© The World of Interiors/ Condé Nast Publications)
|Via Negativa II, 2014|
|Willing To Be Vulnerable, 2015-16|
Installation view of the 20th Biennale of Sydney, 2016
There are plenty of reasons for artists to be interested in architecture, even if they didn’t train that way – like, for example, Francis Alÿs, Pedro Reyes and Tomás Saraceno. . There’s the character of building materials, for a start; think of Carl Andre’s emphasis on the qualities of brick. Then there are the aesthetic crossovers between two parallel streams of modernist practice – the frequent starting point of Ellsworth Kelly’s intense simplifications. Other artists might delve into the psychological effects of the built environment (Bruce Nauman’s charged appropriation of the corridor, for example) or its echoes in history or society (Cyprien Gaillard’s explorations of the consequences of architectural failure). And, as we all grew up in architecture, there are links to personal histories, too (a motorway bridge is the designated portal to childhood memories in the work of the 2008 Turner Prize winner Mark Leckey). The Polish artist Monika Sosnowska engages with all five of these strands.
In other whole-room installations, Sosnowska’s distortions can appear unconstrained by gravity, as if to mock the aspirations of soaring towers. Recently, she has mixed these large-scale interventions with groups of smaller works. That throws more emphasis on the construction materials used – concrete, steel beams, reinforcing rods – and how they are warped and misplaced (by, incidentally, fabricators who normally make the same objects ‘straight’). Sosnowska subverts the functional logic and underlying geometric aesthetics of market vendor’s stands, which seem to have been kicked in for Untitled, 2012, or Stairway, 2010, which bristles insectoidally while leading nowhere. Untitled, 2015, works the other way round: a plant seems to be overtaken by built elements, inverting how nature colonises an abandoned building.
|Untitled, 2017 at Hauser & Wirth|
August Sander: Turkish Mousetrap Salesman c.1924–30
'A Centenary' runs at Pallant House Gallery, Chichester -
1 July - 1 Oct 2017
John Minton (1917-57) is known – though he’s hardly famous nowadays – for his troubled, abbreviated life and as a leading neo-romantic, one of a loose group (often taken to include Sutherland, Piper and Nash) who sought to return to symbolic and visionary evocations of the English landscape tradition.
|'Children by the Sea' 1945|
|Time Was Away – A Notebook in Corsica, 1947|
|Landscape Near Kingston, Jamaica, 1950|
|Fishing Boats in Corsica, 1948 - lithograph|
|Jamaican Village, 1951|
|Self-Portrait, c 1953|
VICTOR PASMORE: TOWARDS A NEW REALITY
Djangoly Gallery, Nottingham 26 Nov- 19 Feb 2017; Pallant House, Chichester 11March - 11 June 2017
The story of many 20th century painters turns on their passage from a relatively conventional representational mode into the mature abstract style for which they become famous. On the face of it, Victor Pasmore (1908-98) fits the expected narrative particularly well. Born in Surrey, his progress was slowed by the sudden death of his father in 1927, which forced him to earn a living as a civil servant rather than attending art school. Nonetheless, by the time war broke out in 1939, he had established himself on an amateur basis as a painter of assured landscapes, figure and still-life, and was a respected figure in the London art scene focused on the Euston Road School.
|Pasmore at the Festival of Britain, 1951|
|Snow Scene, 1944|
Spiral Motif in Green, Violet, Blue and Gold: The Coast of the Inland Sea, 1950
The great spiral motif series of 1948-51 bring full abstraction to paintings organised as if they were landscapes. These gave way to reliefs constructed from preformed industrial materials, embracing the machine age to ambiguate their space with quiet drama. Still, there’s room for doubt: they are in debt to the Bauhaus and, as John Berger said at the time, ‘remain slightly funny – looking like bathroom fittings’.
|Relief Construction in White, Black and Indian Red, 1961|
|Mural Relief 1958 at Staff Centre Pilkington Glass Works St Helens|
Georgia O’Keeffe at Tate Modern
|My Last Door, 1952-4|
|Sky with Flat White Cloud, 1962|
|Pelvis I (Pelvis with Blue), 1944|
|Pink out of a corner (to Jasper Johns), 1963|
|untitled (in honor of Harold Joachim) 3, 1977|
Then there’s the matter of pinning down exactly what we’re looking at. Is it sculpture, drawing, painting in light, installation or just the functional means of illuminating the surrounding space? The primary aspect varies: untitled (in honor of Harold Joachim) 3 has many of the qualities sought by colour field painting, whereas Untitled (to Dorothy and Roy Lichtenstein on not seeing anyone in the room), 1968, shows Flavin as one of the first artists to think in terms of whole room installation: it illuminates a space from which we are barred, deflecting our attention to the architecture, and to the play on Lichtenstein’s 1961 painting I can see the whole room! ….and there’s nobody in it! The voyeurism of Lichtenstein’s man looking through a spyhole transfers to us.
|Untitled (to Dorothy and Roy Lichtenstein on not seeing anyone in the room), 1968|
Those examples also illustrate the role played by Flavin’s titles, which alternately refer us to possible parallels, suggest meanings personal to Flavin, or make dedications to other artists which hover between homage and dry self-awareness of the potential for overblown comparisons. After all, Flavin’s style of “monument” – hence the quotation marks round those to Tatlin – has inbuilt impermanence: they can be turned off at any time and their parts need regular replacement. Is there also a spiritual aspect to Flavin’s eloquence? Light has a central symbolic role in the history of art, and even if he hadn’t trained as a priest before taking against religion, one can read Flavin as evoking ecstatic or transcendental states, whether divine, meditative, trippy, or even – as Pink out of a corner may suggest - sexual.
"monument" for V. Tatlin1964
|Yellow with Red Triangle, 1973|
This timely doorstep of a monograph (Phaidon £75, 368 pages, 350 colour illustrations, five contributors, 3 kg) provides a comprehensive overview of the painting and sculpture of the late Ellsworth Kelly (1923-2016), known for a 70 year production of rigorously colourful forms which brought him fame without ever quite placing him centrally in the story of art. Lead author Tricia Paik, assisted by Kelly’s collaboration and the availability of his archive, lucidly explains his development and critical reception over four chronological periods (leaving a quartet of renowned writers to focus on themes). Her account of 1923-48 sets out Kelly’s background as a shy, stuttering boy from New Jersey, keen on bird-watching and drawing, who spent 1944-45 in the ‘Ghost Army’ of camouflage experts which deflected the German intelligence through such ruses as inflatable tanks. 1948-54 saw Kelly remain in France just as the New York art scene was taking off, facilitating the development of an independent style which came to maturity in New York City, 1954-70. Recognition was slow, but substantial by the time – in tune with his love of nature – he then moved upstate.
|Blue Curve, 1994|
Kelly has often been miscast as a follower of Mondrian or as a minimalist. Yet Grünewald, Audubon and Picasso meant more to him. With none of Mondrian’s spiritual bent, the wellspring of Kelly’s art was always the world from which he abstracted shapes with the aim of catching the essence of an ‘already-made’. “My paintings don’t represent objects,” he said, meaning that he avoided graphic depictions of what he saw, “They are objects themselves and fragmented perceptions of things.” That’s the logic of multi or joined panel works, such as Yellow with Red Triangle, 1973; and fits how , for example, the relationships of form and colour in Kelly’s snapshot of a paper cup squashed underfoot can be traced to the typically voluptuous Blue Curve, 1994.
|Spectrum V, 1969|
Three main achievements emerge. First the sensuous derivation of abstraction, while avoiding the expression of the artist’s own hand which one might expect to go with that, is Kelly’s own. Second, he has a way with clarion colours. There isn’t a system (“I don’t know what I want”, he said, “ my eye does”) but as Richard Shiff points out in his essay, Kelly seems unusually able to ensure that his colours reach uniform saturation within such works as the Spectrum series or Yellow with Red Triangle, with its equal colour values. Third, as Gary Garrels explains, Kelly took masterful account of how his paintings engaged with the wall which formed their ground, and with their setting as a whole. That led him increasingly into sculpture and majestically-scaled intersections of art and architecture.
Ailanthus Leaves I from Suite of Plant Lithographs, 1966
|Red and Yellow Vane, 1934|
|Triple Gong, 1948|