Dream Catcher – Giles Lyon

“…when you look at walls mottled with various stains or stones made of diverse substances, if you have to invent some scene, you may discover on them the likeness of various countries, adorned with mountains, rivers, rocks, trees, great valleys and hills in diverse arrangement; again, you may be able to see battles and figures in action and strange effects of physiognomy and costumes, and infinite objects which you could reduce to complete and harmonious forms. And the effect produced by these mottled walls is like that of the sound of bells, in the vibrating of which you may recognize any name or word you choose to imagine. I have seen blots in the clouds and in mottled walls which have stimulated me to the invention of various objects, and although the blots themselves were altogether devoid of perfection in any one of their parts, they lacked not perfection in their movement and circumstance.”
Leonardo Da Vinci Treatise on Painting

What Leonardo was letting us know was that nature, happenstance and imagination can work in concert. He was discussing a visual theoretics that would later fuel the early part of the 20th century, something that would become the basis for the exploration of the primal urges lurking beneath the Modern sensibility. To depict the world beneath that “civilized” era Picasso turned to the mythologies of Africa and the Mediterranean, the Surrealists invoked Freud and Jung looking for archetypal experiences and dream visions, and Pollock explored the ecstatic spirituality of the American West. But there in Leonardo’s Renaissance those seeking new visual understanding had to work through Dark Age superstitions and doctrinaire persecution. One could find monsters and visions behind every tree and blade of grass, in every image and every statement. To see them was dangerous, to paint them foolish, but to tell how one might conjure them where none existed was blasphemous. Leonardo, whose imagination spans centuries, understood the power of nature and imagination. He understood that the need to connect to something deeper in the secret visual life around us could fuel a new kind of art, a new kind of painting. And he left it there like a map for those that followed.

GIles Lyon Green Yellow Animal Spirits

This past fall I had a visit with the artist and painter Giles Lyon. His studio is in Brooklyn at the back of a building shared by other artists and exhibition spaces. The studio is filled with works in progress, older work stacked neatly, and bits and pieces of life collected and set aside for inspiration. Outside the windows there are garden yards and full-formed trees. Daylight slants into the space moving across the room with the time. Color is everywhere – mottled, bright sheets of color – greens, yellows, reds, and blues. These moments of urban greenery outside and artist’s life inside combine all at once to feel vibrant and expressive. There’s a connection to nature that’s a bit startling in these very artificial times and in this very artificial city. I spent a pleasant afternoon with Giles talking about all manner of things; art, politics, life. All of this experience feeds back into his work in ways that many professional artists can not be bothered with here in the 21st Century. We are far too connected and far too involved with one another to notice. In this Giles is a throw-back and I mean that in the very best sense.

I “found” Giles’ work a few years ago at a gallery show in Chelsea at the then named Feigen Contemporary. I connected immediately with the paintings. Giles was working in an AbEx style but doing it very self consciously. He was changing the intent of the historical style to make over “action painting” into a thoughtful reexamination of the act of painting. It was an abstraction of processes. After laying down the drip, the slash or the stroke he would delineate the graphic nature of the result. It was a way to reclaim the pictorial, to push the edges of the lost abstract “figure” against the ground. This process was done without irony using history directly to express something personal instead of merely commenting on the past. Giles found a way to manipulate an academic style, to make it his own, to create a language of abstract poetic forms from within the meme. This was no small feat, an ambitious undertaking. Over the years I’ve caught bits and pieces of his work and have always been impressed at the visual rigor he has applied to these painting.

These newer works begin with color washed and stained into the canvases. He’s moved from the skeins of paint to the field of hue, from Pollock to Rothko in a way. This encompassing ground starts out of the old school Color Field painters. It’s a technique connected to the flow of paint, the way it pools and streaks, absorbs into the canvas creating space, light and veils of hue. This use of color, the push and pull within it, was part of the AbEx “action painting” imperative, part of the physicality of the materials themselves, and part of the will of the artist guiding and defining these processes. These Post-painterly Abstractionists explored the openness of the field, the beauty of the ground itself. This movement was the poignant coda at the end of Modernism. It carried within it the last of the School of Paris, the last of a Modernist sensibility. Giles’ use of color to define the field comes out of that time and connects directly to the bright expressive color preferred by Matisse and the Nabis. He is intent on defining his painting’s connections to Modernism’s emotive possibilities rather than to Postmoderism’s artificial colors and product placements. These grounds become visual sounding boards from which the artist begins to look deeper, both within the painted surface and within himself. He is seeking archetypes, nature, older mythologies, things that resonate beneath the polite surfaces of our contemporary personalities.

Giles feels a connection to aboriginal culture, to the Shamanistic religiosity and vision quests practiced in the Northwest. This visual language is arcane and foreign to me and many like me, but I respond viscerally to the drawings, to the beautiful line work and the dreamlike imagery. I understand that this is a personal experience for this painter, and he’s going somewhere that many of us would not. He’s trying to achieve a deeper involvement in a kind of living and understanding of our subconscious lives that many of us, myself included, only read about in literature or see in movies. This connection allows Giles to take the Color Field further, literally, to reach back to the Surreal, to Miro, to Pollock, to find a connection to a more primal experience of our contemporary culture. Within the field there are things to be found, images to pull from the beautiful color ground just as Leonardo advised. The line work is impeccable, strong, involved. Eyes, teeth, mouths, abstract landscapes, birds, animals, gentle or angry, appear from the Color Field. It’s a cosmology of imagery found deep within the spaces of the painting surfaces. He is conjuring, pulling our primal past into the Postmodern. It’s a Jungian tight rope strung between the performance of the line and the power of visual imagination. He asks a lot of us, to go on this quest for nature, to find a different kind of painterly interaction using an older experience of vision. What I find arresting in this work is the way the images emerge, the way Giles’ incisive line pulls those images into view as if they were always there, as if we were somehow ignoring our own deeper urges while losing ourselves within those veiled surfaces. It’s surprising. And it leads one to believe that these menageries from our subconscious lurk everywhere in our past even in the most cliched of Modernist tropes, even in the most beautiful abstraction.

In these vibrant paintings Giles hopes to remind us of our humanity, of our history, and of our collective memories. For more about Giles Lyon and his work link here.

Vision – Provocation

Clement Greenberg BBC Interview – double click to play

In the surprisingly candid and touching video above Clement Greenberg mentions that many of the artists of the time did not see Pollock as a proper painter. And at the beginning of the clip you might see why. Pollock used paint differently, as a way to record his involvement in the moment, like a captured experience in time – almost like a photograph. Now I want to be very clear about one thing most American painters don’t think about when we stand before our canvases. We do not acknowledge that America does not have a tradition of painting. We do not have that kind of visual history in our genetic makeup. Painters are an afterthought. Even as AbEx fever raged in the minds of the small group of committed painters on 10th Street, even as America proclaimed it’s coming of artistic age in paint – we still weren’t painters. Truth is most of the AbExers had come from Europe or were taught by Europeans that were steeped in the philosophies, aesthetics and politics of old Europa. Whatever AbEx was it wasn’t a strictly American movement. What we had to do in order to take the cultural stage and declare our readiness to overtake Paris as the art world center was to inherit, or better, steal the idea of Modernism – depending on your viewpoint. And Modernism, the flowering of 20th century culture, was all about the history of painting.

At that time America was not yet the “Super Power” it would become. Our art was still considered provincial and unformed by the rest of the world. But after the international success of the Americanization of Modernism America began to export the Art that truly reflected our own culture, that came from our own experiences. And why not? America was the new super power, the new empire, and like any empire, it began to erect its own distinct culture everywhere it found a foothold. We didn’t need European visual history to make the point of our cultural power. We had our own. Paint and painting is just not all that interesting to us, it’s never defined us the way it once defined Europe’s Culture. It never represented life in America. And the younger generation of American artists that rushed to the fore after AbEx made their mark on the art world’s stage through other means and in other ways. True, some were “painters” but they did not approach painting as the Europeans had done. Instead these artists relied on and embodied American corporate values like productivity, quantification and electronic imagery – all of which come from Hollywood, TV, advertising and manufacturing. Think of Stella, Lichtenstein, Warhol, Judd, Rosenquist and Andre – the artists of the early Postmodern years. And most all of that art, most all of our truly American art, was formed and documented through the use of the lens, formed by what lenses could do and how those lenses defined and fashioned us. Our avant garde never gave a good god damn for painting, for seeing like painters, for making images, spaces and light like the great European painters once did. No. Painting was as old, outdated and passé as the war torn history of Europe. We had something far more “real”, something far more “true to life” humming through our culture. And it had absolutely NOTHING to do with painting.

America’s Forgotten Old Man

We begin this provocation at the moment that America began to form itself into the nation we experience today. Matthew Brady was America’s first great imagist, its first great Avant Garde Artist, its first great provocateur. And in his work you can see all the future of American (Post) Modernism, from 291 to 10th Street right into Warhol’s Silver Studio. From portraiture to landscape Brady set the tone for how Americans would confront European visual traditions. From his studios in Washington and New York Brady formed a vision of America that played between two intellectual opposites. On the one hand he photographed the powerful, rich and famous in highly stylized and mannered portraits. In these works he was carrying on the visual traditions of Europe and creating something that would become our Hollywood culture, the culture of fame, glamor and celebrity that is still prevalent in every media outlet in America. On the other he and his studio documented the harsh realities and unfortunate incidences of the lives of everyday Americans. What we see in this disparate body of work is the interior and exterior, the studio and the world, artifice and nature. His art captured the speed and violence engendered by a growing mechanized culture as it defined the ethos of this new nation. And in doing so he reformulated an old critique, an old problem that had faced painters through the centuries – artifice or reality? But Brady did this through the new lens/machine, the democratic eye, rather than in paint. In Brady’s photos as in American culture – reality and artifice become one.

The contact sheet of America’s most famous President (the analog precursor to the thumbnail archive) is stunning. First because of the prescience and collaboration between the sitter and the artist. Lincoln was one of the first Presidents to understand the power of image, the star power that mass produced images can bestow. He sat for Brady many times and his face, as Brady fashioned it, is still to this day etched forever in the minds of every American. That face, or rather Brady’s images of Lincoln are as ubiquitous as the Mona Lisa and just as mysteriously fascinating. Yet we don’t often think of these images in that way, we don’t “see” Lincoln as an art historical watershed. They don’t matter as Art because we have all been continuously fed these sorts of images every day of our lives. It’s how we communicate with one another. That face based on Brady’s image is on our fucking currency. We forget sometimes about the mind behind the image. Brady used the lens in clever ways. In many of the photographs of Lincoln, especially the close ups, Brady played with the depth of field, strongly focusing on Lincoln’s face and allowing the rest of his head to slightly blur. He was making sure that this face would register strongly in our unconscious, that this sculpted vision of Lincoln would remain with us like a dream, emerging from the ground and lodging into our collective memories. We take it for granted today, the ubiquity of these kind of images, of manipulative close ups and focus, especially in photographic images, but at the time of the civil war, this kind of encounter, this visual intimacy with a “life-like” image was a new experience for the American public. We have craved and coveted this kind of intimacy with fame ever since.

Second is the amazing structure and composition of the contact sheet itself. Though Brady would never present the work in this way (at least I don’t think he did) this contact sheet is a Postmodern miracle. From Warhol to your computer screen, most of the faux antiqued modernism and quantified structures that we see looks and acts in our minds exactly like this contact sheet, and in fact, most every contact sheet that came after Brady – taped, grease penciled, unregistered, collaged, repeated, delightfully fucked up. The composition not only speaks of the intimacy within the image, but the intimacy within the processes of the photographer. We see a double capture, something we Americans prize in everything we experience – reality as artifice presented as experience. The composition in this contact sheet is classic Warhol and classic late 20th Century. And even more telling in the processes of the contact sheet is the fact that this offhand quantification and explication also mimics the way artists had for centuries made drawings, worked out ideas in their sketch books. Only now these processes were being done through the machine. For the American this kind of process, this working method is what we prefer to engage with: the unfinished, the unmade, and the undone. It allows us to find the piece, to bond with the subject, to discover ourselves within it, to be a part of the finish and to make the thing great. It means WE must experience the process, we PARTICIPATE rather than have the thing arrive as a full blown vision before us. Like most things in America that is what we crave. You see this in our reality TV shows, our political talk shows and in the myths and biographies of our famous citizens. In this way we can see the experience not as a product of genius, but as a democratic event, an elected leader, as one of us. And that means we get to choose, to feel that our opinion counts, just as our speech has been promised to us, just like a Coke and a smile.

I have to say that I’ve always been fascinated by the disparate nature of Brady’s body of photographs especially as it concerns the “real” life of Americans. Brady ran a massive project during the Civil War photographing and documenting that conflict. This was a first for art in this country and you can imagine the logistics involved. Because of the nature of the tools the teams of photographers capturing the images could not “shoot” the work on the fly. The camera had to be stationary, and so we have a kind of before and after experience in the work. For instance there are the posed shots of the battle commanders around a campsite and then there are the disastrous found images taken in the aftermath of a battle. When Brady first showed these photos the American public was horrified. They had not seen death presented in such a baldfaced and vile manner before. There was none of the heroism, none of the great cause. Liberty was not leading the People over the barricades. All that was there was a “true to life” moment captured by the machine. This reality was empty of virtue, clean of drama and vicious in depiction. There wasn’t any of the painterly space or dramatized narration that the art going public expected to see in Art. Rather they were confronted with a different experience – the violence of process, the all consuming ground.

The truth about the lens/machine is that it conflates artifice and objective imagery. That distance between the abstraction of the “image” (the focus and framing that happens in the machine) and the “reality” of existence (the world outside that framing) is fraught with all the questions that the coming American Century would wrangle with over and over again. Questions regarding our participation in society, in relationships, context – what defines individualism, romantic engagement, Manifest Destiny, country, wealth, class, sex and race – public issues with which we are STILL and ALWAYS coming to terms. Our visual avant garde began right here – NOT with the early Parisian Modernists and their struggle to paint in the face of a vast and powerful history. Painters in Europe were still engaging with the magic of the newly reproduced photographic image and how to incorporate that “reality” into painting. Americans had none of the visual tradition of this European legacy, and we found that we could easily do away with the problem that faced the painted image. And that is exactly what we did. We became Sunday painters and avant garde photographers. We Americans don’t see, we experience (which is why many Europeans don’t “get” us,) and the lens machine was the best, quickest and easiest way to achieve that “experience” for our Art. Inherent in the use of lens images are many other thornier questions about reality and imagery that Brady’s work also brings up. They are questions of authorship, reproduction, replication, appropriation, copyright, and just about any of the current “problems” that preoccupy today’s art world. Of course when we look at Brady’s work today it looks naive and dated, but it also brings with it the nostalgia and sentiment that defines so much of the art we make and encounter today.

Death is an overrated literary idea…

“Two attitudes underlie this presumption that anything in the world is material for the camera. One finds that there is beauty or at least interest in everything, seen with an acute enough eye. (And the aestheticizing of reality that makes everything, anything, available to the camera is what also permits the co-opting of any phtograph, even one of an utterly practical sort, as art.) The other treats everything as the object of some present or future use, as matter for estimates, decisions, and predictions.” Susan Sontag “The Image-World” On Photography

Greenberg was onto something important in that interview. For the American painter the old ways of seeing and painting didn’t make sense. This difference in understanding vision and culture put Pollock in the Cedar Street Tavern in the last year of his life. These drunken bouts speak to his nagging uncertainty and his loneliness in the face of his achievement. It also exacerbated Pollock’s Romantic inclination for a literary death. The old man makes clear that Pollock wanted to return to the Impressionists, to learn from them. And for me this points to our own continuing conundrum about painting. Pollock wanted to learn about painterly vision in Nature, about the way the Impressionists would see and paint through time instead of seeing and painting in time – visual culture versus experiential culture. His palette, composition, techniques and light and space would have had to change. And you can see this renewed struggle with European painting in his last “failed” works. He had stripped out the color, he had reclaimed the brush and reintroduced the figure. Another great push was on the way. In a telling gesture Pollock’s very last painting was entitled “Search.” In that painting he’s back to the clotted surfaces and chunky imagery of his younger work, like he’s working back toward something, trying to remember something he had forgotten. But in reality, that memory was something he may never have had access to, something that he had never really experienced first hand. Maybe a new kind of hybrid vision would have come from Pollock’s need to look at the Impressionists. What would have happened if Pollock spent some time in Paris? Who knows what l’Orangerie would have meant to Pollock?

You can see this struggle take root in many of the more prescient Postmodern painters as well. Frank Stella’s Working Space is all about the visual anxiety that American painters feel when confronted with the European visual traditions. He writes of finding volumetric space and light for a new kind of abstraction. He’s seeking a kind of hybridization of vision just as Pollock did those years ago. David Hockney approaches the same issues from a different perspective through his Secret Knowledge – which turns out to be a historical account of the lens in painting. David Reed begins with the Baroque and tries to marry European vision into American abstraction – light, hue, value, flatness, objectness – it’s all there. But for the most part we painters still ignore the conundrum, we still find it too difficult to confront. We keep replaying the recent past. I think the thing Greenberg was lamenting in Pollock’s need to reconnect with Europe is what we’ve been discussing here. We painters have to approach our history differently, we have to understand it differently in order to form better questions, find other solutions, and work our way out from under the Postmodern morass in which we find ourselves. If we are honest about our past as painters we might find our future a bit more interesting and a bit more relevant in our time.

Final Part to come…