Tag: Jackson Pollock

Seams

One of my teachers described a novel as a long piece of writing with a flaw in it. I’m not sure whether she meant us to examine our favorite novels for their flaws, or to pre-exonerate us from the inevitable mistakes we would make. Either way the thought stuck. I get a bit obsessed with perfection—thinking that is the armor against failure. It isn’t.

One of the reasons I frequent art museums is because I am constantly reminded that there isn’t one perfect work of art, or rather, that there are thousands of works that are perfect. My Sunday strolls take me from Kandinsky’s Succession to Raphael’s Alba Madonna. I need that reminder because I have a horrible time making peace with the imperfections—the flaws—in my work.

They are As Time Goes By (red) and As Time Goes By (blue), each is 8 x 20 feet.

Right now I am taking particular delight in two painting/prints at the Phillips Collection. The two monumental works—each takes up the better part of a wall—are by the British artist, Howard Hodgkin. They are As Time Goes By (red) and As Time Goes By (blue). Each is a print made across five panels of handmade paper with substantial over-painting. They echo each other and diverge in some wonderful ways (the primary being their predominant colors). I pointed out to one of the docents that these works give the neurodivergent mind quite a lot to play with with. The docent kindly, and as a kindred spirit, agreed.

These are the first (of five) panels of the prints hanging on opposite sides of the room. How do you know they are “prints”? You can see that many of the color patches are not just similar, their placement and shapes are the same. The colors differ to be sure, and there is more than a fair amount of hand painting as well that distinguishes the two. I spent more than a bit of time between the two enjoying the interplay of same and different.

Looking closer at the work, specifically, the shadows the blue painting cast on the wall behind it, I noticed that the seams between the panels are not perfectly aligned. Putting these large pieces together must have been a challenge. When asked about them, Hodgkin said, “They’re big to show that I can do it, despite everything. It’s not a very noble reason, but having been ill with this extremely sinister illness, I felt challenged…It’s the last time I’ll do anything like this…it’s hard work.”

Any work should be a challenge. Sometimes we chalk excellence up to genius, and while I never want to diminish the role of an artist’s peculiar talent—their genius—what distinguishes most work, even beyond the perfection, is the challenge of making—and then seeing—a particular work. As Time Goes By embodies this, because what looks haphazard—like water balloons of paint burst onto paper—is the culmination of precise tactical effort. The artist even made these huge sheets (each sheet is 8’ x 4’) of paper.

What stands out is that in some places Hodgkin painted across the seam, and in others the painting or printing took place on each sheet separately. Do I think the imperfection—the two sheets in the blue not quite matching up—was intentional? A friend once looked at one of Jackson Pollock’s paintings and noticed a daub of brownish paint. “He left it in.” Maybe. Well, he did, but what would removing it have done to the painting. I don’t know why Hodgkin left an uneven seam in his work, and whether it was intentional or not seems to miss the point. The work was hard to make, so much to manage, and the mild misalignment may—may—point to the difficulty of making the piece.

Personally, I love this rough seam, and these two companioned works. But I also love that they are a combination of printing and painting. There are distinct repetitions and distinctly different additions. One might go so far as to say that all his work—all any artist’s work—bears this hallmark. Yes, there are changes. In another gallery at the Phillips there are three works by Picasso—all distinctly “Picasso” and yet and different.

I am aware that I write the same things over and over again. Yes, there are variations and the variations matter, but I do this to show (to myself, to the world) that I can do it, and to express the varieties of experience. The work takes time—no one wrote a novel in a night—and the effort is central to the writing (and the reading). I do it to show myself—and the world—I can. Hodgkin’s work buoys my spirit; it is a challenge worth the effort.

Art and Intention

My friends ask what I have planned for the weekend; it’s part of the Friday small talk. “Oh, you know,” I answer, and they do. Every Sunday, I go to museums in Washington DC. They comment, “How nice,” or “How peaceful,” or “How beautiful.” I think they believe that I am some kind of sybarite, grabbing my croissant, then luxuriating in the presence of beautiful things. Maybe there’s a bit of that. Maybe.

Calder, Animals

It’s not just the company of beautiful things; I could just as easily take a walk in the woods—on occasion I do—or on the beach. With all its complexity and contradiction, nature puts me back in my place in the world; these britches won’t get too big. I’m only one part of the play. As far as it goes, I’m reminded of the Bible passages about the birds of the air that neither reap nor sow—nature strikes me that way. Yes, of course, great energies are expended—the gazelle dashing away from the lion’s maw; the salmon casting itself against the rapids; the seedling bursting through fire-charred earth—but reaping and sowing implies a plan. Nature happens without a plan, gods aside. It just does, even if it finds a way.

Jackson Pollock, Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist), 1950

Yes, there are accidents in museums—unplanned gestures captured in stone or on canvas. Pollock surely didn’t know where those drips would land, and when they landed, I suspect that he did not know precisely what shape they would take. But he knew they would land. Art is an intention, even when the artist trusts the random and accidental events surrounding their art. Some artists play with that idea.

An active line on a walk, moving freely, without goal. A walk for a walk’s sake. The mobility agent is a point, shifting its position forward.

Paul Klee

The line may not have a goal—the curve of the jib, the abrupt stop at the end of a nose, a bare limb of a tree in winter—but the artist does. Draw. Write. Make something.

Roxy Paine, Graft, 2008-2009

We keep making things. Their history is the history of intention.

A friend once commented that I never listened to the news, that I always had music playing in the car. I wish. I think I have paid inordinate attention to the news. In the morning, the first thing I do is rummage through the New York Times, as attentive as the man Thoreau criticizes for waking up after a half hour nap to exclaim, “What’s the news?” My rest is longer; my curiosity is commensurate with my rest. “History’s first draft” is a bleak reminder of how rarely intentions meet their desired ends in the world. It is a record of the misguided and misconstrued: proving how poorly we make decisions, how willing we are to follow some unexamined narrative. Music is another made-thing—Bach or Joni Mitchell, Radiohead or Michael Nyman—and stands in counterpoint to the news.

You may argue that some art is misguided and driven by poor decisions. I have friends who railed against Laurie Anderson, Morris Louis, and the Pixies on those grounds. Answers directed by personal preference (But I wanted Donald Trump to win re-election; But the CDC changed its guidelines; But I don’t like how beets look) can lead to all sorts of misguided conclusions. The repercussions vary from the grave (insurrection) to the frivolous (missing out on Chez Panisse’s borscht). Once you get over those prejudices, you see the pattern, and if you are of the mind to, you see your place in that pattern.

Basin (jian) with dragon interlace, Middle Eastern Zhou Dynasty, 500-450 BCE

My weekly wanders are not just a journey through a forest of intentions—I walk through orchards of fulfilled intentions. Oh, you did it this way. Butterfield, Monet, or some unnamed ironworker in China. Thousands of made things—intricately intended things made by human hands—each blaze like a beacon: “Here, find me here.” I learn by going where I have to go.