EthicalDative

Art is something scrappy and strange; it may hiss rather than purr. How it redeems, presumably, is at the heart of the critic’s project, but also the lay consumer’s. That’s me. In doodling my readings of <clears throat> lineated discourse, I’m at pains, inconsistently, to speak of the “verse-object” as I ponder a given text. I must feel the art before calling it a poem. It’s a high-horse presumption. No it’s not. It’s risible. It’s a stab at bootstrapping an expansive sensibility. Yes it is.

It isn’t clear. The non-ordinary object provokes, disquiets, taunts. An opportunity lies in paying it enough attention so it has a chance to impinge, and you come under its sway. Good critics are people who look, read, listen more closely than we chickens who scurry around “liking” stuff.

The phrase in my title is Roberta Smith’s assessment of painter Henry Taylor’s “excursions into three dimensional works.” It’s dismissive but indulgent, because she really likes his painting. “Taylor’s best impulses,” she writes, “are the ones he answers in two dimensions.” I’ve been swayed by his work before. His paintings are odd and engrossing; raunchy and raw; scrappy and strange.

… Taylor’s paint handling… tends to be startlingly tough and direct. It proceeds in slabs of untempered color and skirmishes of brushwork, sidestepping traditional notions of finish and beauty… Taylor’s paint also makes his figures very present. As do their staring, often dissimilar eyes.

I relish the reference to staring, “often dissimilar” eyes, but what does Smith mean when she says they “make his figures very present”? Her answer may be in the observation that you “can keep pondering their expressions — and the feelings behind them.” Fair enough. I stumbled upon this uncanny feeling of “presence” recently in contemplating Frans Hals’s smiling lute player.

A painting titled “the [sic] dress, ain’t me” has an excitingly faceless figure — who needs one anyway? As if the painter said to himself, “I’ve done enough,” and washed his brushes.

The body language is superb. With her hands gently clenched, the older woman inspects the dress. The work’s palette of browns, ochers, white and light blue is an exemplar of Taylor’s odd, frugal color.

(Roberta Smith, “Henry Taylor’s ‘B Side’ Is Full of Grade-A Paintings,” New York Times, 10-17-23)

(c) 2024 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

Abstract painting seems an excellent subject on which to apply Susan Sontag’s stricture against looking for hidden meanings in works of art and literature (Against Interpretation). Jason Farago reported late last year on a Mark Rothko retrospective at the Fondation Louis Vuitton in Paris. Farago is far from belittling Rothko’s oeuvre, but he does treat it at arm’s length.

For all that, may I grumble for a moment? I can coolly appreciate the artist’s modulations of color; I’m not a philistine. I have a sly admiration for how he imparted the highest seriousness to a few blurry stains. But there is a repetitiousness to this much Rothko, and a fair bit of pomposity to its metaphysical claims.

“I’m only interested in expressing basic human emotions — tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on,” Rothko said in 1957, denying any interest in the mechanics of abstraction or color. It was another aggrandizement, but maybe I should stop being such a hardhearted formalist and take him at his word.

Awe, love, fear, faith, emptiness, immanence, infinity, eternity: Are these not the whole reason we bother with form in the first place? On most days I find it faintly ridiculous to try to locate such grand themes in a spume of green or a blood-red fog. On other days, days like now, I find it ridiculous to get through life without them.

(Jason Farago, “Mark Rothko at Full Scale, and in Half Light,” New York Times, 10-25-23)

(c) 2024 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved

Brice Marden died in August 2023, aged 84. The illustration that concludes Roberta Smith’s tribute, a painting she describes as “bookending Marden’s 50-year career,” made me think of Mark Twain’s phrase about Wagner’s music (“better than it sounds”). Was Marsden’s work better than it looked?

I view abstract painting readily, however, and by then I had seen samples of the earlier work, which follow below.

In the mid 1960s, at the height of the painting-is-dead delusion, Brice Marden […] was making reductive monochrome works — horizontal and vertical canvases in a range of subdued tones of oil paint thickened with melted beeswax. […] He talked, like a traditional painter, of the importance of light and nature and reverentially considered the rectangle one of the great human inventions.

Smith’s descriptions of Marden’s process are bracingly low key. For example, Marden “[built] on his monochromes at first by adding panels and then by making marks.” In a zone of practice whose essence is making marks, whatever “inspired” a painting seems of little moment. That feels right.

Marden sketched in a small early notebook which he gave the lugubrious title “Suicide Notes.” Smith clarifies that “he saw his small scratchy ink drawings and their tentative attempts at mark-making as ‘left behind’ (as with a suicide note) — he could not develop them at the time.”

Other inspirations reflecting travels would include Greek sculpture and architecture; Indian sculpture and Japanese and Chinese calligraphy; and also Chinese landscape painting and scholar’s rocks.

Wikipedia tells me scholar’s rocks are rocks traditionally appreciated by Chinese scholars. Sometimes language and truth are congruent!

Smith poses Brice Marden’s legacy as a refusal “to accept the narrowness of modernism.” That’s over my head in terms of what I know about art. But she characterizes the refusal as “quietly intractable, constantly moving, looking and learning” — words I do understand.

(c) 2024 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved