Two hundred and ninety nine

Tall Grass

1503 by Albrecht Dürer
Albertina, Vienna

German born Dürer has been hailed as one of the greatest artists of the Northern Renaissance. His works are widely celebrated, but perhaps the most interesting element to Dürer is the sheer range in both subject and medium. A remarkable collection of his work has stood the test of time, from large religious paintings to woodcuts, and of everything from self-portraits to animal studies. Being able to see such a breadth of Dürer’s work allows an insight into his passion for both observation and imagination. He not only creates the visions of his mind, but documents the images of reality as we see here. Those of you who saw Lucien Freud: Painted Life on the BBC will remember that Freud himself had this image on the wall of his studio as an example of pure observation. Like Freud, who would return to the clarity of observational painting from the painterly, we must assume that Dürer liked to flit between styles, and why should one not. Many of the greatest painters did so; just look at Picasso — see 67, 109, 171. It isn’t hard to see why Freud had this image on his wall, as the crisp rhetoric of fine needles of grass topped with soft clusters of seeds, emerging from glassy waters, is comforting in its detail of familiarity. Watching plants reach upward for the light of the sun is an art tinted with the happy naturalism of Romanticism. The greens, gently ranging from the dark to the light, embody the freshness of organic growth; the water and its reflections demonstrate the true beauty of nature; and the dandelion heads waver with the energy of life. Watching the world so closely as to remember it visually is a talent, yet to recreate it to last hundreds of years is another thing entirely.

 

Two hundred and ninety eight

Two Women Embracing

1915 by Egon Schiele
Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest

Schiele was an Austrian born artist and a protégé of Gustav Klimt; indeed, looking at this drawing, there is no mistaking Klimt’s style of showing two figures in an intertwining embrace (see twenty-seven & twenty-eight). However Schiele was rather more notorious that Klimt in taking his protagonists a step further — taking off their clothes and twisting their figures into what was considered by some of his contemporaries into lewd and pornographic poses. Schiele was in fact taken to court in 1912 for what was initially an accusation for seduction (a model underage), but what turned into a seizure of hundreds of drawings; he was eventually, rather ironically, sentenced for exhibiting inappropriate drawings in a place ‘accessible’ to children. It is this ‘inappropriate’ element in Schiels’s work that allows his work to do something that perhaps Klimt’s never did, expose the rawness of passion and sexual lust. Looking at Klimt’s Embracing Lovers – Beethoven Frieze (twenty-seven), we see a naked couple embracing but, as in Klimt’s other work, it is an atmosphere of intense peace, a quiet love, between the two that arrests the viewer. Klimt’s dream like world, dotted with pattern and carrying away colour, has none of the intensity of animal attraction that Schiele captured in his inky lines that wander like eyes. The skin of his models has a depth that seeks to form their curves and life-like limbs — pink and yellowing with touch and caresses, Schiele’s drawn nudity blushes with life and lust. His lines are fluid and appear rippling, alive with movement; far from locked in an eternal embrace, as Klimt’s are, we are lead to imagine Schiels’s figures’ next move. As with many of Schiele’s ladies, this one looks directly at us, unashamedly fixing our gaze but with a careless nonchalance which we may gather mirrors Schiele’s approach to such subjects. It is this attitude that allows Schiele to paint and draw with such enthusiasm but rooted in reality; his work is passionate but with an honesty that is beautiful which halts any hint of the grotesque. Not that Schiele’s work didn’t aim to be just a little enterprisingly naughty — here of course we have two ladies embracing, one caught very decidedly between the other’s thighs.

Two hundred and ninety seven

Autumn Foliage

c2000 by David Anthony Hall
Will’s Art Warehouse

Hall’s prints appear as much more that photographs; they are expanses and views of the natural world that provide not just a vision, but an intense feeling of being within a place. There is an effect of absorption; as we gaze into these landscapes, between these trees, we are startled by the same light that illuminates the leaves so brilliantly. Light, in any medium of art, is surely the key to capturing the very essence of a place — tossing us back to times passed and illuminating memories. Hall takes care to trap the natural light of the world in his prints, allowing them to radiate with the rays that first drew him to these spots of natural beauty. Hall’s method of printing — archival photographs in acrylic blocks — becomes as important as the subjects he captures, commanding admiration in its three-dimensional brilliance of colour. Through his care of display, reality becomes translated to the wall. Hall’s photographs range from long rectangles of forest or field, large and imposing, to circular snap-shots such as Autumnal Foliage. There seems to be a current trend for circular canvases, judging by the amount that cropped up in the 2011 art fairs, but Hall perhaps uses the shape to its full advantage. As an eye would take in the world with a glance, without straight edges or corners, so does Hall’s Autumn Foliage. This circle lies us down on our backs and puts us in mind of all the times we too have gazed up to the sky, taking in the canopy of translucent leaves that mottle the sun. The detail is phenomenal, we are able to take in every dazzling leaf, broken as they are by the darkness of the trees creeping veins. It is no wonder that Hall’s prints are sort after, who doesn’t like that feeling of being outside.

Two hundred and ninety six

Pipe with Smoke

1990 by Patrick Caulfield
Government Art Collection

Patrick Caulfield was a contemporary of David Hockney’s, having studied with him in the early ’60s at the Royal Academy. Considering Hockney’s current exhibition at the RA, it is with a different viewpoint that we look at Caulfield’s work; it is always strange, the potency with which death changes our outlook on an artist. Remembering him, however, is not difficult, as his work was bold, bright and possessed a cheerful and comforting simplicity — not drawn from any lack of method, but from careful compositions that were never overstated. Clean and curious, Caulfield’s work ensues intrigue but allows the viewer to remain comfortable in its presence. Pipe with Smoke is such a work, its simplicity integral to the gently imposed but poignant impact. The pipe’s shape is basic but beautifully drawn, with a bell’s soft curve at its bottom while its handle cruves elegantly upwards. The shape of the black mouthpiece is echoed in the brilliance of the blue flame, whose movement is insinuated with the wavering lip of black at its tip. Colour here, is as important as design; the red is immediately arresting, and the blue flame bright as it clings to its background of the solid darker hue. The intrigue is then poked at through the oddity of the background which is not flat and is unexplained, featuring an angled three-dimensional shape through the centre. There is also the obvious summoning of Magritte’s Pipe, recalling his iconic image in an almost post-modern way. The unlikely and bright colours of Caulfield’s pipe certainly bring Magritte’s into the future and Caulfield’s cheerful comfort certainly borders with the surreal — we might remember Magritte’s words “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”.

Two hundred and ninety five

Mathematical Bridge

c2000 by Alison Neville
Curwen Gallery, from ‘Cathedrals, Mosques, Madrasas & Little Houses’

Discovering Neville’s etchings is like coming across an album of pictures from a different time. Fascinated by a new way of seeing our world, we are absorbed in seeing things differently. What is so wonderful about Neville’s pictures is that they are of our world, but composed so bewitchingly originally. The buildings of her travels, and she has travelled well, are etched with the precision of both likeness and personality. The repetitive arches of mosques or cathedrals dance and grow outwards fuelled with the awe of being beneath them, while buildings seem to swell with the pride of their longstanding history as they are shrunk to the medium of paper. Although Neville takes her inspiration from exotic travels — she has embarked on many remarkable journeys in order to document them with her etchings — her beady eye is not saved only for the milk of abroad. In 2007 she walked the Thames Path to draw (exhibited at Curwen in 2007), and here we have the Mathematical Bridge surrounded by the old colleges of Cambridge. It is the transformation of the everyday that leads us to intrigue, and Neville’s framing of the world is truly characterful. The notorious bridge appears lightly balanced on the river banks, its wood clinging together as if highly sprung and, as the legend goes, without any need for bolt or screw. The college in the background then scatters out from this commanding focal point; the texture of little brick on brick builds the walls and turrets that seem to lean back from the law-defying bridge. The colleges windows are oversized and wide open like eyes; dark, with the intensity of pupils, they are watchful over their prized adornment. The fact that Neville’s works are etchings only contributes to her playful viewing of architecture. It is an historical, long overlooked  medium for illustration, and Neville uses it well to illustrate the monopoly of the world.

Two hundred and ninety four

Louis XIV

1986 by Jeff Koons
The Nasher Collection, Dallas, Texas

Louis XIV joined a host colourful characters that were all in London, until recently, to once again be ‘stylish and subversive’ in the Victoria & Albert’s Postmodernism exhibition. Wandering through the darkened rooms, the placards made of light boxes and the arrows in fluorescent bulbs, one felt a little like a character from Blade Runner (the opening sequence of which was screened), transported to another world. Constantly accosted by the brilliance of fantastical, futuristic-looking (even now) objects and designs, we are sped light years back into a movement which took the world by storm. Beginning quietly, gathering momentum, and burning out, as many do, when money and the mainstream becomes involved, Postmodernism was a whirlwind and walking through the exhibition is like being caught in the breeze. What is captured perfectly is the element of play; one gathers that the artists, musicians, dancers and the like had a tremendous amount of fun ‘creating’ back when, and the V&A have gone about their exhibition in the same way. They play with the space, to the point of half-building oblongs of black cage, onto which is projected various iconic music videos; it’s a bit like being at an ’80s warehouse rave. Jeff Koons’ piece epitomises the decadence of play (with the silver sheen of old Louis), together with the Postmodernism openness of not only innovatively looking forward to shock, but also embracing the old by transforming it. This subversion of what has been is what makes Postmodernism so humorous; there is no resentment or rejection of the old, nor a nostalgic obsession. What is entered into is a jovial communication, in which fun is poked, but equally styles and merits recognised. Koons’ urban stainless steel, moulding the vanity of Louis’s cascading curls and the stern Royal-ism of his brow is comical in itself, and the replacement of soft stone by hard metal is aptly ‘futuristic’. Koons has saved the commanding posture of a bust such as this, but jibed at its resonance by making it hollow in metal rather than heavily set in stone. With so many levels of both creation and mimicking, one cannot help being taken in at the very least. Either by Koons’ use of material or by the innovation of style shown throughout the exhibition, in everything from ballet to teapots. Postmodernism is always eye-catching, which in the end is surely half the point of art and it’s no wonder that the rest of the world, the manufacturers and mass-producers alike, wanted to play the game.

Two hundred and ninety three

The Virgin of the Rocks

Between 1483 & 1486 by Leonardo da Vinci
Musée de Louvre, Paris; National Gallery until 15th January 2012

If you can manage to queue in the wee hours for tickets to the National Gallery’s Leonardo da Vinci exhibition, do — and with barely a week left, be quick about it. A feast for the eyes is in store, as this exhibition reminds us of the sheer quality of beauty in da Vinci’s painting, as well the brilliance of his inquisitive and scientific mind, shown in his remarkable drawings of the human body. One of the particular treats of this exhibition is the opportunity to see both versions of The Virgin of the Rocks; for those who have seen da Vinci’s later painting at the National Gallery often, seeing it face to face with its sister is both intriguing and excitingly stirring. The later version, see postcard 82, takes da Vinci’s perfection of beauty through nature and reflection of internal goodness to the point of surrealism, with crisp detail in the background of the Dali-like rocks to the cool alabaster of the Grecian skin of the stone-still figures. The earlier painting, begun some eight years before, is warmer and appears more naturally, with a visual warmth glowing from Mary’s skin rather than the ethereal chill we see in the later. The figures appear slightly larger in the later painting, swollen perhaps with da Vinci’s intended sculptural three-dimensionality. In the earlier painting the group appear more like people, with softly dark golden hair and modestly coloured clothing — Mary’s cloak and dress in the later painting positively glows with the symbolic blue. The Angel in the earlier painting wears red, heated with the blood of life, that hides the darkness of her wings; in the later painting, the wings are much clearer — carrying the status of Heaven along with Mary’s halo (absent in the first). In the earlier depiction, the faces of all four betray a sensibility or perhaps the personality of their sitters that has been hardened in the second. In the first, the infant John the Baptist particularly has an expression of childish innocence contrasting with the second where, for instance, the Angel’s face has the crisp and unlikely perfection of a classical and celestial beauty. What is made so brilliantly clear by seeing both paintings together is the dramatic difference of effect that can be achieved through approach. Compositionally the two are near identical, yet here we see each for its celebrated differences. Regardless of personal favourites, both are wonderful examples of da Vinci’s exploration into representation as he plays with his remarkable toys of visual expression.

Two hundred and ninety two

Pomona

c.1885 by William Morris & Edward Burne-Jones
Currently at William Morris: Story, Memory. Myth, Two Temple Place until 29th January 2012

The William Morris exhibition at Two Temple Place is bewitching in more ways than one. The darkly wooded walls of Two Temple Place’s Gothic rooms carry the rich tapestries and the enchantingly entwined designs of Morris’s fabrics. As one makes their way through the exhibition, it is less like a gallery and more like wandering through the home of one of the pre-Raphaelite’s. The works are hung beautifully, as if they were decorations of the room, subtly hidden among the bewitching corners of the building. The landing at the top of the magnificent staircase is flanked by Morris’s designs at every side, illustrating the freedom of discovery in this exhibition. If we are told a way to proceed there is no need to listen; surrounded by Morris’s work, the process of looking becomes a chanced stumbling upon numerous treasures, as both house and art embrace each other in a union of tantalising effect. One of the choice discoveries of this exhibition is Morris’s artistic attention to the stories and myths that inspired his creations. So enraptured are we by his designs for fabric and wallpaper, together with the remarkable production of Morris & Co, that his illustrations of those magical figures that inspired so many of his designs are forgotten. Like a true pre-Raphaelite, Morris was in awe of the mythological world that provoked such beauty, pairing it with nature to weave the fabric of his designs, translating it to words to enhance the effect. Together with his and Burne-Jones’s tapestry of Pomona, he captures the Goddess of Fruit & Harvest in a poem:

I am the ancient apple-queen,
As once I was so am I now.
For evermore a hope unseen,
Betwixt the blossom and the bough.

Indeed Morris proves her to be “betwixt the blossom and the bough”, as acanthas leaves and flowers swirl about her. She appears supported by a tumult of nature, as the foliage seems to teem with the movement of her life around her. The leaves possess that lively movement of nature that Morris allows to possess all his designs, so our eyes have no choice but to follow the leaves as they dip and dive — we are caught, and here Morris shows us the power of just one of the figures that he seeks to personify. A source, Morris uses such figures to truly inject enchantment into his depictions of nature.

Two hundred and ninety one

Father Christmas

c1850 by unknown
The Bridgeman Art Library

This jolly Father Christmas is an image taken from a Victorian Christmas card, most probably the early twentieth century. The first ever Christmas card was commissioned by Sir Henry Cole in 1843 featuring a picture of a festive family, though it proved a little controversial due to the fact that the children were drinking wine. Extremely fashionable in the Victorian times, Christmas cards rarely featured religious scenes but instead magical figures, such as fairies or Father Christmas — and here we have no exception. Jolly with rosy cheeks as round as cherries, Father Christmas is a bumbling bundle of  joy — fatly rotund and ringing his jingle bell of Christmas. With a full white beard curling widely about his face, indistinguishable from his collar, he is a softly padded and textured with fur and velvet — an inviting beacon of warmth in the idealised chill of a white Christmas. With sleigh bells tied to his coat, one can almost hear his bells as well as seeing them. Father Christmas proves his lasting effect, featuring on the face of a contemporary Christmas card today, over one hundred years later.

Two hundred and ninety

Tawny Owl, after Thorburn

c2010 by Rebecca Jewell
Rebecca Hossack Gallery until 24 December 2011

Jewell’s work remembers a very exciting time for both art and history — when illustrative documentation was a key part of scientific exploration, and when the specimens found were often prized as colonial artwork. Jewell’s work has this energy of discovery ; there is an old English feel throughout her exhibition, with work displayed in mahogany and glass cabinets, circular frames, and under glass domes — very like the relics of some prized expedition. There is also a great sense of the history of illustration, from the hand-drawn pencil drawings to the heavy printing of the etching press; her art breaths the air of museums, where form and colour seek to remember rather than just represent. This is then carried by the material Jewell chooses to print on, metallic birds printed on luggage labels — swinging tags telling of birds and those that discovered them — as well as the delicate feathers of the discovered birds themselves. Jewell’s printing on feathers is particularly poignant, as ink crisply clings to the delicate fronds of the feather’s fan, bleeding out in sumptuously coloured veins in the soft downy tufts near the stalk. Beautifully printed birds peer out from the leaves of their skin, in a strange juxtaposition of subject and ‘paper’. Jewell’s work provides a welcome range of discoveries for the viewer, in not only presenting us with a range of intriguing bird-life but also drawing our attention to the much forgotten history of the figures and voyages that discovered them.