In an earlier entry, I introduced a new
painting, Cat’s Cradle, and addressed
the challenge that representing a very actively patterned quilt as a backdrop
to my two figures posed for me. I had to
find a way of depicting the quilt convincingly without interfering with the
primacy I wanted the figures to assert.
I ended up seeking a balance between illusionistic and decorative
painting, one that I hoped would not detract from the image’s substance while
offering a heightened visual sumptuousness to delight the viewer.
Gerard Wickham - Cat's Cradle - 2014
Working on that painting got
me thinking about how the figure related to patterning and how other artists
explored this motif in their work. Let
me begin by declaring that representing patterning in an illusionistic painting
is counterintuitive because it detracts from the assertion of sculptural form
in a convincing space. Giotto understood
this, resulting in his rejection of the excesses of the Byzantine Style. His figures are lit by a single, uniform
light source, draped in pale, solid toned robes and placed before a uniform
background of saturated blue.
Giotto - The Adoration of the Magi - 1306
Giotto’s innovations marked
the initiation of a 200 year stylistic evolution that reached its zenith with
the Italian High Renaissance. Artists of
this period saw themselves as the natural heirs of the lofty achievements of
the ancient Greek and Roman cultures and sought to reintroduce the simplicity
and austerity that they deemed a central component of Classical Art. They would probably have been aghast to learn
that the marble sculptures that served as their primary models had actually
been brightly painted upon completion.
That notwithstanding, the High Renaissance ushered in a slew of
technical and aesthetic innovations which, for the most part, established the
“ground rules” that European artists followed for the next 350 years, until the
advent of the modernist revolution.
Raphael - The Small Cowper Madonna - c1505
Central to this Renaissance ideal that inspired
artists for centuries was that artists, in painting and drawing in particular,
must strive to suggest three-dimensional form set in a convincing,
illusionistic space. Busy, intense
patterning would certainly undermine that goal, and its use was eschewed by
generations of Western artists except when used for very specific purposes.
Hans Holbein - The Ambassadors - 1533
The green curtain that is
the backdrop to Hans Holbein’s ambassadors plays an important role. It maintained the illusion of real space by
convincing us of its tangibility while providing a barrier, parallel to the
picture plane, to a deeper, potentially more complex space that lies beyond its
borders. So the curtain allows the
figures to pop out more prominently from the picture plane, an effect
intensified by its green tonality complementary to the warm flesh tones of the
figures. But Holbein decides that the
curtain should be patterned. Why? Painting is always a bit of a juggling act
where one decision often leads to a multitude of adjustments that will permit the
artist to “keep all his balls in the air”, so to speak. The inclusion of the curtain results from
sound judgment, but Holbein recognizes that it represents a huge expanse in his
painting that offers little of visual interest to the viewer. He introduces the patterning to activate the
space, while being careful to keep it sufficiently subdued as not to compete with
the primacy of the figures. So, Holbein
chooses to enrich his visual imagery through the use of patterning while
sustaining the ideals initiated during the Italian Renaissance, an approach
adopted by many artists prior to the modernist revolution. I’ve noted an exception to
this rule. Royal portraits tended to be
less restrained and often violated Renaissance ideals.
Antoine-Francois Callet - King Louis XVI - 1781
There are a number of
reasons for this. Primarily, royal
portraits were intended to assert the wealth and power of a monarch. In doing so, excess was to be desired. So presenting the king cocooned in a vast
array of costly, richly patterned furs and textiles in order to testify to his
omnipotence took precedence over aesthetic concerns. Also, it seems that the vast majority of
monarchs were not particularly attractive.
For instance, Louis XVI, pictured above, was said to be rather short,
stout and square shouldered, with the worst possible bearing. His mouth was over-full and flabby and his
chin was pale and fat. (The Days of the French Revolution,
Christopher Hibbert) There is an obvious
attempt on the part of Callet to hide Louis’ physical imperfections, to mask
his volume by “dismembering” his torso in layers of patterned material, to
distract the viewer’s focus away from the King’s features. Here is a unique situation whence the artist
wishes to disguise form and deter focus. Certainly the introduction
of complex, overall patterning in figurative painting pushes the work towards the
decorative. Unfortunately, the term
“decorative” has taken on a slightly pejorative taint, in that “decorative” is
often considered the polar opposite of “substantive”. This should not be the case. Without a doubt, patterning is most commonly
used to create an aura of lushness, abundance and voluptuousness. Besides pleasing and delighting the viewer,
the patterning, if presented in sufficient complexity and detail, would provoke
awe and amazement with the artist’s audience. Many
non-European cultures have embraced patterning as an essential element in their
visual arts. And as I have said earlier,
prior to the establishment of the Renaissance ideal, ornate patterning was
common in European art, particularly in medieval manuscripts.
Persian Minature
Mughal Painting
Mughal Painting
French Medieval Manuscript - Mars, Venus and Vulcan
French Medieval Manuscript
Kitagawa Utamaro - The Prelude to Desire - 1799
But, once concepts concerning the presentation
of illusionistic form in space and the aesthetics that governed what was
acceptable in art had developed during the Renaissance, they were hard to
disregard. It wasn’t until the
mid-1800’s that Europeans truly began to question these long established
strictures and started experimenting with new ways of depicting visual
reality. Not very surprising, many
“modern” artists turned to other cultures to find models to guide them in
relinquishing traditional standards of presentation and developing new
mechanics as to how tools and materials should be used. Artists began to challenge the concept that
the figure must assert its primacy when represented in paintings and
drawings. Patterning was used to mask or
disguise form, to present the figure as integrated with its setting. Also, once doctrine governing how the illusion
of perspective was created in art was brought into question, patterning was
often used to “dissolve’ or “dismember” structure, rendering space as a series
of decorative planes placed side by side, deliberately denying depth and
blurring the transitions between planes.
When presenting the figure in such ambiguous space, the artist had to
find new ways to depict form that contradicted traditional rules pertaining to
coloration, lighting and even anatomical feasibility.
Albert Joseph Moore - Red Berries - 1884
The British artist, Albert
Joseph Moore, embeds his figure in an incredibly complex array of patterned
materials, which he treats in a traditional, illusionistic fashion.It is the austerity of the model’s flesh and
hair that draws the viewer’s eye to her.
Edouard Vuillard - The Reader - 1896
Among the Nabis, a group of
French artists interested in exploring intimate scenes of daily life often
presented in a decorative context, Edouard Vuillard was most attracted to
interior views filled with layers of intricate patterning. Here the figures dissolve in their
environment, treated with equal attention as the rug or wallpaper. For Vuillard, the whole is what mattered; he
did not differentiate his subject matter hierarchically.
Gustav Klimt - Adele Bloch-Bauer - 1907
For Gustav Klimt, an
Austrian artist influenced both by the Symbolist and Art Nouveau movements,
complex patterning permitted him to mask in dense layers subject matter too
risqué for the conservative tastes of his fin de siècle audience. Also, within his patterning are suggestions
of nature’s fecundity, of pollen and sperm, of vines and foliage, and a variety
of barely disguised erotic symbols.
Dora Carrington - Annie - 1925
The wallpaper in Dora
Carrington’s portrait of her housekeeper completes the work, activating
powerfully the space around the figure, a solidly built and plain country
girl. The floral theme of the wallpaper
seems to testify to this girl’s agrarian roots.
Henri Matisse - Small Odalisque in a Purple Robe - 1937
Henri Matisse - La Musique - 1939
The challenge for Henri Matisse was to
accentuate the patterning in his figure paintings, striving for strident designs
possessing unusual color combinations, while maintaining a sophisticated,
flawless composition. The figures in
these two works can truly be referred to as compositional elements, presented
on an equal footing with the complex mesh of patterned components. Throughout
his career, Matisse was interested in textiles, gathering an extensive
collection of fabrics, rugs and costumes that appeared regularly in his work.
Balthus - The Turkish Room - 1963
Late in his career, Balthus
became fascinated with surface texture and complex patterning. In the work above, it’s the very flatness and
simplicity of the figure that permits it to assert its primacy. So, having given some
thought as to how in two dimensional work patterning related to the figure, I
thought that I would further explore this relationship in my next work, a
self-portrait. I knew the emotional
state that I wanted this next painting to convey. As always, being my own model, I was sure that
I could convincingly project the mood I was after, but I wasn’t so certain that
I could find the appropriate pattern to enhance that emotional state. I began searching through the house, pulling
clothing out of closets and drawers, looking through discarded blankets and
shawls in the laundry room, going from room to room examining curtains, even
the sheets on each bed. Nothing I came
across matched my needs. Then I
remembered a patterned, light spread that my wife and I purchased on a trip to Greece
made over 25 years ago. I rushed to my
closet and began to paw through various items tucked away and forgotten on the
top shelf and, incredibly, found the spread carefully stored in a plastic
bag. I was startled to discover that I
had recalled the pattern and coloration fairly precisely and was pleased to
find this spread projected the mood and associations that I desired. These specific associations shall go
unmentioned because, though most likely common amongst most people living
today, to state them would place too specific a “stamp” on the image. I set up in my studio a
working area correctly lighted and able to accommodate a mirror set upon a
presentation stand. Then I attached a
horizontal beam to an old easel, draped the spread over it and positioned the
easel so the material would fill the space behind me. I began painting, sketching in elements and
blocking in general tones. At some
point, I brought my youngest son up to my studio to take a series of
photographs of me striking my desired pose before my chosen background. Eventually, I discarded the mirror and used
only the photographs as my source of information. I had anticipated that this
painting would require about ten sessions but found that progress was made a
lot more slowly than I expected. Right
from the start I was unable to “nail down” my composition, repeatedly making
adjustments to the proportions and placement of the figure. I was tenacious, refusing to settle on
“satisfactory” and continuing to make significant adjustments until very late
in the process. While addressing the
figure, I was also quickly and loosely summarizing the background
patterning. Most essential, early on,
was establishing the general tones against which the figure needed to
function. The pattern proved to be
fairly intricate, and I wasn’t certain how naturalistic I needed to be in
documenting it. I would work on an area
of the background over a session or two, feeling that I had developed a
successful approach to addressing the patterning, only to discover upon subsequent
evaluation that I hadn’t achieved what I was hoping for. I would rethink my approach and begin
again. This happened several times while
I was continuing to work up the figure.
At one point, I was convinced that the figure was complete for the most
part and I only needed to focus on the patterning. I wanted the patterning to assert itself
powerfully without overwhelming the figure.
I was seeking a balance. Also,
initially, I had thought the background could be addressed in a very painterly
fashion but upon execution found that this approach did not relate sufficiently
with the paint handling used for the figure. I reached an impasse
somewhere in the middle of the entire process at which I could not determine
how to address the patterning and, upon objective scrutiny, deemed the figure,
though competently painted, to lack visual interest and dimension. With me, most paintings reach a crisis point
at which, dissatisfied with the results of my efforts and unable to see a clear
path to resolution, I contemplate throwing in the towel and moving on to a new
project. Commonly, I’ll avoid my studio
and seek to clear my mind while only occasionally scrutinizing my current
work. When I came back to the canvas, I
began by repainting the patterning with a greater sensitivity to light quality,
nuance and detail. Once I had
accomplished that, it became evident that the figure had to be painted
anew. At the end of one session, I took
my wet palette and raked it over the figure, creating a pale web of fine lines
over my earlier work. I thought in order
to see the figure with fresh eyes I had to distance myself from my earlier
conception of how the figure was constructed and addressed. I must admit I was a bit shocked when I saw
how much of my earlier efforts had been obliterated by my rash action. I had no choice but to tackle the figure once
more, and I did so, this time deepening the shadows and emphasizing detail at
the plane breaks in the face and torso.
Even at this late stage, I continued to make major adjustments in the construction
of the head, repositioning the eyes and mouth to better conform to the
perspective suggested in the work. At
last, I felt that the painting was starting to gel and began to work with
greater determination, extending the length of and making more frequent my
sessions in the studio. On June 7th,
I finished my work on the painting.
Gerard Wickham - Before the Greek Throw - 2015
At the start of this project
when I optimistically expected to need about ten sessions to complete this
self-portrait, I thought it would be interesting to record my daily progress by
taking a photograph of the painting at the end of each session. My intention was to display on this blog each
individual photo documenting my progress in order to reveal a bit about the
painting process in general and my personal technique in particular. After months of work and sessions too
numerous to count, I realized that I couldn’t execute my plan; the series of
photos would be ridiculously long and the variance between one photo and the next
too minimal. So I turned to technology
to discover a solution and found a way to make a short movie, transitioning
smoothly from slide to slide, following the project from bare canvas to
completed painting. I was even able to
add some music to accompany the presentation. Viewing this short movie is
probably more revelatory for me than doing so could possibly be for a more
disinterested audience, but I believe that even a viewer who has never taken up
a brush will find the process absorbing.
The movie exposes a certain hesitancy on my part to commit to a course
of action, particularly at the middle stages of this work. Watching the movie, I could feel palpably
that at some point progress stalls while I choose to address peripheral issues
in the work rather than tackle the handling of the figure. I was finding it difficult to surrender my
original conception of how paint would be handled, especially in the
patterning. So the painting began to
meander. This is not surprising. Painting, at least for me, is a journey
undertaken without a map or an itinerary.
I approach a work with some firm ideas of what I want to accomplish, the
statement I wish to make, the emotions I want to arouse, but I’m never sure how
to realize these goals. That’s probably
what both appeals to me and frustrates me about the process. Working out the path to accomplish these
goals is seldom easy... but always interesting. While bike riding with my
youngest son last weekend, we stopped to take a breather on a bench when he
asked me how I knew when a painting is finished. I’ll try to paraphrase my response here: A
blank canvas is perfect. Upon putting my
first stroke on a canvas, I’ve destroyed that perfection. Every subsequent stroke I make represents my
attempt to reclaim that perfection, to address the faults inherent in my all
too human efforts. A painting is
complete when I arrive at a point at which I find I can live with its manifest
deficiencies.
I encourage readers to comment here. If you would prefer to comment privately, you can email me at gerardwickham@gmail.com.
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