This drawing by Asger Jorn is actually two drawings cut and spliced together. It is unfeasible without seeing the object to determine the exact arrangement of materials. Whether the drawing underneath (top to bottom) is intact as a whole rectangle with the top section stuck over it, or is it the other way round. Or if both are actual fragments and the curved rips meet perfectly, although this doesn’t seem likely. We can also only speculate as to how Jorn made the work, was it originally two drawings that were unsuccessful as singular propositions, but that through Jorns improvisation became successful as one. Or indeed if he intended from the start to make one drawing from two separate drawings, which is also a realistic scenario. It is listed as ‘Ink on two pieces of paper’ 1950, 44.5 x 33cm. It is vaguely figurative and looks like each sub drawing is made on the same type of paper, with the same ink and perhaps if not at the same time, then around the same time. Each drawing has marks that could at one point have suggested a collection of figures. These have subsequently been amalgamated into more distorted and ambiguous figurative pairings, both left to right and top to bottom. Parts of figures are certainly recognisable, there are legs and arms, and there might be a hand, some breasts, and teeth in a monstrous mouth. Jorn was known for pictures that had a recognisable duality in the composition, creating engaging oppositional tensions. The bold lines and ergonomic composition are fast and confident, Jorn was interested in spontaneity and it makes perfect sense for him to quickly outline these scenarios in a way that made the outcome unpredictable, and it is perhaps also completely understandable that when he was not surprised enough by the outcome, he might tear the two in half and make one, just to deny easy interpretation. Jorn’s rather drastic solution to a drawing lacking vitality is an indication of his ability to contort accepted modes. It’s clearly the drawing of an agitator, constantly seeking new possibilities in art and life. His legacy confirms this idea; COBRA, Situationism and of course, three sided football.
Quite a lot of the drawings I have seen by Jannis Kounellis appear to be made in relation to interior architecture, they seem to each embody a room of sorts, which in most cases represents a gallery, and perhaps they are ideas for the installation of exhibitions by Kounellis, formulations of what goes where, that sort of thing. In fact after looking at more of his drawings they are nearly always plans, ideas for different spaces in which he will later place more physical, three dimensional, sometimes even living objects, as well as drawings. In Kounellis’s work the room/space/gallery is a kind of stage on which he places the components/characters of his art. The room in his drawings as a space for thought and reflection has been comprehensively examined in an exhibition in 1991. Curated by Rudi Fuchs and titled ‘La Stanza Vede’ (translated, The Room Sees) the exhibition presented over 100 of Kounellis’s drawings spanning a twenty year period between 1970 and 1990. In the catalogue essay Fuchs articulates Kounellis’s room drawings brilliantly, ‘The room is the place of action,’ he compares the drawings to writing, ‘because while drawing the artists imagination enters into the space and texture of the room.’ Fuchs R. H. (1991) The Hague. This drawing, Untitled, 1985, Charcoal on Paper, however is different, it feels more observed than imagined its subject is external rather than internal space. It clearly represents the kind of arcade of shops and cafés you might come across in a street in Rome, where Kounellis has spent most of his working life, and where in summer the heat can be so stifling that the simple act of moving around is only made possible by the existence of these shade giving walkways. There are the familiar arches, there is even the suggestion of a shop window with items displayed and the extreme shadows cast by a high sun. Unlike the room drawings which are more atmospheric, dreamlike and nebulous, this vigorous depiction perhaps gives us the artist seeing rather than writing, placing him in the world rather than the gallery. I have always thought that drawing is a fundamental aspect of arte povera; a movement Kounellis is associated with, its simplicity, its economy of means, its relationship to the everyday and to the basics of child development all align drawing with the ethos of the movement. It’s refreshing to see drawings from someone with such a varied output and to see how drawing has continued to play a major role throughout his development as an artist.
Strangely, I have frequently made the mistake of thinking Bonnard was English (as if Pierre wasn’t obvious enough), considered him someone who trained in Paris rather than someone French. I think it’s because his version of post impressionism is a little more open and explorative, lacking the rigidity of people like Seurat or Gauguin, his work is more inconsistent and muted than his contemporaries, as if he’s looking for something else. He is perhaps more of a modernist, more Bloomsbury than Arles. In saying this however I am thinking about his paintings specifically. His drawings are a different thing all together. They lack the decorative elegance of his paintings, they are colourless and edgy. Bonnard’s observations of Parisian life are full of energy, they have an authenticity to them, there is no doubt that they are made in the moment, and he is there. In this drawing, ‘Study for Conversation’ Pencil, pen and ink on paper, 1893, 15.5 × 20.3 cm, a man and a woman appear to confront each other, the ‘conversation’ seems less than friendly, the man’s face, grotesque and aggressive, is contorted in anger. The woman appears more submissive, tearful and frightened, reproached by the man for something we’ll never know. It looks as if the drawing has been made initially with pencil as a response to something Bonnard is witnessing first hand and then its main assets reinforced later with heavier ink. The woman’s tangle of curly hair and bonnet, her fearful profile, the man’s seemingly mangled mouth; too close to the woman for comfort, spitting, behind a ragged walrus moustache, these are all picked out by Bonnard. There is something in the background, it looks like a carriage being driven by a coachman, reinforcing the context. I imagine the scene witnessed at street level through the window of a café. Our proximity to the action supports this theory. Bonnard’s marks both in his paintings and his drawings flatten the image, we are aware of the surface. A colourist, he developed a way of drawing that incorporated a vocabulary of marks that replaced colour or became a kind of shorthand for colour. The paper has another drawing on the back of it, its indentations and darker areas are visible in the background of ‘study for conversation’ adding to the depth of the image, the mystery of the subject, and the sense of Bonnard quietly recording life.
I am an admirer of the films of David Lynch and since first becoming aware of his drawings and paintings I’ve been a fan of them too. Often visual art shows by people who are internationally renowned in other areas of culture are misplaced, the folly of desperate museum directors trying to fight off the cuts with celebrity, or a rash commitment made by a curator after too many drinks. But not however in the case of the world famous film director, who has had gallery exhibitions throughout his career in film, most recently at Brisbane’s GoMA. If in the future film comes to be known as the medium of our time or perhaps more likely of the 20th century, Lynch will be thought of as a key figure in its history. It could be the current stagnation and mediocrity of film output that drive him to visual art, or just that making a film is so collaborative and all encompassing, that it might be quite a relief to paint and draw in solitude. There is a clear relationship between his two outputs and his drawings in particular are a good indicator to how he might formulate ideas for film. In this Drawing ‘stump of tree’ the tree is like a figure holding out its hand maybe as a greeting, maybe pleading for help or mercy. The watery stains around and behind the tree function as sky, there is a distinct black cloud, more drawn than stained, hovering ominously over what would be the head of the figure/stump, and there is a moon or black sun, or eclipse even. The general feel is of a stage or set, but minimal like that for a Beckett play. The writing on the drawing seems out of place, we already know it’s the stump of a tree in the title and in its look. Perhaps this is the mark of an artist engaged with not his primary method or material and therefore not quite as accomplished as is necessary. In drawing as in film Lynch has the ability to conjure the darkest viewpoint from any subject and to encourage us to do the same. His imagery is always at its best when simple as it is here and his images have the ability to stick in the mind. The thought of a weeping man, in what is undoubtedly to my mind his masterpiece Twin Peaks, disorientated and repeatedly exclaiming, ‘wrapped in plastic’ is much more etched on the common consciousness than any graphic horror.
This drawing is by Sigmar Polke, Untitled, 1988, watercolour on paper, 70 x100cm. It appears to contain at least one figure on the right, which may or may not be wearing a German helmet from WW2 with a swastika on the front of it. There are two big eyes, too wide apart and a pig like nose, a body, too small, if it is a German soldier from WW2 it’s more of a caricature. The figure seems purposeful, striding or standing with legs apart staring at something unknown. The line describing the body is interrupted and then restarted with yellow paint instead of black. From the left of the image some kind of force emanates, a flash or an explosion represented by force lines from the bottom left hand corner and patches of two different types of yellow paint. It is as if Polke has stopped and started the drawing a number of times, the different layers of drawing, some nebulous others decisive and descriptive, might not have had an intended relationship. The linear parts appear to be over the top of the stained watery parts and the lines have different intensities, some grey, some black and some blacker. The paper has buckled under the weight of the wet medium, this only adds to the action. There is some sort of structure and ornamental swirls that might describe an interior with furniture. The figure could be on the phone, a confusion of lines in the centre fractures any straight forward interpretation but there is an all-over quality to the picture, things are evenly distributed and balanced. I like Sigmar Polke, I once held his hand during a ceilidh in his honour upstairs at the Bluecoat Gallery in Liverpool after his show ‘Join the dots’ opened in the Tate in 1995. Someone’s very good idea was to give him a hearty Liverpudlian/Irish welcome, the traditional local lobscouse stew and the ceilidh seemed appropriate. During a Barn Dance you tend to hold lots of people’s hands one after another which is part of its charm, the innocent contact with others involved in a common joyous act. Through Sigmar Polke’s hand I felt his enjoyment of the situation and what I decided at the time and still believe was his innate sense of fun.
The radical experimental art of Kurt Schwitters stands out in its singularity, although aligned at different times in his career with different groups of artists, there is always a sense when examining his work that he was out on his own in terms of his originality and shear invention. Restlessly exploring materials and processes to make his work; this drawing alone, Merz 370 Blue Spark, 1922, collage of cut coloured paper 20.6 x 17.1cm involves sticking, overlapping, scratching, angling, pealing, tearing, and everything else you might imagine a collage of the time to contain. The avant-garde nature of this simple collage cuts a swathe through the work of his contemporaries who more often than not relied on a veil of knowing criticality via; politics, shock, melodrama, flamboyance or a sort of contrived eccentricity to make their work stand out. Schwitters achieved his goal with economy, here the simple alignment and misalignment of papers, slightly different shades of brown and grey is unselfconscious and confidently different. His Oeuvre incorporated; painting, sculpture writing and performance, including singing and sound poetry. He was an innovator to the point of inventing a completely new art form so ahead of its time that even now, contemporary artists, curators and thinkers organise whole exhibitions and conferences in an attempt to unpick his ideas and examine his legacy. Some of the most critically engaged international exhibitions of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries have had Schwitters’ Merz at their centre. Yet considering his continuing impact his profile remains in lots of ways modest compared to other influential artists, one could argue that now, a decade and a half into the twenty first century that his influence is far greater than that of Duchamp who every artist worth his salt has been falling all over since the 1950’s. Schwitters’ project continues in the work of many contemporary artists and curators around the world. It also lives on in the Lake District where he ended his career. Go to Elterwater, visit the merz barn where he carried out his last big experiment and listen to the brilliant Ian Hunter tell his stories of Schwitters, including one of him performing his Ursonata on pub tables in Ambleside of all places.
It is the complicated and intricate nuances of human relationships that are at the centre of Amelie Von Wulffen’s series of water colours that this drawing, Untitled, 2013, Watercolour and Indian ink on paper 31 x 23.5cm is a part of. When I look at this set of surreal drawings, I am immediately reminded of Louis Bunuel’s film ‘The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie’, upper middle class France could easily be the background to the action, but in this case fruit, vegetables and other assorted food stuffs replace human beings in the drama. In this drawing some fruit have fallen out, a lemon has lost its temper with an apple while a confused banana looks on embarrassed by the situation. Two quite full wine glasses, along with dinner plates, a table cloth, a landscape painting on the wall, a chair and the suggestion of expansive gardens through patio doors, pin point the socio-political context, however the polite order of things has been broken. The wine glasses, faceless in this work have themselves been anthropomorphised in another drawing in the series, being seen to have what appears to be a post coital cigarette. The atmosphere of different social situations, sometimes painful and hard to watch, sometimes sexual, sometimes very sexual, the anxiety of social faux pa’s, and the awkward silences after the cringing realisation that someone has spoken out of turn, are all palpable in the narratives. Amelie von Wulffen is a prolific and versatile artist, producing an array of different works in different media, this large series of watercolours could be exhibited with large scale oil paintings, sculptures, painted ready made’s, collages and animations. There is a general air of self-parody in much of the work, von Wullfen pokes fun at the very communities that she belongs to. An animation follows the day to day aspirations of a contemporary artist, still surreal, ‘At the cool table’ includes scenes where Francisco Goya appears from beyond the grave as the artists’ friend and guide. The joy in the making of these works is apparent, von Wulffen’s combination of graphic skill and comedic prowess is unmatched in contemporary art.
This astonishing drawing by the American contemporary artist Ellen Gallagher and included in her Tate Modern retrospective in 2013, is part of a much larger body of work where drawings are two sided and encased in glass. These are then suspended on steel frames and mounted vertically onto small table tops. As objects they are a bit like the screen that separates a prisoner from his or her visitor or a bank cashier from a customer. Clearly referencing Duchamp’s Large Glass, they work as sculptural objects and we see them as such before examining the drawings in detail, in space, and three dimensionally. The collection is titled Morphia apparently in reference to morphine and the dreamlike state it induces. The subject in this case and in some of the others appears to be a head, there are lips and a chin. The head appears to be literally morphing into something else or from something else and from front to back, some other life form, perhaps alien or more probably an imagined marine creature, rare, secretive and yet undiscovered. The way that Ellen Gallagher works and reworks drawings, scratching and spilling wet and dry media to the point where the paper begins to shift, buckle and break, makes the subject if there ever was one, appear and disappear, be both something and nothing. The drawings become almost metaphysical in their complexity defying a straightforward interpretation asking a lot of the viewer. What impresses me more that anything about Ellen Gallagher’s work is the way that she stretches the parameters of drawing, taking it into new territory. Her drawings become other things, scratched into film and projected, stuck onto canvas and hung, assembled monumentally into collections of 60 and more, or made sculptural as they are here sandwiched between glass. The official index note for this work is elaborate; Morphia, Front-5, 2008-2012 Ink, Pencil, watercolour, varnish, oil, gesso, gouache egg tempera, polymer medium and cut paper on paper. Ten parts each presented in a steel frame on a steel table, (51.6 x 42.4 cm). Gallagher rigorously explores the potential of her materials in the same way that she interrogates her subject. The two become one, the object, always dynamic, emerges from the experiment.
There is something about the work of the Portuguese artist Juliao Sarmento that reminds me of a whole host of ill thought out, dull crime dramas that are continuously commissioned for TV. The ones where women are slaughtered at the beginning and men spend agonising weekly episodes figuring out what happened. In that respect, I’m not sure that Sarmento’s position on the representation of women is entirely healthy. But in a way, his works are the same as TV dramas in that they are always mysteries, and more engaging because of this, and so should maybe be subject to the same dispensation. We might deplore the relentless female victim motif but we keep watching because we want to know what happened. This aquatint etching by Sarmento supports my theory, it is part of a portfolio of eight prints produced between 1996 and 1998, with accompanying text by Stuart Morgan, and it is titled, ‘The House with the Upstairs In It,’. It could be a TV drama. If you presented the portfolio to a group of TV executives, they’d probably commission it. In this part/scene/episode a woman’s head has been erased; she clasps her missing face with her hand, puzzled, she might be making a rude gesture or inserting one of her fingers deep up her nose or worse, eye socket. There is violence but not graphic, we have to figure it out, we don’t know, though the suggestion from the dirty marks around the hand is that there was a head and face to start with, and that the erased half finger was also once visible. The subject could also be making some kind of joke, or simply telling us to fuck off. There is something quite dated about Sarmento’s oeuvre, it makes me think of eighties pop video’s where water drips down glass and scenes are shot through venetian blinds in an attempt to break up the picture plain and help articulate metaphorically the complexities of modern living. The beauty of this work though and many other works by this artist is how Sarmento renders his drawing with such assured definition and clarity, while at the same time leaving it up to us to fill in the gaps, to complete the picture and solve the mystery.
It’s Christmas time, and ‘A goose and two headless men’ by Nathaniel Dance-Holland is an excellent drawing to look at and think about. It’s an extraordinarily strange drawing, I am wondering if the goose has bitten off the heads of the men as revenge for its many cooked and eaten ancestors. Even without heads the figures seem to be jovial and engaged in celebration. The goose too; ironically still with its head appears to be laughing and enjoying some sport with the men, a primitive and drunk game of tag perhaps, in which it not familiar with the drink or the rules has got carried away. In what looks like ink and water colour on paper the drawing is confidently executed, the date is unknown but Dance-Holland practiced as a portrait painter in the second half of the 18th century and apparently took up, ‘comic drawing’ after he retired. The beauty of this drawing is that it could have been made yesterday; it has a sense of humour and irreverence that comes across as very contemporary, the goose is anthropomorphised in its scale, posture and behaviour, like it has been CGI’d for some terrible children’s film. The headlessness seems to have come about non-violently, there is no blood, the shoulders and neck of the two men have become fused into a smooth upper mound, as if it’s normal for some people to have no head. The men seem to be in procession with the goose rather than escaping it, the middle one, merry and shirtless, kicks the one in front up the arse. I like the playful suggestion of violence without anyone really getting hurt. There is a slapstick satirical bent to this drawing which becomes even more pertinent when we learn that Dance Holland gave up art in later life to become a politician. It is terrifying to think that in the 18th century a man could have a successful career as an artist and then a second successful career as a politician. It’s even more terrifying to consider the possibility of present day equivalents; although now they would become TV personalities or pseudo political activists.