Saturday, 25 May 2013

Frida Kahlo

From Tate Modern's exhibition guide (9 June-9 October 2005):

"The Mexican artist Frida Kahlo (1907–1954) is now regarded as one of the most significant artists of the twentieth century...
Severely injured in a bus crash in her youth, Kahlo took up painting when confined to her bed. Kahlo’s life was changed forever by the accident and the portrayal of her body, wracked with pain, is a recurring theme in her paintings. Kahlo said that there were two accidents in her life –  the second was her tempestuous relationship with the renowned Mexican muralist Diego Rivera. It is in her iconic self portraits, unrivalled in their poignant beauty, that Kahlo depicts both her isolation and also her indomitable spirit and sense of self...
Kahlo draws upon a diverse range of influences, including Surrealism, ancient Aztec belief, popular Mexican folklore, Eastern philosophy and medical imagery. For example, her chosen format of small-scale oil paintings on metal, inspired by stylistically naive devotional paintings, reflects her Catholic heritage. Yet Kahlo subverts this language by creating taboo-breaking subject matter, dealing with the frailty of the body, birth, life and death."

Self-portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird

Self-portrait with Monkey, 1938

The Broken Column, 1944


Damien Rudd

From Damien Rudd's website: http://www.birdsofpanic.com

Objects of intimacy (2011)

A person’s pillow is their most intimate object. For this project I have photographed 5 pillows from 5 different people. Each pillow is at a different stage of transformation relative to its age and frequency of use. 


With these images I aim to show something that is generally hidden. To view them is to see a part of the owner; the history is the relationship between the owner and the object. The pillow is moulded and transformed by the markings of bodily fluids so it becomes as individual and distinctive as that of a fingerprint. It is no longer an innate manufactured object, but is now impregnated with life and mutation.


Each pillow was photographed in the same manner a forensic scientist may examine criminal evidence. The hidden and discreet is now open for public close study. When an individual’s pillow is relieved publicly, it causes a sensation of embarrassment and shame. In our culture, the exertion of bodily fluids is considered distasteful. This is especially true when it may be associated to sleeping in one’s bed (unlike what one may do in the bathroom.) Like other forms of perverse viewing, it is for this reason we find pleasure in viewing it. We are all able to relate to this phenomenon, as each of us owns a pillow as we do underwear or any other object of intimate privacy. 


Our reception is created in the mind's eye, we imagine what we cannot see, that which only existed in the past. We find it somehow disturbing, yet fascinating, as it is one human occurrence that unites us and emphases that in the end, we are just merely human.





Tuesday, 16 April 2013

Some encouragement







Betty

Gerhard Richter's painting is a combination of realism and colour tests. His 'squeegee' technique distorts and smudges his images, as well as making the colours themselves his subject.

I encountered Richter's Betty at a Tate exhibition about two years ago and I still cannot forget the impression it left on me.
The feeling that the girl in the picture would turn her head and look at me made me very still. I held my breath as I wondered who I was - as the viewer - looking at this person. What was the artist's relationship to this girl? Such a sense of softness; each strand of hair painted as if the artist's hand was caressing her head.


Betty, 1988

Wednesday, 16 January 2013

A personal favourite


Rachel Whiteread is a British artist who inspires me greatly. 
Her often vast sculptures are created by casting whole buildings or large structures.

House, 1993
Concrete structure

I thought I'd share this video of her talking about the things that she is interested in and all the odd objects that she collects. She also discusses her drawing approach, which is highly varied.

Rachel Whiteread, Tate Britain
It unfolds slowly, gently distinguished by domestic classifications: Tables and Chairs, Baths and Slabs, Beds and Mattresses, Floors. The Tate’s display of Rachel Whiteread’s intimate drawings is appropriately arranged to mirror the diary-like nature of the works, some of which manifest as blueprints for her sculptures, while others are simply a linear imprint of her preoccupation with absence and loss. Sequential but not monotonous, Whiteread’s aesthetic expresses traits descended from the works of Richard Tuttle, Eva Hesse and Agnes Martin; her use of correction fluid especially comparable to Martin’s grids and fields of subtle colour. Study for Floor, 1992, exploits the thick texture of the white fluid, giving the drawing a solidity which is further accentuated by the artist’s idiosyncratic use of graph paper.
Whiteread once described the hidden spaces between floorboards as the intestines of a house. And here, the intestines zigzag across each other, interweaving themselves in a simultaneously regulated and visceral manner. At times, her line is a wandering, searching one, while at others it becomes decisive and resolute, purposefully exposing the disparate nature of humanity.
It is inevitable that comparisons will be made between Whiteread’s drawings and her more prominent sculptural works. Most commonly renowned for casting empty spaces - the underside of chairs, the interiors of houses, the space around baths - Whiteread grapples with notions of void and presence; labouring over something which only exists as air. She is a master at capturing subtle traces of human life amongst barren surroundings: the crusty rust on old bath tubs, stains on discarded mattresses. Her sculptures, often made out of tinted resin and blocks of plaster, are ghosts of negative expanses, reminders of humankind, which appear solid and stable and yet hint at fragility. While the sculptures are beautiful for their physicality, and for providing invisible spaces with substance, the reliance upon the spaces themselves is necessarily restrictive. Whiteread’s Holocaust Memorial in Vienna’s Judenplatz, the cast of an inside-out library, is a monolithic reminder that even inside-out a door is still a door, a book is still a book; these productions of absent spaces merely become what they profess to negate.
Whiteread’s drawings naturally address the same forlorn postulations, but they have a freedom which the sculptural forms lack. To encounter a Whiteread drawing is to witness her sanctuary, a place to which her sculptures cannot take you. Despite the artist’s apparent “expressed wish that none of her drawings should be exhibited alongside her sculptures”, the Tate disregards this, featuring a tinted resin Table and Chair and a black felt wardrobe alongside the drawings, making extended comparison unavoidable. Forms such as keyholes, dribbles of varnish, silver leaf, enamel and elements of collage fill the gallery walls. The substantial use of gouache on vintage advertisements (Untitled, 1998) in which the artist obliterates all information surrounding an armchair, or a rocking chair, render these works brutally but beautifully lonely. Study for Sloping Bed, 1991, completed on tracing paper, puckers and shrivels under the weight of acrylic and ink, the dirty yellow shape like a beacon on the page.
Installed in the last of the three exhibition rooms is a display case of objects collected and chosen by Whiteread herself. Vitrine juxtaposes items gathered from various sources with small casts rejected by the artist; splinters of human life, accumulated and presented as a record of discarded memories. A piece of the Berlin Wall, a bronze cast of an ear, teeth moulds, paper shoes, old brass doorknobs, a squashed metal can and a cast of Peter Seller’s nose are just a few examples of Whiteread’s absent-minded dedication to curiosities. The collection feels no less intimate than her drawings, being another insight into her process of thinking. It is also a persuasive argument in favour of the Tate’s disregard for the artist’s wishes to display her disciplines separately.
Rachel Whiteread’s drawings feel effortless, proving an invaluable relief to the trying physical engagement of her sculptures. They may not contain the fluidity of line that haunts the work of Louise Bourgeois or Chloe Piene, but their conception appears natural, and manages to remain entirely devoid of self-indulgence. The unavoidable comparison does not render the artist’s sculptures redundant, merely burdensome. However, despite her insistence against it, it appears necessary that the two be shown together. They work both against and with each other: the drafted fleetingness of thought complimenting the modeled heaviness of remembrance and loss that characterises her sculptures. Whiteread’s exhibition of drawings is refreshing in its instinctive, fleeting nature. But her sculptures remain in the pit of your stomach, a leaden reminder of everything that has been lost to the past.
Tate Britain, London
8 September 2010 to 16 January 2011

Kathryn Lloyd
A drawing from Whiteread's Tate Britain exhibition, 2010-11

Original video link:


Feeling inspired?

I remember what it was like.
Sitting in the art room, covered in paint (most of the time), gazing out the window and then back at a blank page in my sketch book.

Nothing.

The harder I stared at that page, the harder it was to imagine what I'd fill it with.

Waiting for inspiration to come is a risky business because, 9 times out of ten, it just doesn't. And you're left still looking at that piece of paper, or canvas, or space and wondering, 'What am I even doing?' (I'd recommend not asking yourself this question in those sorts of situations - that question alone has been enough to lead me into many art related meltdowns.)

This is the moment where I would like to step in.

I decided to start this blog in the hope that I could help (if even just a tiny bit) to prevent those moments where art students become stuck for ideas and the world suddenly seems very unexciting.
Because, if we were honest, we've all been there.

This will be a space of innovative and exciting art. I shall do my very best to seek out art work and ideas that inspire me and (hopefully) inspire you too.

But first, you should know one very important thing:

Like I said, being inspired doesn't come from watching the clouds roll by (well, that might have helped Constable) or sitting in front of an empty page. (Or even in front of this computer screen.)

Inspiration comes when you get up and do something.
Anything.
Read a book, take a walk in the woods; travel to somewhere new.
Visit a gallery, visit the circus; visit your Gran! (Gran's always have exciting stories to tell, not to mention lots of photographs and funny objects hidden all over the place.)

So, I dare you.

Go and get inspired.

Sarah xo