form, content, and process within the
broader concept of the uniqueness of humanity.
It is this uniqueness of the self-sufficient human in a
technologically-dependent posthuman era that lends a new relevance to
figuration in painting, as well as to painting itself.
I.
Introduction:
Who Would Be a Painter Man?[1]
Painting is total idiocy (Richter 78). So says a painter whose work I really dislike,
but who is important to me for the excellent reason that he is important to
everybody else. The quote is by Gerhard Richter, the painter whose work
straddles abstraction and representation, whose career spans the iconoclasm of
late modernism through the postmodern, or post-post modern, period of
today. Is he right? Of course not. But, then again…
The thinking painter attempting to
situate himself or herself in the discourse of art history in the beginning of
the twenty-first century is in for a challenge.
Painting is one big paradox, a bag, actually, full of paradoxes and
frustration. Or so it seems to me. Is painting dead, dying, fully resurrected
and alive, or actually undead, kept in motion by the “vampire’s kiss” of
mechanical reproduction, as David Reed says (Danto 268)?
Does the
mechanism of photography help us to make better paintings, or is it sucking the
credibility right out from beneath painters who blindly, or not so blindly,
lean on it as an aid? Why do illusionistic
painters cling to the slow enterprise of painting if the photograph records
better and faster, and computers simulate the painted look of an image as well
as they do?
This
confusion and frustration is at the center of my most recent work; one critic[2]
recently described my work as being about “the deficit of human
engagement.” She is right! Deficits abound as I struggle to find my
place as painter passionate about the human figure, and the human, in a rapidly
mechanizing world, one in which it is increasingly difficult to engage with
others, as well as oneself.
In
this thesis, I speak about the link between technology and speed and contrast
it with the human and slowness. Because
I also link photography with technology, photography in the practice of
painting becomes an example of speed in what has always been, until recently, a
slow enterprise.
II.
Technology
Through Photography and Into Painting
The industrial
era brought us, among many things, the camera, a mechanism which caused painters of the period for the
first time to seriously begin to question the future of painting; did it have
one at all?[3] Even in those days of long exposure times,
the speed of the camera was unsurpassable in recording the phenomenological world. The debates which circulated in the early to
mid nineteenth century may seem naïve and amusing to us now, the explorations
of photography as an art form and its dialogue with painting having had almost
two centuries to mature.[4] By and large, today, however, there is an
almost total, unquestioning acceptance of the camera among painters, painters
both trained and untrained in the discourse of art history. As an example of an increased dependency on
computer technology, at this moment the trend for many naturalistic painters is
to paint, not just from a printed photograph, but directly from a computer
screen. In this way painting can be seen
as a technologically focussed enterprise, one of simulating photographs and not
auratic, original sources, such as nature. [5]
Regardless of
the tool, be it photographic print or computer screen, my question about this
way of painting calls into question the use of the tool altogether. Some seem to have forgotten that no tools,
really, other than paints, brushes, canvases and eyes are needed for painting. Certainly, no mechanisms are needed. What would happen if photography suddenly
vanished from the planet? Countless
painters, professional and amateur, would have to drastically rethink their
methods, would suddenly have to face just how far their own personal powers
could take them as painters.[6] Many careers would abruptly end.[7] Perhaps my own.
For a time at
least, it was important for me, as an artist, to submit myself to a hypothesis
of just this kind. I had a burning desire to see if, without the mechanism of
the camera, whether my work would be so
poor that I would have to give up painting altogether, whether I could get by
adequately…or if I could do something better than anything I had ever done
before.
III.
Self-Sufficiency
For me, the
question of process became very relevant when pondering the addage “the ends
justify the means,” and never really accepting it. For many, the question is: who cares how the
thing is done so long as it is done well?
When thinking about stunning paintings I had seen and then remembering
my disappointment when discovering the shortcuts taken in the process of their
making, I discovered that I cared very much about how the thing is done. Process took on a new relevance for me, and
the role of the human in that process became a high priority.
John Seymour
was an English homesteader and author of “ The Complete Guide to
Self-Sufficiency.” For him, the
importance of process manifested itself in self-sufficient living. He wrote in 1997 that his self-sufficient
life “…means acceptance of complete responsibility for what you do or what you
do not do, and one of its greatest rewards is thejoy that comes from seeing
each job right through---from sowing your own wheat, to eating your own bread,
from planting a field of pig food to slicing your own bacon”(Seymour 7). The
self-sufficient life, he writes, “…brings challenge and the use of daily
initiative back to work, and variety, and occasional great success and occasional
abysmal failure”(7). To my mind, his
words sum up the unique hurdles which come from painting and drawing from life,
a much more complicated enterprise than working from photographs, but one much
more rewarding. In fact, Seymour’s words
call to mind some of the verbiage in the addenda of a certain manifesto I
recently discovered: “…an artist working from life, with changing atmosphere
and light, is like a cook who grinds his or her own shallots and spices, and
thereby gets a real feel for the actual
objects themselves, their texture and smell, while working from a photo places
a barrier between the artist and the real world” (Parrish 2 ).
I recently
discovered The Slow Art Manifesto, written by a group of highly skilled
atelier-trained artists, most of them still in their thirties at the time of
the writing of their manifesto, for whom Donald Kuspit has coined the term “New
Old Masters”(Harvey). “Slow art” is a term the group borrows from critic Robert
Hughes, who has railed against mass media[8](Hughes). The Slow Art Manifesto openly emphasizes the
importance of working from life, of rejecting many of the speed-centric
provisions of the Futurists[9],
and insists that slowness is mandatory not only for the creation of its works,
but for their appreciation as well. The
group, including some of my favorite painters Kate Lehman, Jacob Collins,
Richard Piloco, and Graydon Parrish, writes: “…paintings executed by this
younger group are painted from life, evince a variety of brushwork, and
represent life caught through atmosphere, studied, and revered, a sort of
timelessness slowly and carefully caught
by the brush…We laud the beauty of skills slowly acquired and the deliberate
art that reflects such skills”(Parrish 1).
It is not only
with the Slow Art group, however, that one finds painters who work from life
whose methods are labor intensive, physically demanding, and slow in their
creation. Painters Lucian Freud and
Antonio Lopez Garcia, have been doing this for more than half a century. Between them, neither makes any claim, unlike
myself and the Slow Artists, that working from life is in some way
philosophically superior to working from a photograph. Neither do they ever make mention of any
resistance to a velocitization of culture through the broadening influence of
technology. Yet, whether these men are
card-carrying members of any slow-art movement or not, and they are not, each
fits the model of the exemplary painter that I call for in this thesis: one who
utilizes a slow process, whose own powers of perception and stamina have been
strengthened through his or her own self-sufficiency as a skilled human.
Of
these two painters, it is the work of Freud, who has been called by critic
Robert Hughes “…the greatest living realist painter,” which is more akin to my
own (Hughes/Freud 7). Freud’s work is
known for its focus on the figure, and also for its painterly mark-making which
I prize in a painting. His “Bella”(figure
1) is a powerful depiction of its subject, demonstrating his loose but able
draftsmanship. The evidence of his hand in the idiosyncratic facture of the
paint is sincere, honest, appropriate for the urgency involved in a work from
life. In this way, I also consider
Freud’s work more like my own than the paintings of the Slow Artists which,
although beautifully done, can lack imagination in their faithfulness to
perception, as in Collins’ painting “Santiago and Sheila”(figure 2).
 |
| fig. 1. Jacob Collins. Santiago and Sheila. 2006. 42"x32" |
 |
| fig.2. Lucian Freud. Bella. 1986 |
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| fig. 3. Kate Lehman. Portrait of an Artist. 2005. 27"x27" |
There are
exceptions, however. Kate Lehman’s
painting “Portrait of an Artist” (figure 3) demonstrates her pleasure in
featuring the medium of the paint, fusing the edges of the figure in and out of
the mottled background, while simultaneously enjoying the faithfully depicted
forms of the model.
 |
|
Figure 4. Antonio Lopez Garcia. Woman in the Bath.
1968. 65”x42”
|
Garcia’s paintings are far less demonstrative in their
mark-making than Freud’s but like the work of the Slow Artists, show a more
faithful, naturalistic draftsmanship.
“Woman in the Bath,” (figure 4) which shows us the obsessive, intense
observation which is part and parcel of his method, was painted from smaller
preliminary drawings and color studies, serving as an example of an indirect,
but self-sufficient method of working from life, akin to the one I have adopted
in my own work. An obvious demonstration of great skill, the painting
shows the potential of the human for recording natural phenomena, without
photographic aids, created over whatever length of time he requires to achieve
the maximum effect. Garcia states: “If I
like something, I go after it. I know I
sometimes take my working method to extremes, but how could I not paint those
images?”(Brutvan 130)
IV.
The
Vampire’s Kiss
Most of the
focus of this thesis has been on one kind of painting: painting which strives
to resemble nature. This kind of
painting has had to rethink its own validity from the time of the camera’s
introduction; it has been subject to what Andre Bazin calls the “resemblance
complex” (Bazin 13). Modernism, as a
reaction against the limits of resembling nature, gave birth to an exploration
of painting’s other possibilities, namely abstraction and non-objectivism,
which freed painting from its competition with the camera. Yes, Freud, Garcia, Lehman and Collins may be
industriously painting away at images which resemble nature, but are their
efforts relevant today when painting itself, non-objective or otherwise, is
still in question?
Two lengthy
roundtable discussions about the state of contemporary painting were printed in
the 2003 March and April issues of Artforum with such thinkers as Isabelle
Graw, Arthur Danto, Yves Alain Bois, and Thierry de Duve. In one De Duve states: “It is both amusing
and pathetic that about once every five years the death of painting is
announced, invariably followed by the news of its resurrection” (Danto 211).
I, like many
of the painters, curators, and critics in these discussions, am someone for
whom the “death of painting debate” is not a great concern. Painting, obviously, has not disappeared. Even the idea of the death of painting is not
universal, being relegated to certain geographic areas; it is much less of a
concern in Europe than in America.[10] I can think of several reasons why in 2011,
in spite of our being situated in an era
in which computer technology seems to meet so many needs, painting is still with us.
Probably the
most obvious reason for painting’s endurance is the visual pleasure that it offers, and a second is the physical pleasure, akin to exercise,
which comes from its haptic “making” aspect.
A third is that painting is difficult, and this challenge will always
attract the type of person who seeks out difficult activity.
Yet another
reason painting is still alive is that people long to emulate what has gone
before. This can also be seen as nostalgia, however, and because of this, it is
the one reason for the existence of painting which is probably the most
suspect. As Hal Foster and Benjamin
Buchloh argue, the history of painting can not be “…regarded simply as a repository of styles…” that
remain “…unproblematically available for use by contemporary artists”(Gaiger
96). Jason Gaiger writes: “Irrespective
of the sincerity of the individual artist, the employment of such procedures
could result only in a pastiche of previous forms of painting”(96).
What we may
conclude from the opinions of these thinkers is that one of the greatest
threats to the survival of painting is that it would attempt to advance
retrospectively, to move forward while looking backward, which would probably
result in little to no movement. Worse yet, it might not attempt to advance at
all.
Yet, I argue,
the theoretical forward or backward movement of painting has little or nothing
to do with its life or death. It is
really only here that I feel the need to invest myself in the “death of
painting debate.” In the age of the
photographic mechanism, painting can only remain relevant, fundamentally alive,
if it assumes a self-sufficient position.
I believe any approach to painting, whether akin to something
retrospective or not, is relevant and fully alive so long as it is done without
a reliance on another technology.
Painting is redeemed through its humanity, and especially so through the
skills which enable humanity to relinquish its reliance on the mechanism. Essentially, the argument is pro-humanism
against post-humanism. The
painters of the early days of the photograph who “…sought to give their craft a
reprieve by ‘internalizing’…the technology threatening it…” as Thierry de Duve
states, ultimately began the undoing of painting as a living, self-sufficient,
organic enterprise (Bois 33). Painting
must become a fully organic enterprise once again to remain relevant; it must
become a fully human enterprise.
Yes,
painting will probably always be with us, but in what state? As David Reed states in the Artforum
discussion: “Rather than initiating the death of painting, as was expected,
photography and other media of mechanical reproduction have been like a vampire’s
kiss that makes painting immortal” (Danto 268). “Immortal” in the sense that
painting may always be with us, but if it remains with us through mechanical
reproduction or relies on mechanical reproduction for its creation, then it
remains in an undead state: active,
intelligent, artistic, mobile, even highly artistic, but like vampires, not
really fully alive.
V.
Content:
Figuration and Allegory
“But if you’re painting humans, you’ve got the
best subject matter in the world. And
when I’m not painting them, which is rare, I feel I’m being pretty
frivolous.” So said Lucian Freud in an
interview in 1988 (Freud/Auerbach).
“…it is surely
unthinkable that the representation of human experiences, in other words people
and their emotions, landscapes and still-lives could forever be excluded from painting. They must in the long run again return to the
centre of the argument of painting”(Gaiger 93).
So went the catalog accompanying the exhibition A New Spirit In Painting
at the Royal Academy
in London in
1981.
Clearly, the
litany of human experiences has returned to arguments of painting in the thirty
years since that exhibition. This is
good news for me as someone for whom “human experiences…people and their
emotions” are of prime interest; this is what I want to paint.
Painting seeks
to preserve that which it represents in paint.
Because it is involved in a process of preservation, the content of a
work of art ought to be of great importance to the artist. This is one of the main ends of allegoresis,
according to Walter Benjamin, that it exhibit “….an appreciation of the
transience of things, and the concern to rescue them for eternity…”(Owens 206). In this way, the choice of my content was
very much made for me.
 |
| Figure 5. Blue Figure. 2010. 5’x6’ |
 |
| Figure 6. Red Figure. 2010. 3’x6’ |
It was obvious
for me that if my stance was one seeking to retain the primacy of the human
over the machine, that it was humanity that I would seek to preserve in my
painting. Figuration served this
end. Figuration, however, operated for
me as more than just an allegory of humanity; it
also was representative of figurative painting itself, which I also sought to
preserve. One could elaborate and say
that because the paintings were done with technical skill, that technical skill
was to be preserved, but also slowness, self-sufficiency, and working from
life. And so I set about making three
allegorical figurative paintings whose form, content, and process were unified
under the overarching concept of one theme: humanity represented in a human
enterprise, one which is self-sufficient.
The
first two paintings, Blue Figure (fig. 5) and Red Figure (fig. 6) were
similar. Each involved a single male
figure in an undefined space, painted in a monochromatic color scheme, and in
some sort of relation to an area of high-facture paint texture. Both of these paintings were intended to
convey a melancholy or un-ease indicative not only of my own condition, but one
which I hoped would be capable of evoking a sympathetic response from a broad
audience. The
idea that these figures were representative of an anxiety about the future of
humanity was not at all discerned, and this was not problematic for me. I had learned from the unfavorable kitsch-y
overstatement of my earlier sports/religion series and sign series (figs. 7,8)
that a painting need not be readable on all levels, at least not
immediately.
 |
| Figure 7. Pulpit I. 2009. 40”x30” |
 |
| Figure 8. Yield. 2009. 30”x30” |
 |
|
Figure 9.
Floating Figures. Unfinished. 2011. 8’x5’
|
In terms of
its union of content, form and process, I consider the third painting in this
series to be the most successful of the three.
Floating Figures (fig.9) is a naturalistic depiction of a very unnatural
occurrence, and very clearly an allegorical work. One of the
characteristics of allegorical painting is its potential for the unusual
or downright fantastic, as seen through the centuries in works by Bosch in the
fifteenth century to Klimt and Mucha in the late nineteenth, and my goal for
this painting was to create something similarly arresting, yet in a
contemporary context.
In the painting, two figures are
suspended mid-air several feet above the floor. Nearby, a group of seated
figures shows little interest. There
definitely exists in this tension a “deficit of human engagement.” For those who have cared to look at it,
different interpretations of its content have been given, interpretations
which, for me, are all equally fitting.
This might signify that the work is readable without relying on an overt
symbology; it is representational, yet not illustrative in its
representation.
One of readings of the piece was as
an allegory of men and women and how they find themselves at the different
stages of their lives. The youngest
people in the group appear to be the floating man and woman. Youth is adrift, afloat, untethered, full of
possibility, and often ridiculous. The
people seated in chairs adjacent appear to be older; they are certainly heavier. They have gravitas, they are grounded. They
appear to have authority, to sit in judgement, discussing the activity of the
younger couple, or perhaps largely ignoring them, looking right past them.
Another reading of the piece was as
an allegory of the idea of suspension.
The painting, when viewed before its completion, was thought to be a
completed statement, and its lack of finish registered positively with some
viewers. The floating figures, the
suspended figures, seemed to represent the suspension of the completion of the
work. In doing this, the importance of
the process of its creation was stressed.
A third reading of the piece is
through the filter of art history, particularly in the development of painting
itself. The seated figures on the left
are depicted in shadow, more flatly than the floating figures on the right
which are in the light, figuratively and literally, and modeled more
sculpturally, with stronger chiaroscuro.
Because our syntagmatic method of reading is from left to right, a
chronology is set up. We move from flat
to volumetric. The floating figures are
suspended in front of a flat white screen, moving out of it, into space,
indicative of the development of perspective and the illusion of depth. If these milestones in history appeared
during the Renaissance, then it could also be seen that the gestures of the
floating couple are reminiscent of paintings of that era in which floating
figures abound, as do crucifixion scenes.
As an allegory of painting which
preserves an idea for eternity, and as an appropriation of Renaissance
allusions to perspective, the painting reinstates, rescues for posterity the
possibility of a painting to suggest effectively space, and in this way, it
tramples on Greenbergian notions of the necessity of a painting’s flatness.[11] On the other hand, it fulfills Greenbergian
notions about the mandatory self-referentiality of a work. It is a painting about painting.[12]
The painting, like any work
of art, is a self-portrait. It reveals
my sense of invisibility in the realm of contemporary visual art, my sense of
floating, my lack of arrival, a sense shared by many current realist
painters. Ultimately, what I hoped would
be taken away from the piece, what I intended to be its most basic and readable
message, is the frustration of exerting great effort for the sake of some truly
valuable enterprise which then goes unappreciated, if noticed at all. I would argue, most people have experienced this kind of
frustration, those within as well as those outside the arts.
VI.
My New,
Self-sufficient Process
In recent
years, my process has involved painting and drawing from life only rarely, and
working from photographs almost exclusively.
The paintings which resulted from this were generally adequate in their
drawing, shape, and color, but stale, even after attempting to hide the
photograph’s influence with painterly bravura and technique, as many
contemporary realists do. In laying the
camera aside and working from life, however, I discovered a new process which
opened up for me, one which also resulted in a new look to my work.
Essentially,
the new process capitalizes on the
idiosyncratic happenstance of time limitation.
Because working from life was paramount for me, I was limited to a
narrow amount of time with my my models.
Because of this, the limitations of my process have, paradoxically,
provided me with a richer potential for creativity, for artistry. When information is missing, opportunity for
invention opens, and in several ways.
My
large painting “Floating Figures,” because it is a depiction of an occurrence
which could not physically happen, called for me to invent from the very
outset. I began with a sketch of the
scene made in charcoal (fig.10), done without any kind of visual reference at
all. It was remarked by some viewers that this, the very first
stage, is the best place to end, not begin the process. In other words, if the invented sketch
supplies the idea well enough on its own, why move it forward into a work
requiring much visual study from life?
This was actually a very important comment for me, a painter passionate
about emulating phenomena, but also interested in self-sufficiency. If what I have inside me is sufficient for my
painting, why bother depending on perception as reference at all?
 |
| Figure 10. Floating Figures, Preliminary Sketch. 2010. 24”x18” |
Umberto Boccione stated in the
Futurist Manifesto: “We again affirm that…the painter has within himself the landscapes
he wishes to produce”(Goldwater 436). This
comment further drove home the idea that in working without easily accessible
photo-reference, I would have to
continue to create a successful union between what I had observed and what I
would have to invent in the painting.
The
main players in the piece, the figures, were all done from observation, from
life-drawings (figs.10,11), but their arrangement as a group in the painting,
their placement in the space, was completely invented. This was the most challenging part of the
process. Rackstraw Downes, who labors to
put credible figures in his landscapes and works from life states: “These damn
figures are tough, like clouds, in that they’re moving and changin.” (Downes 6). Philip Pearlstein, who also works from life
states: “I learned early on that you can’t rely on knowledge of anatomy. One of the things that’s exciting is that you
have to make decisions” (Gregg 69). There was very much a decision-making
process surrounding the depiciton of the floating girl; she was compiled from
several different studies (figs.13,14).
 |
| Figure 11. Aline. 2010. 18”x24” |
 |
| Figure 12. Jonathan. 2010. 24”x18” |
 |
| Figure 13. Elise. 2010. 24”x18” |
 |
|
Figure 14. Elise Studies. 2010. 18”x24”
|
Also invented are the shadows on
the floor and up the screen behind the two weightless figures, as well as the
billowing effect of the clothing as it floats around them.
 |
| Figure 15. Elise, Color Study. 2011. 24”x18” |
 |
| Figure 16. Jonathan, Color Study. 2011. 24”x18” |
Finally,
much of the color in the piece is imaginary.
I did make three color studies of heads from life (figs.15, 16), but the
colors on the clothes, the background, and the floor were invention. For me, color remains a hurdle. Observing and matching color is not a problem, but inventing
color is tricky. I know this is true for
many painters, especially figurative painters, and I suspect it is why painters
like Mark Tansey, Michael Borremans, and countless atelier-trained painters
like Jacob Collins rely on very limited palettes. For my Red Figure and Blue Figure, the colors
are just that: red and blue with accents of their complements. For these two paintings, I made several small
color studies, but foolishly, hoping to capitalize on a spontaneous solution
for the question of color in the Floating Figures piece, the color studies came
very late to the game.
The
process which I have adopted of late is nothing new; it is a highly historic process
commonly used by painters from the Renaissance to the present day, one in which
the work is supplemented with life studies until the desired level of finish
has been met. But unlike the highly
polished, multi-figure, allegorical paintings of Graydon Parrish, I am after a
more painterly look which shows the process of the painting’s creation, as in
action painting. There was a dynamic,
gestural quality about Floating Figures in its earlier stages which I found very
satisfying. In later stages, however,
this quality has been diminished, and I wonder if it was a mistake to lose the
unfinished look, as the process of the creation of the painting is now less
visible.
Nevertheless,
the overall outcome of this new process has been positive. It has taken my work in a direction which is
much more meaningful in its union of form, process and content, and, I believe,
has helped me to produce superior work as well.
VII.
Conclusions
What
have I gained from my experience in a slow, self-sufficient process? There are specific things which I would have
taken much longer to arrive at, if ever, as a painter habitually attached to
his camera. As a result of laying
photography aside, I have re-discovered my love of black and white drawing, and
would like to pursue drawing as an end in itself in the future, and on a large
scale. Also, I have gained a much
greater confidence in my draftsmanship, as well as in my ability to paint
believable form from my drawings. I
never before was able to do this successfully.
I do not know that my visual memory has improved noticeably, which is
still a goal, but even where memory fails, inventing imagined solutions to
problems of visual content as opposed to observing exterior phenomena has been
liberating. Calling up imagery from
within has long been the business of pure non-objective painting. It is, afterall, a much more self-sufficient
form of painting than representational painting ever could be, and I have a
new-found admiration for it, especially after struggling with the exhausting
paradoxes of representational painting and the tension between it and
photography.
One
of the greatest rewards in working self-sufficiently, however, has been in the
conceptual union of form (the product, the completed painting), content (the
figure, a metaphor for humanity’s mandatory slowness), and process (the
activity of painting itself, a slow human enterprise). In finding a union between these three, I
have reached a deeper understanding of the fullness of what painting can be. I am
no longer a painter who paints the figure merely because he enjoys it; now I
have a reason to do it, and that reason is perfectly in step with the
zeitgeist. Painting is relevant as a
human endeavor, and figuration in painting is especially important in an era in
which both painting and humanity “threaten to disappear” (Owens 203). Painting can, therefore, perfectly and
justifiably concern itself with humanity, in its creation and its imagery. It will always be with us. As a practice of preservation, it may even
outlast us.
[1] 1966 pop
tune by K. Pickett, E. Phillips of the band Creation. The song is interesting
because it sums up the cynical look at classically informed painting toward the
end of the Pop Art movement.
Lyrics:
Went to college studied art/to be an artist, make a start/studied hard to gain
my degree/but no one seemed to notice
me/chorus: Painter man, Painter man, Who would be a painter man?/Tried cartoons and comic books/dirty
postcards, women’s books/here was where the money lay/classic art has had its day/chorus/Do adverts for
tv/Household soap and brands of tea/Labels all
around tin can/Who would be a painter man?/chorus
[2] Jan
Avgikos, at the time of this writing on the faculty of the MFA program at
AIB/Lesley University
[3] Hippolyte
Delaroche is credited as having declared as early as 1839: “From this day
forward painting is dead.” A Viennese reporter asked in the same year: “Will
the artist not be driven to starvation when the machine usurps his functions?”
(Coke 5)
[4] Painters
of the period of the introduction of photography immediately began using
photographs in their work. Thierry de
Duve discusses what he calls “…the long struggle between craftsmanship and
industrialilzation…” He says that artists of the period “…sought to give their
craft a reprieve by ‘internalizing’ some of the freatures and processes of the
technology threatening it, and by ‘mechanizing’ their own body at work.”(Bois
33)
[5]Benjamin
writes about “aura” in “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”
generally as the quality which is lost in the reproduced thing. (Benjamin
64-66) I feel that for the perceptual
painter, painting directly from nature is most desirable as a way to respond to
the aura of his or her subject. If we
think of illusionistic paintings and photographs as simulations of nature and
aura, then we can think of a painting done from a photograph as a simulation of
a simulation of aura, which, to my mind, is undesirable.
[6]The
powers of the traditionally trained painter have always been draftsmanship
(drawing and the ability to record faithfully the relationships of shape,
value, and color), memory (the ability to remember these relationships), and
imagination or creativity (the ability to invent these relationships in a
believable and artistic way). At the height of naturalistic drawing and
painting in late nineteenth century Western Art, there was a huge emphasis on
sharpening these powers and the work produced by painters without photographic
aids was often extraordinary. One of the
best known exemplars of this training is John Singer Sargent (1856-1925) whose
oeuvre was mainly portraiture done
entirely without photographic aids. One
of the best examples of the importance attached to memory-training in the
nineteenth century is Lecoq De Boisbaudran’s “The Training of the Memory in
Art”, first pubished in 1847.
[7] Chuck
Close, Richard Estes, Andy Warhol, and even Gerhard Richter would have had to
drastically rethink their work without photography.
[8] In a
speech delivered in 2004 Hughes stated: “The camera, if it's lucky, may tell a
different truth to drawing - but not a truer one. Drawing brings us into a
different, a deeper and more fully experienced relation to the object. A good
drawing says: "not so fast, buster". We have had a gutful of fast art
and fast food. What we need more of is slow art: art that holds time as a vase
holds water: art that grows out of modes of perception and whose skill and
doggedness make you think and feel; art that isn't merely sensational, that
doesn't get its message across in 10 seconds, that isn't falsely iconic, that
hooks onto something deep-running in our natures. In a word, art that is the
very opposite of mass media.” (Hughes/Guardian)
[9] Part I of
the the addendum of the Slow Art Manifesto states: “Moreover, to a young group
of artists who were born into an age where speed is taken for granted, the
famous linein the Futurist Manifesto that states: ‘We affirm that the world’s
magnificence has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed’ just seems
old or irrelevant…In New York City in 2005, it seems more necessary to
challenge th establishment art world by asserting the validity of a slower,
timeless form of art made possible through the acquisition of the skills and
poetry of traditional painting.”
Deliberte! The Slow Art Manifesto.
(Parrish)
[10] In the
same discussion Isabelle Graw states: “As a German critic who was based in Cologne at the time, to my mind, the discussion about the
‘end of painting’ was happening mainly among intellectuals in New York.”(Danto 209)
[11]In his
“Modernist Painting” Clement Greenberg shares his Kant-inspired thoughts about
the necessary flatness of painting: “Flatness, two-dimensionality, was the only
condition painting shared with no other art, and so Modernist painting oriented
itself to flatness as it did to nothing else.”(Greenberg, 756)
[12]Greenberg
writes: “The essence of Modernism lies…in the use of the characteristic methods
of a discipline to criticize the discipline itself…to entrench it more firmly
in its area of competence.” (755)
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