Wednesday, 16 July 2014
Alex Hanna: The Alchemy of Painting
It is possible for the same thing both to be and not to be.
David Hume
In the heart of the English countryside lies the small industrial city of Derby, and in its centre stands an unprepossessing looking Art Gallery and Museum. Should you choose to wander in, you’ll discover a little known cultural gem, which deep inside contains a beautifully decorated room with the world’s largest collection of paintings by Joseph Wright (1734 –1797).
One of those paintings is The Alchemist Discovering Phosphorus (1771). The Alchemist depicts a medieval chemist attempting to form the fabled Philosopher’s stone, which legend held could turn base metals such as lead, into gold. In Wright’s picture we see that instead of creating the Philosopher’s Stone, the alchemist has inadvertently stumbled upon the glowing compound of phosphorus, an element so reactive it spontaneously combusts in its purest form, yet one so important to life it is used by plant cells to store energy, is a core ingredient of fertilizers and a principal constituent of human bones. Awed by his discovery, we see the Alchemist in Wright’s painting drop to one knee and hold his right hand out in a motion which indicates silence is required in the sight of such beauty and magic.
Yet where Wright’s fictional Alchemist only managed to unearth what was already present, Wright himself succeeded in converting the raw ingredients of pigment, oil and canvas into paintings capable of generating emotions in his viewers. Many of Wright’s pictures, such as An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump (1768) and An Iron Forge (1772) are concerned with the transformations of matter, they are sophisticated masterpieces which act as portraits of where the margins lie between where life is and where life fails to be.
The Italian artist Giorgio Morandi (1890 –1964) also produced paintings which were preoccupied with the subtle balance of form and tone as an expression of the limits between being and not being. Morandi had initially aligned himself with the metaphysical painters who were active either side of the First World War, before finally settling on an output which was defined by apparently simple depictions of vases, bottles and bowls. This unassuming approach saw the production of an oeuvre of paintings which have become renowned for their reduced compositional elegance, delicacy of shading and quiet humility. They appear as artistic symbols of life when it is suspended on the very edge of nothingness, whilst simultaneously conveying a tentative sense of post-war joy and hope for the future, in part due to the decorative shapes and sensitive colours they employ.
An art which seeks to explore the visual boundaries between presence and absence is as rare as it is difficult to produce. The British artist Alex Hanna picked up this creative thread at the beginning of the 21st Century when he began painting a series of subtle still-lives around a limited variety of small items which range from used pill packets and bubble wrap, to bottles, empty incubators and pillows. At first glance Hanna’s objects feel similar to Morandi’s, yet on closer inspection we come to realise that his choices are more deliberately utilitarian. The pill packets in Pill Packaging 1 (2012) for example, just as the small plastic container in Incubator 4 (2013), are manifestations of designs which have been dictated wholly by their purpose. The beauty Hanna finds in these objects relates directly to ideas found in the British artist William Hogarth’s (1697 – 1764) book The Analysis of Beauty (1753). In this, Hogarth argued that the shapes occuring in nature which attain the highest degree of elegance are those which most closely align to performing their function effectively, and it is these forms in turn which he believes have the greatest aesthetic impact on the viewer. For Hogarth, true utility is beauty made manifest.
Sixty years earlier to Hogarth’s dissertation, the English dramatist and critic John Dennis (1658 –1734) had proposed that the sublime should also be considered as an aesthetic quality, separate from, yet complementary to, beauty as a visual experience. He defined this in a journal letter titled Miscellanies (1693) which offers an account of the emotional responses he felt whilst crossing the Alps. Here he describes how the majesty of the mountain landscape induced a sense of terror in him which produced a “pleasure to the eye as music is to the ear”, whilst simultaneously being “mingled with Horrours, and sometimes almost with despair.” For Dennis this is a positive understanding of how fear can bring about insights when it is triggered by a sense of awe. In A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1756), Edmund Burke (1729 – 1797) went on to argue that the sublime and the beautiful are mutually exclusive, with either one able to produce pleasure and he specifically described the sensation attributed to the sublime as a “negative pain” which he called delight.
Ideas around the sublime experienced as feelings of awe in the presence of nature were beautifully expressed in art by the romantics, most notably by Caspar David Friedrich (1774 – 1840) in paintings such as The Monk by the Sea (1808-10), Chasseur in the Forest (1814) and Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (1818), all of which depict an isolated individual standing before a fateful geography. In Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, for instance, a lonely male figure positioned in the centre of the picture, wrapped in a dark green coat with a walking stick in his right hand, pauses on top of a mountain in Saxony. Before him lie further mountains and forests cloaked in mist. His back is turned to us, as he stares out over the vast landscape stretching before him. He has the appearance of a man who stands on the precipice of something far bigger than the smallness of our humble lives. In seeking out nature he appears to have unintentionally happened upon the threshold of the abyss; the defining boundary of human existence. In this way Friedrich’s paintings act as more than a simple depiction of man contemplating nature, they act as metaphors for the unknowingness of death.
The sublime experience can be found in even the smallest circumstance and this is where Hanna’s paintings take us, as he reveals that the edge of nothing can be found in what rests right before our eyes. When we look closer at Hanna’s paintings, we begin to notice that his concern with subject matter is more than a passing interest in the surface shapes and reflections of practical packaging and how its expediency can render it attractive to our eye. Hanna’s selection of objects creates an association with something more profound, it is a concern with the nature of how we care for one another. In this way he brings together the two concepts of beauty and the sublime and overlays them with a meditation on the nature of personal tenderness.
Through his work, Hanna reveals that whilst a genuine beauty can be found in utility, the truly sublime experience is found in our capacity to care for one another and to do so without the interference of the ego. This necessarily makes Hanna’s paintings painting necessarily and exercise in reductionism to the point where they balance delicately on the edge between being and nothingness. To achieve this, Hanna’s still lives appear to be almost monochromatic images, being of white or transparent objects set on a white table top against a white wall. These in turn are depicted in a narrow range of tones, which despite being studies indoors are painted using a classic ‘plein air’ palette. This is limited to the six colours of cadmium red, yellow ochre, lead white, emerald green, French ultramarine and ivory black, which in turn are laid out from left to right in an order which places the cool colours to the left of the white, and the warm colour to its right. The lead white he works with forms the core of this palette and has been favoured by many masters of the past who include Freud, Monet and Rembrandt. They prefer its textural quality over other whites, the way the paint synthesizes and its ability to maintain the characteristics of the brush strokes on the worked surface.
Hanna mixes his paint with only the slightest hint of white spirit, a medium which tends to deaden colour, rather than linseed oil which many artist use to brighten it. In this way he maintains a sense that the paint is able to behave in its purest physical consistency on both the palette and canvas. The central role lead white plays in his paintings is important to Hanna, and in a conversation he described how “White has no value unless it’s placed in a relationship to another colour” going on to say that “it is the context which provides the substance.”[i] The idea of a context providing the terms which define the subject is fundamental to Hanna’s painting, and just as colour provides the context for white, so the choice of objects offers the framework to the real theme, that of the beautiful and the sublime forming to create a contemplation on altruism.
All of Hanna’s paintings relate to the care of the human body without actually depicting it, whilst his objects are almost always portrayed at life size which enhances our emotional response to them. In this way he offers us a vision of the human presence by describing its absence, instilling in his paintings a tangible awareness of being. The first time the theme of absence as presence occurred in art was when Vincent van Gogh (1853 – 1890) painted his own empty chair, whilst living in Arles. Until this point, furniture had not been considered a sufficiently suitable core subject for painting. However, there is a precursor to van Gogh’s painting in a drawing which depicts Charles Dickens’s (1812 – 1870) study immediately after the novelist’s death. The English artist Luke Fields (1843 – 1927) who had been collaborating with Dickens on The Mystery of Edwin Drood sketched out a picture of the authors’ now empty room, with his vacant chair at its centre. Fields drawing traced the memory of Dickens’ lost energy and was subsequently reproduced in Graphic magazine. Van Gogh brought a print of it, which was so important to him that he tried yet failed to acquire a second copy for his brother Theo.
In painting his own versions of the beautiful and sublime, Hanna seems to hold out a metaphorical hand which asks us for a moment’s silence. And when we carefully study his still lives we begin to share with him in a meditation on the nature of utility, which like Hogarth, Hanna sees as revealing a truth far more fundamental than that offered by the changing shapes of fashion. Instead, his still lives offer up the undercurrent to style, the continuum which underpins all other considerations and contains a slow beauty which reveals itself only gradually. In doing this Alex Hanna helps us reflect on the nature of our own being.
Robert Priseman, 2014
[i] From a conversation between Alex Hanna and Robert Priseman on the 3rd July 2014.
A New Individualism: Post-war British Painting
On a trip to Russia in the spring of 2013 I visited The State Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow for the first time and found myself admiring Nicholai Ge’s “What is truth?” (1890), Ilya Repin’s Religious Procession in Kursk Province (1880-83), Valentin Serov’s Girl with Peaches (1887), Vasily Surikov’s Morning of the Execution of the Streltsy (1881) and a room full of pictures by Vasily Vereshchagin. Here was a museum containing art by master painters whose output spoke with a resonance which moved me deeply, and as a British painter whose own work focuses on socio-political subjects, I found myself feeling simultaneously ashamed that I’d never heard of these great artists, whilst at the same time being intensely captivated by their work. Most of these painters had been part of a group known as ‘The Peredvizhniki’ or ‘Wanderers’, they were artists who had decided to break away from the creative traditions and limitations of the Academy and its exacting separations between low and high art. Instead they had decided to set their own agenda. As artists they were often critical of social injustice, yet they also wanted to celebrate the simple beauty and dignity they found in peasant life. This led me to reflect on the many parallels I saw between the Peredvizhniki and post-war British painting, especially ‘The School of London’, as both groups defied conventional attitudes and artistic fashions in favour of pursuing their own programme which often focused on the politics of human experience.
The painting which left the greatest impression on me at the Tretyakov was Vereshchagin’s The Defeated (1878-9) which forms part of a series of works he made that meditate on the atrocities of war. Beautifully portrayed, The Defeated depicts a large empty meadow in autumnal colours; on the left hand side stands an Army Officer holding a cap and book in his hands, whilst in front of him a Priest waves incense over the ground. Clearly this is a former battlefield. Both men look down, apparently humbled by thoughts of what preceded them. Only slowly do we begin to notice the dead bodies of soldiers lying hidden among the seed heads of the field. The Officer and Priest, although defined by the social positions which confer a power upon them, appear personally affected as human beings. This reminds us that what occurs in the world has an impact on us; that events generate feelings, and in turn those feelings require our attention. In this case it is the Priest who mediates both our emotions, and those of the soldier left behind, as we consider all that has been lost through conflict. Vereshchagin has achieved a remarkable accomplishment with The Defeated: he has created a post-war meditation that appears both personal and political.
When looking at paintings like those by Vereshchagin we come to realise that artists do not produce their work in visionary isolation, but as part of a broader social dialogue which reflects their experiences simultaneously as individuals and as members of a society. It seems to be in the nature of many of the best artists that they remain at odds with their communities, not simply accepting social norms, but instead questioning prevailing attitudes and contesting orthodox opinion. It is perhaps this ‘outsider’ quality which nurtures pre-eminent artistic vision. And just as Vereshchagin challenged the wisdom of war in The Defeated, in the following century the London based painter Francis Bacon confronted the conventions of the Church when he produced Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1953). While Bacon used Velasquez’s portrait of Pope Innocent X as his starting point, we can observe many differences from the original portrait which Velázquez undertook in 1650 whilst visiting Italy from his native Spain. Velázquez’s likeness of the Holy Father depicts the head of the Catholic Church clothed in the red robes of office, seated on a red cushioned chair, which is in turn set against red drapes. The Pope’s face appears stern; perhaps in consideration of the matters of state, perhaps of the painter before him. Pope Innocent X was born Giovanni Battista Pamphilj, he trained as a lawyer and became head of the Catholic Church in 1644. Yet in Velázquez’s portrait there is little hint of the person behind the position. Here Pope Innocent is defined clearly by his religious role; a man bequeathed the power to make decisions which affect the lives of others. It is a painting of the man as office.
For Bacon however, despite the subject being the same, everything else has changed. The Pope’s red robes have been rendered purple, the draped background transformed into streaked black paint and the Holy Father’s silent stare transfigured into a primal scream. Where Velázquez has rendered a man of organisational responsibility defined by his religious duty, Bacon has sought to visually tear away at the edifice of office and reveal instead the vision of a tormented subconscious. This is a painting of man first and office second. Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X was painted in the same year as Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation, yet the customs which help create a sense of institutional solidity for State and Church have ceased to function effectively for Bacon. The visual cues which enabled Velázquez to define the social strength and power of the Church have been subverted here to give a very different message, one which is perhaps more post-Christian than anti-Church. Bacon’s picture gives visual expression to a philosophy that we inhabit a seemingly meaningless universe which is either hostile or indifferent to us; one in which we are effectively alone. It is a vision where the individual has little or no control over external events, events which have the potential to provoke powerful human emotions. For Bacon, the clothes of office create nothing more than a façade of power and are useless against the terrors of life.
Although born in Dublin, Francis Bacon spent most of his life living and working in London and his existentialist view found further artistic voice amongst a nucleus of artists who gravitated around him and became known as the ‘School of London’. They included Michael Andrews, Frank Auerbach, Lucian Freud, R. B. Kitaj and Leon Kossoff. Interestingly, as a group they are mainly expatriate. Whilst Michael Andrews was born in Norfolk, Frank Auerbach was born in Berlin, the son of a Jewish patent lawyer; he escaped to Britain from Nazi persecution in 1939 with almost 10,000 mainly Jewish children on the Kindertransport. R. B. Kitaj was born to Jewish parents in Ohio and moved to England in 1958 to study art at the Ruskin School, Oxford. Lucian Freud, the grandson of Sigmund Freud, was born in Berlin and also moved to England to escape the Nazis, becoming a British citizen in 1939, whilst Leon Kossoff was born in London in 1926, the son of Russian Jewish immigrants.
What we notice when we look at these post-war London painters collectively is that they identify as part of a diaspora, of being distinguished as a group of ‘outsiders’ to their adopted community. We also observe a distinct lack of a cohesive visual style in their collective body of work. What they have in common is a rejection of the vogue for American abstract-expressionist painting which was prevalent at the time, and instead a pre-occupation with figurative painting which was considered deeply unfashionable. The School of London were instead united in a desire to forge their own route which sought to use the medium of paint as a metaphor for the emotional, which in its turn becomes a philosophical expression of existentialism. For Bacon and his circle, painting acts as a way to meditate on human experience, but it is human experience largely reduced to individualism. For this group the role of the state and community as a subject has been set aside, something we witness in their preoccupation with painting the single human figure. Indeed they often produced paintings of each other such as Auerbach’s Portrait of Leon Kossoff (1953), Kitaj’s Synchromy with F.B.- General of Hot Desire (1968-69), Freud’s Portrait of Frank Auerbach (1975-6), Kossoff’s self-portrait Leon Kossoff (1981) and Andrews’s Self-portrait (1988).
An important influence over many of these post-war British artists was the painter David Bomberg who taught both Auerbach and Kossoff at the Borough Polytechnic in London. Bomberg was born in Birmingham in 1890, being the seventh of eleven children of a Polish-Jewish immigrant leatherworker. He enjoyed considerable early success in the United Kingdom as an avant-garde painter and was closely allied to Wyndham Lewis and the British Vorticist movement. In this context, Bomberg embraced the work of Italian Futurism and produced a series of paintings which reduced the human figure to angular, mechanistic forms which sought to express a dynamism he saw in modern industrial life. However all this changed for him with the onset of the First World War. In 1915 Bomberg signed up to serve with the Royal Engineers, and his subsequent experiences at the Front brought about a profound shift in how he wished to continue his work as an artist.
After the Armistice of 1918 Bomberg’s desire to paint man and machine in correlation totally evaporated. He now desired to negate the traumas of war, and sought to separate man and machine in his work, returning instead to nature and the pursuit of painting directly from life. In this new mission he spent long periods travelling to Palestine and Spain where he undertook a series of highly representational and intricately observed panoramas which resulted in works such as Jerusalem looking to Mount Scopus (1925) and San Justo, Toledo, Spain (1929). These paintings appear to be a desire made manifest in Bomberg to see a post-war paradise free of conflict, a place of escape from the modernity he had previously embraced. These people-less landscapes were followed by a series of highly personal studies of his own face, again drawn from direct observation, which resulted in paintings such as Self Portrait (1937) in the National Galleries of Scotland. Less joyful and naturalistic than his landscapes, the visual plasticity and thick application of the paint in these compositions appears to act more as a metaphor for Bomberg’s own internal emotions than a straightforward rendering of surface form. And as Vereshchagin, Bomberg uses painting to meditate on his feelings about what war has done to people, but unlike Vereshchagin he uses himself as his subject. And it is in this sense that Bomberg appears as a precursor to the figurative works of the generation of British painters who followed him.
Just as Bomberg had, several in the School of London also sought to paint from direct observation, making it a cornerstone of their practice, and like Bomberg before them, they produced paintings which largely fell into the two broad traditional categories of figure painting and landscape studies, the latter of which include Auerbach’s Primrose Hill, Spring Sunshine (1961 – 62), Kossoff’s View of Dalston Junction (1974) and Freud’s Two Plants (1977-80). In this way the School of London painters sought to arrive at a personal understanding of their own place in the world. For a predominantly Jewish group living in the wake of total war and revelations of the Holocaust, the reductions to individuality seem to be a natural response to mass trauma. In this sense they also work in close parallel with Vereshchagin, as when we recall The Defeated we remember his Officer and Priest and notice that the latter is there to help give some form of guidance to an unstructured sense of loss. His direction is silent and designed to create a reflection which doesn’t ask us to intellectualise our thoughts on war, but instead to deliberate our emotional responses to its aftermath. But where Vereshchagin considers the larger social condition and asks us to contemplate what we the viewer might feel, the post-war London painters appear to be reduced to concerns based specifically on their own experiences regardless of our thoughts.
By the mid 1980’s the existentialist examinations of the post-war London painters were adopted and further cultivated in Britain in the work of a small number of artists who include Tony Bevan, Hughie O’Donoghue and the Portuguese born Paula Rego. And it is in the pictures of Rego especially that we begin to notice a desire to move from the specifically personal to a reconnection more broadly with ideas around social experience. For example, in her Dog Women series, we see a sequence of women depicted in a range of canine poses, whilst in works such as Triptych (1998) Rego presents us with stark images of young women undergoing abortions in non-medical environments. This deliberate subversion of traditionally feminine imagery, one where we might normally expect to see women painted as nude models, wives, mothers or characters from Greek tragedy, has allied Rego’s work closely with feminist thinking. It acts as a precursor to the fostering of a more socio-political engagement by British artists at the start of the 21st Century, one which is more closely aligned to the Peredvizhniki and their interest with identifying with the lives and hardships of others. This is something we find in the work of painters such as Gillian Carnegie, Simon Carter, Nathan Eastwood, Nick Middleton, Carol Rhodes and George Shaw. These artists are both exploring the material of paint as a metaphor for the emotional in the tradition of the School of London, and simultaneously seeking to explore the politics of everyday experience in a manner analogous to the ‘Wanderers’ in nineteenth century Russia.
A beautiful example of this is found in Nathan Eastwood’s A Man after Ilya Repin’s own Heart (2011) which forms part of a series of black and white works focusing on observations of banal daily life in East London. Here we see a painting of a man clearing snow from the path which leads up to his front door. He stoops, brush in hand, in front of a modest home with a narrow front garden and net curtains in the window. Eastwood has made the mundane tasks of humble domestic life his theme, and like Vereshchagin’s Officer and Priest, Eastwood’s figure is caused to look down by the task in hand. But unlike the subjects in The Defeated, Eastwood’s citizen is not a man of high status disturbed by momentous historical events, he is merely an unassuming individual affected by the weather. His is not a profound meditation, simply a mundane undertaking so that the world might have access to his home and he to the world. I asked Nathan Eastwood about the title to this painting and why he had specifically cited Ilya Repin and he replied: “I place an emphasis on making art about the domestic space, allowing the integration of real life into my painting. Ilya Repin designed his own home and it had a political purpose to him, his house embodied his political values. What is fascinating is that Repin was wealthy enough to employ an army of servants, but chose not to. Instead he undertook all the tasks that a servant’s job would cover. He would proudly shovel snow away from his porch without any help. His politics were real to him and he lived them in the habits of his daily life.”[i]
The snow sweeper in Eastwood’s A Man after Ilya Repin’s own Heart is an ordinary citizen living an ordinary life. He is simultaneously a direct reference to Ilya Repin and the proletariat; he is an everyman, a person of dignity who takes on the trials of life whether big or small, as best he can. And perhaps this is a core concern that painters from 19th century Moscow to 21st century London share: that what is most important is the politics of being human, and that the events of the world, both big and small, have an impact on us, they generate our emotions. And although we may not be able to control the affairs of the world at large, or the emotions we might experience in their wake, we are all able to make decisions as individuals about how best we respond to them.
Robert Priseman, 2014
This essay was written for the Russian Art Magazine Iskusstvo
The painting which left the greatest impression on me at the Tretyakov was Vereshchagin’s The Defeated (1878-9) which forms part of a series of works he made that meditate on the atrocities of war. Beautifully portrayed, The Defeated depicts a large empty meadow in autumnal colours; on the left hand side stands an Army Officer holding a cap and book in his hands, whilst in front of him a Priest waves incense over the ground. Clearly this is a former battlefield. Both men look down, apparently humbled by thoughts of what preceded them. Only slowly do we begin to notice the dead bodies of soldiers lying hidden among the seed heads of the field. The Officer and Priest, although defined by the social positions which confer a power upon them, appear personally affected as human beings. This reminds us that what occurs in the world has an impact on us; that events generate feelings, and in turn those feelings require our attention. In this case it is the Priest who mediates both our emotions, and those of the soldier left behind, as we consider all that has been lost through conflict. Vereshchagin has achieved a remarkable accomplishment with The Defeated: he has created a post-war meditation that appears both personal and political.
When looking at paintings like those by Vereshchagin we come to realise that artists do not produce their work in visionary isolation, but as part of a broader social dialogue which reflects their experiences simultaneously as individuals and as members of a society. It seems to be in the nature of many of the best artists that they remain at odds with their communities, not simply accepting social norms, but instead questioning prevailing attitudes and contesting orthodox opinion. It is perhaps this ‘outsider’ quality which nurtures pre-eminent artistic vision. And just as Vereshchagin challenged the wisdom of war in The Defeated, in the following century the London based painter Francis Bacon confronted the conventions of the Church when he produced Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1953). While Bacon used Velasquez’s portrait of Pope Innocent X as his starting point, we can observe many differences from the original portrait which Velázquez undertook in 1650 whilst visiting Italy from his native Spain. Velázquez’s likeness of the Holy Father depicts the head of the Catholic Church clothed in the red robes of office, seated on a red cushioned chair, which is in turn set against red drapes. The Pope’s face appears stern; perhaps in consideration of the matters of state, perhaps of the painter before him. Pope Innocent X was born Giovanni Battista Pamphilj, he trained as a lawyer and became head of the Catholic Church in 1644. Yet in Velázquez’s portrait there is little hint of the person behind the position. Here Pope Innocent is defined clearly by his religious role; a man bequeathed the power to make decisions which affect the lives of others. It is a painting of the man as office.
For Bacon however, despite the subject being the same, everything else has changed. The Pope’s red robes have been rendered purple, the draped background transformed into streaked black paint and the Holy Father’s silent stare transfigured into a primal scream. Where Velázquez has rendered a man of organisational responsibility defined by his religious duty, Bacon has sought to visually tear away at the edifice of office and reveal instead the vision of a tormented subconscious. This is a painting of man first and office second. Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X was painted in the same year as Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation, yet the customs which help create a sense of institutional solidity for State and Church have ceased to function effectively for Bacon. The visual cues which enabled Velázquez to define the social strength and power of the Church have been subverted here to give a very different message, one which is perhaps more post-Christian than anti-Church. Bacon’s picture gives visual expression to a philosophy that we inhabit a seemingly meaningless universe which is either hostile or indifferent to us; one in which we are effectively alone. It is a vision where the individual has little or no control over external events, events which have the potential to provoke powerful human emotions. For Bacon, the clothes of office create nothing more than a façade of power and are useless against the terrors of life.
Although born in Dublin, Francis Bacon spent most of his life living and working in London and his existentialist view found further artistic voice amongst a nucleus of artists who gravitated around him and became known as the ‘School of London’. They included Michael Andrews, Frank Auerbach, Lucian Freud, R. B. Kitaj and Leon Kossoff. Interestingly, as a group they are mainly expatriate. Whilst Michael Andrews was born in Norfolk, Frank Auerbach was born in Berlin, the son of a Jewish patent lawyer; he escaped to Britain from Nazi persecution in 1939 with almost 10,000 mainly Jewish children on the Kindertransport. R. B. Kitaj was born to Jewish parents in Ohio and moved to England in 1958 to study art at the Ruskin School, Oxford. Lucian Freud, the grandson of Sigmund Freud, was born in Berlin and also moved to England to escape the Nazis, becoming a British citizen in 1939, whilst Leon Kossoff was born in London in 1926, the son of Russian Jewish immigrants.
What we notice when we look at these post-war London painters collectively is that they identify as part of a diaspora, of being distinguished as a group of ‘outsiders’ to their adopted community. We also observe a distinct lack of a cohesive visual style in their collective body of work. What they have in common is a rejection of the vogue for American abstract-expressionist painting which was prevalent at the time, and instead a pre-occupation with figurative painting which was considered deeply unfashionable. The School of London were instead united in a desire to forge their own route which sought to use the medium of paint as a metaphor for the emotional, which in its turn becomes a philosophical expression of existentialism. For Bacon and his circle, painting acts as a way to meditate on human experience, but it is human experience largely reduced to individualism. For this group the role of the state and community as a subject has been set aside, something we witness in their preoccupation with painting the single human figure. Indeed they often produced paintings of each other such as Auerbach’s Portrait of Leon Kossoff (1953), Kitaj’s Synchromy with F.B.- General of Hot Desire (1968-69), Freud’s Portrait of Frank Auerbach (1975-6), Kossoff’s self-portrait Leon Kossoff (1981) and Andrews’s Self-portrait (1988).
An important influence over many of these post-war British artists was the painter David Bomberg who taught both Auerbach and Kossoff at the Borough Polytechnic in London. Bomberg was born in Birmingham in 1890, being the seventh of eleven children of a Polish-Jewish immigrant leatherworker. He enjoyed considerable early success in the United Kingdom as an avant-garde painter and was closely allied to Wyndham Lewis and the British Vorticist movement. In this context, Bomberg embraced the work of Italian Futurism and produced a series of paintings which reduced the human figure to angular, mechanistic forms which sought to express a dynamism he saw in modern industrial life. However all this changed for him with the onset of the First World War. In 1915 Bomberg signed up to serve with the Royal Engineers, and his subsequent experiences at the Front brought about a profound shift in how he wished to continue his work as an artist.
After the Armistice of 1918 Bomberg’s desire to paint man and machine in correlation totally evaporated. He now desired to negate the traumas of war, and sought to separate man and machine in his work, returning instead to nature and the pursuit of painting directly from life. In this new mission he spent long periods travelling to Palestine and Spain where he undertook a series of highly representational and intricately observed panoramas which resulted in works such as Jerusalem looking to Mount Scopus (1925) and San Justo, Toledo, Spain (1929). These paintings appear to be a desire made manifest in Bomberg to see a post-war paradise free of conflict, a place of escape from the modernity he had previously embraced. These people-less landscapes were followed by a series of highly personal studies of his own face, again drawn from direct observation, which resulted in paintings such as Self Portrait (1937) in the National Galleries of Scotland. Less joyful and naturalistic than his landscapes, the visual plasticity and thick application of the paint in these compositions appears to act more as a metaphor for Bomberg’s own internal emotions than a straightforward rendering of surface form. And as Vereshchagin, Bomberg uses painting to meditate on his feelings about what war has done to people, but unlike Vereshchagin he uses himself as his subject. And it is in this sense that Bomberg appears as a precursor to the figurative works of the generation of British painters who followed him.
Just as Bomberg had, several in the School of London also sought to paint from direct observation, making it a cornerstone of their practice, and like Bomberg before them, they produced paintings which largely fell into the two broad traditional categories of figure painting and landscape studies, the latter of which include Auerbach’s Primrose Hill, Spring Sunshine (1961 – 62), Kossoff’s View of Dalston Junction (1974) and Freud’s Two Plants (1977-80). In this way the School of London painters sought to arrive at a personal understanding of their own place in the world. For a predominantly Jewish group living in the wake of total war and revelations of the Holocaust, the reductions to individuality seem to be a natural response to mass trauma. In this sense they also work in close parallel with Vereshchagin, as when we recall The Defeated we remember his Officer and Priest and notice that the latter is there to help give some form of guidance to an unstructured sense of loss. His direction is silent and designed to create a reflection which doesn’t ask us to intellectualise our thoughts on war, but instead to deliberate our emotional responses to its aftermath. But where Vereshchagin considers the larger social condition and asks us to contemplate what we the viewer might feel, the post-war London painters appear to be reduced to concerns based specifically on their own experiences regardless of our thoughts.
By the mid 1980’s the existentialist examinations of the post-war London painters were adopted and further cultivated in Britain in the work of a small number of artists who include Tony Bevan, Hughie O’Donoghue and the Portuguese born Paula Rego. And it is in the pictures of Rego especially that we begin to notice a desire to move from the specifically personal to a reconnection more broadly with ideas around social experience. For example, in her Dog Women series, we see a sequence of women depicted in a range of canine poses, whilst in works such as Triptych (1998) Rego presents us with stark images of young women undergoing abortions in non-medical environments. This deliberate subversion of traditionally feminine imagery, one where we might normally expect to see women painted as nude models, wives, mothers or characters from Greek tragedy, has allied Rego’s work closely with feminist thinking. It acts as a precursor to the fostering of a more socio-political engagement by British artists at the start of the 21st Century, one which is more closely aligned to the Peredvizhniki and their interest with identifying with the lives and hardships of others. This is something we find in the work of painters such as Gillian Carnegie, Simon Carter, Nathan Eastwood, Nick Middleton, Carol Rhodes and George Shaw. These artists are both exploring the material of paint as a metaphor for the emotional in the tradition of the School of London, and simultaneously seeking to explore the politics of everyday experience in a manner analogous to the ‘Wanderers’ in nineteenth century Russia.
A beautiful example of this is found in Nathan Eastwood’s A Man after Ilya Repin’s own Heart (2011) which forms part of a series of black and white works focusing on observations of banal daily life in East London. Here we see a painting of a man clearing snow from the path which leads up to his front door. He stoops, brush in hand, in front of a modest home with a narrow front garden and net curtains in the window. Eastwood has made the mundane tasks of humble domestic life his theme, and like Vereshchagin’s Officer and Priest, Eastwood’s figure is caused to look down by the task in hand. But unlike the subjects in The Defeated, Eastwood’s citizen is not a man of high status disturbed by momentous historical events, he is merely an unassuming individual affected by the weather. His is not a profound meditation, simply a mundane undertaking so that the world might have access to his home and he to the world. I asked Nathan Eastwood about the title to this painting and why he had specifically cited Ilya Repin and he replied: “I place an emphasis on making art about the domestic space, allowing the integration of real life into my painting. Ilya Repin designed his own home and it had a political purpose to him, his house embodied his political values. What is fascinating is that Repin was wealthy enough to employ an army of servants, but chose not to. Instead he undertook all the tasks that a servant’s job would cover. He would proudly shovel snow away from his porch without any help. His politics were real to him and he lived them in the habits of his daily life.”[i]
The snow sweeper in Eastwood’s A Man after Ilya Repin’s own Heart is an ordinary citizen living an ordinary life. He is simultaneously a direct reference to Ilya Repin and the proletariat; he is an everyman, a person of dignity who takes on the trials of life whether big or small, as best he can. And perhaps this is a core concern that painters from 19th century Moscow to 21st century London share: that what is most important is the politics of being human, and that the events of the world, both big and small, have an impact on us, they generate our emotions. And although we may not be able to control the affairs of the world at large, or the emotions we might experience in their wake, we are all able to make decisions as individuals about how best we respond to them.
Robert Priseman, 2014
This essay was written for the Russian Art Magazine Iskusstvo
[i] From a conversation with Nathan
Eastwood on the 9th April 2014
Monday, 9 June 2014
Meaning in John Constable's The Cornfield
‘The Cornfield’ which is on display at the National Gallery in London was painted in 1826. Like many great paintings it can be interpreted in a number of different ways. Constable himself referred to it as ‘The Drinking Boy’ and in the bottom left-hand side of the picture we see a small brook. By the brook lies a boy on his stomach, he is wearing a red waistcoat, blue scarf and white shirt, his face immersed in the water he drinks. Behind him stand a dog and sheep being herded up a lane, ready to pass through a gate to a cornfield which gives the painting its title. Beyond the gate walks a man wearing a black hat, red scarf and white shirt, with two further men working a distant field in the background, on the horizon to the rear of them stands a church.
The boy, the gate, the man in the field and the church are drawn along a straight axis which gives us a cause to read this painting as a narrative of life which moves from childhood, to adulthood and then ultimately to death and the final resting place of the graveyard. The sheep remind us of the Christian flock and the brook of the cleansing act of baptism, whilst the gate appears to act as the threshold between the innocence of youth on the one hand and the experience of the adult world on the other. The gate itself hangs off its hinges, indicating that we loose something as we gain experience.
The lane is thought to lead from East Bergholt in Suffolk towards Dedham, with the church in the background being an artistic invention. Many of Constables most famous paintings are based in and around this small rural area which lies just south of Ipswich.
Robert Priseman
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
15 Minutes of Fame
In the future everybody will be world famous for fifteen
minutes
Andy Warhol, 1968
In February 1968, Andy Warhol opened his first international retrospective exhibition at the Moderna Museet gallery in Stockholm. The catalogue accompanying his show contained the now legendary phrase “In the future everybody will be world famous for fifteen minutes.” Warhol repeated the quote in 1979, claiming that “my prediction from the sixties finally came true”. With the subsequent rise of celebrity culture, reality television and social networking, Warhol’s quote today seems profoundly prophetic.
Andrew W. Mellon Professor of Modern Art at Harvard University, Benjamin H.D. Buchloh, believes the core underpinning to Warhol’s aesthetic lay in “the systematic invalidation of the hierarchies of representational functions and techniques” of art, which corresponds directly to a belief that the “hierarchy of subjects worthy to be represented will someday be abolished,” meaning that “everybody” can be famous once that hierarchy dissipates and by logical extension therefore, “in the future, everybody will be famous,” not merely those people worthy of fame.
A more recent adaptation of Warhol’s quote, attributed to David Weinberger and most probably prompted by the rise of online social networking, is the claim that “In the future, everyone will be famous to fifteen people”.
What then is it to be famous or ‘celebrated’? The historian and social theorist Daniel J. Boorstin defined celebrity in his book The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-events in America (1961) as “a person who is known for his well-knownness”. In this he argues that the graphic revolution in journalism and other forms of communication has separated fame from greatness, and that this separation has helped turn the idea of fame into one of mere notoriety, in other words, ‘a celebrity is someone who is famous for being famous’.
In October 2011, Decca Aitkenhead interviewed the British singer/songwriter Jarvis Cocker in the Guardian newspaper during a return trip he made to his childhood school in Sheffield at the launch of his new book, Mother, Brother, Lover. Aitkenhead wondered if, as a child, he had shared the longing for fame which seems so common to today’s teenagers. Cocker was born into a lower-middle-class family in 1963; he was an archetypal arty misfit – insecure, short-sighted and “a little bit different”. He revealed to Aitkenhead that he thought becoming famous would be a solution to this, and he unsuccessfully pursued this dream throughout the 1980s with his band Pulp. However, things turned around and by 1995 Pulp were headlining Glastonbury and Cocker had become a superstar, at which point he realized he didn’t like being famous after all. After a few years of the usual clichés – groupies and cocaine, chat shows and excess his creative inspiration dried up, and in 2002 the band split.
Aitkenhead asked Cocker why he believed his own particular childhood longing for fame has now become the ambition of almost every teenager and if this means that all youngsters possibly feel as he did – inadequate and insignificant? Cocker replied that, “I think basically becoming famous has taken the place of going to heaven in modern society, hasn’t it? That’s the place where your dreams will come true. It’s an act of faith now; they think that’s going to sort things out.”
Andy Warhol, 1968
In February 1968, Andy Warhol opened his first international retrospective exhibition at the Moderna Museet gallery in Stockholm. The catalogue accompanying his show contained the now legendary phrase “In the future everybody will be world famous for fifteen minutes.” Warhol repeated the quote in 1979, claiming that “my prediction from the sixties finally came true”. With the subsequent rise of celebrity culture, reality television and social networking, Warhol’s quote today seems profoundly prophetic.
Andrew W. Mellon Professor of Modern Art at Harvard University, Benjamin H.D. Buchloh, believes the core underpinning to Warhol’s aesthetic lay in “the systematic invalidation of the hierarchies of representational functions and techniques” of art, which corresponds directly to a belief that the “hierarchy of subjects worthy to be represented will someday be abolished,” meaning that “everybody” can be famous once that hierarchy dissipates and by logical extension therefore, “in the future, everybody will be famous,” not merely those people worthy of fame.
A more recent adaptation of Warhol’s quote, attributed to David Weinberger and most probably prompted by the rise of online social networking, is the claim that “In the future, everyone will be famous to fifteen people”.
What then is it to be famous or ‘celebrated’? The historian and social theorist Daniel J. Boorstin defined celebrity in his book The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-events in America (1961) as “a person who is known for his well-knownness”. In this he argues that the graphic revolution in journalism and other forms of communication has separated fame from greatness, and that this separation has helped turn the idea of fame into one of mere notoriety, in other words, ‘a celebrity is someone who is famous for being famous’.
In October 2011, Decca Aitkenhead interviewed the British singer/songwriter Jarvis Cocker in the Guardian newspaper during a return trip he made to his childhood school in Sheffield at the launch of his new book, Mother, Brother, Lover. Aitkenhead wondered if, as a child, he had shared the longing for fame which seems so common to today’s teenagers. Cocker was born into a lower-middle-class family in 1963; he was an archetypal arty misfit – insecure, short-sighted and “a little bit different”. He revealed to Aitkenhead that he thought becoming famous would be a solution to this, and he unsuccessfully pursued this dream throughout the 1980s with his band Pulp. However, things turned around and by 1995 Pulp were headlining Glastonbury and Cocker had become a superstar, at which point he realized he didn’t like being famous after all. After a few years of the usual clichés – groupies and cocaine, chat shows and excess his creative inspiration dried up, and in 2002 the band split.
Aitkenhead asked Cocker why he believed his own particular childhood longing for fame has now become the ambition of almost every teenager and if this means that all youngsters possibly feel as he did – inadequate and insignificant? Cocker replied that, “I think basically becoming famous has taken the place of going to heaven in modern society, hasn’t it? That’s the place where your dreams will come true. It’s an act of faith now; they think that’s going to sort things out.”
Yet Fame it seems has a dark side, and far from “sorting
things out” seems to make matters worse for many who achieve the status of ‘famous’.
People like Peg Entwistle who performed in 10 New York plays yet nurtured a
greater ambition to appear in movies. She finally achieved her dream when she
gained the role of “Hazel Cousins” in the film Thirteen Women (1932). Yet when
no further roles materialized she became depressed and began drinking heavily.
Then, on Friday 16th September 1932 she left her Los Angeles home and walked to
the foot of the Hollywood sign where she climbed a workman’s ladder to the top
of the letter “H” and leaped to her death. She is now remembered as a symbol
for the lost aspirations of actors who move to Hollywood to become stars.
We might also remember Margaux Hemingway, actress, supermodel and the granddaughter of Ernest Hemingway. She appeared on the covers of Vogue, Elle, Cosmopolitan, and Harper’s Bazaar and acted in a number of films which included Lipstick (1976), Over the Brooklyn Bridge (1984) and Deadly Rivals (1993). By the time she was 21, Margaux had a film career and a $1 million contract with Faberge perfume. Yet, within a decade she had lost it all. Margaux’s sister Mariel Hemingway had also acted in Lipstick, a part which had been suggested by Margaux and which ended up being a much greater success than her own. Margaux subsequently began drinking heavily and in 1988 she checked herself into the Betty Ford Center for rehabilitation. Attempts to revive her career failed and by the time she was 41, Margaux was living alone in a studio apartment. In July 1996 her neighbours informed the authorities that she had not been seen for days which led police to enter her home through a 2nd floor window where her body was found. Dental records had to be used to confirm her identity. She had taken an overdose and died aged 42.
It seems the bright light of celebrity offers a mirror too difficult for many to view.
Robert Priseman
See the exhibition 'FAME' at http://www.robert-priseman.com/projects/fame/
We might also remember Margaux Hemingway, actress, supermodel and the granddaughter of Ernest Hemingway. She appeared on the covers of Vogue, Elle, Cosmopolitan, and Harper’s Bazaar and acted in a number of films which included Lipstick (1976), Over the Brooklyn Bridge (1984) and Deadly Rivals (1993). By the time she was 21, Margaux had a film career and a $1 million contract with Faberge perfume. Yet, within a decade she had lost it all. Margaux’s sister Mariel Hemingway had also acted in Lipstick, a part which had been suggested by Margaux and which ended up being a much greater success than her own. Margaux subsequently began drinking heavily and in 1988 she checked herself into the Betty Ford Center for rehabilitation. Attempts to revive her career failed and by the time she was 41, Margaux was living alone in a studio apartment. In July 1996 her neighbours informed the authorities that she had not been seen for days which led police to enter her home through a 2nd floor window where her body was found. Dental records had to be used to confirm her identity. She had taken an overdose and died aged 42.
It seems the bright light of celebrity offers a mirror too difficult for many to view.
Robert Priseman
See the exhibition 'FAME' at http://www.robert-priseman.com/projects/fame/
Sunday, 20 April 2014
Painting the Holocaust: Can there be Art after Auschwitz?
Many would argue that any attempt to create art on the subject of the Holocaust by an artist who has not experienced the horrors of a death camp, or been raised by a family that has, would be destined to failure. Without authentic context, how could one possibly understand in a any meaningful way the events which took place? Indeed, the only genuine artistic response to the Holocaust would seem to come from those who have experienced it in some way and whose testimony has survived.
I was born in 1965 in the United Kingdom, was raised Christian and became an artist. Between 2008 and 2009, with no personal connection, I set out to create a series of paintings which would in some way explore an aspect of the Holocaust of Nazi Germany.
As an artist I believe in the civilising power of culture and have a deep love and admiration for the heritage of German society. Yet to see that a nation so great had in the past turned its means to an act so dark is a source of profound intellectual and emotional disturbance. How is it that a society as culturally and materially advanced as that of 20th Century Germany, a society that had previously nurtured Beethoven, Goethe and Kant, be capable of instigating a mass killing programme? The idea of creating a set of paintings in response to this question had been gestating within me for around 20 years. In many senses it feels that the greater the trauma, either individual or social, the greater the period needs to be before examining how one feels about it. So it was not until almost seventy years after the Wannsee Conference and the instigation of the Holocaust, that it felt even remotely appropriate for someone like myself to attempt to tackle the theme.
The main source of inspiration for this undertaking did not come from the imagery of starving figures or contorted piles of dead bodies which have become the all too familiar yet tragic representation of the Holocaust; in fact it emerged from many hours spent visiting the Seagram Paintings (1958 – 1959) by Mark Rothko (1903 – 1970) at the Tate, London. As a set, the Seagram Paintings hang like a painted version of Stonehenge, acting as a metaphorical gateway to the eternal void. The German artist Caspar David Friedrich (1774 – 1840), who practiced a century earlier than Rothko, was also famous for producing images around the theme of a universal emptiness experienced within the human psyche, such as his Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (1818), The Monk by the Sea (1808 -1810) and The Abbey in the Oakwood (1809 – 1810). With these and many other of Friedrich’s paintings we are confronted by a lonely figure who stands on the threshold of something much bigger than ourselves, something unknown. In studying Friedrich’s work we imagine ourselves to stand in the shoes of the subject. A hundred years later and Rothko removes any proxy figure within the picture plane that we might imagine ourselves to be, and in doing so places us the viewer directly at the metaphorical heart of the painting, making for a more immediate visual experience.
It was this idea of meditating over a void which most intrigued me. Not images of the Holocaust itself, because as horrific as they are, as time passes, the shock of what we are looking at subsides; in fact one thing which puzzles me is just how quickly we become de-sensitized to pictures of brutality, and how over time audiences become hardened by portrayals of atrocity. Instead, what I hoped to achieve with this series is a renewed look at the subject, a reflection which aimed to consider how there may be an underlying darkness residing in us all. More specifically, what intrigued me revolved around how we act within our social setting as individuals. And that this may on occasion, if we don’t pay attention to the seemingly insignificant details, pave the way towards our own culture descending into a void of inhumanity. This meditation seeks in some way to explore whether a social evil is the responsibility of only a small handful of people who manage to manipulate and distort a broader culture, or whether a whole society can be held in some way accountable for its actions.
As I began to contemplate this series, I was highly conscious of Theodor W. Adorno’s line ‘To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.’ (1949) and wondered if, indeed, there can ever be any art after Auschwitz? After all, historians, survivors and nations are still trying to grasp exactly what happened decades after its occurrence, so how could any artist hope to approach a theme of such magnitude? Is this subject in fact off limits to all artists aside from those who have witnessed it first-hand? If this is the case, then it would seem at first appearance that an art of either reportage or catharsis, an art of account or therapy, rather than of symbolism and interpretation would be the only authentic response.
In order to explore this I first want to ask the question: What actually is art? For me, art is the creation of metaphor, the statement of one thing as being something it clearly is not. By engaging in this way the artist seeks to create a fresh way of looking at a subject, opening our eyes to additional angles and ideas which help bring new perceptions to bear. How then can this be applied to a trauma as great as the Holocaust?
For a person who was there, who recorded and depicted scenes they witnessed first-hand, by camera or with pen and paper, perhaps it is impossible to make metaphor from an event of such magnitude and instead perhaps we should regard the greatest achievement in this context as being to have witnessed and documented in some way, as a testament for others, events so horrific. This, I would argue, is both reportage of the highest order and a statement of the strength of the human spirit to be recognised and heard against extraordinary odds. Works of this nature are documentation brought back from the edge of humanity. It is this material, the written, spoken and recorded matter of survivors and eye witnesses which becomes the substance of authentication. And it is this substance which artists can attempt to use as the source material from which to create metaphor.
Art then appears to enter as a second stage to understanding; it arrives as a reflection of our emotional responses to events, rather than a description of them, enabling us to gain in some small way an alternative angle on our sensitivities to experiences.
In the 1970’s the Slovenian born painter Zoran Mušič (1909 – 2005) produced a series of haunting images in response to the Holocaust titled We are not the Last which depict twisted and emaciated human figures, often appearing as a kind of knotted undergrowth. Mušič was recognised during his lifetime as an artist of international importance, with his works hanging in many of the world’s most important art museums, and in 1956 his status as a major artist was confirmed when he won the Grand Prize at the Venice Biennale. Mušič had moved to Venice in October of 1943, and in the November of the following year he was arrested and deported to Dachau concentration camp by Nazi forces. Whilst at Dachau he produced over one hundred sketches of life in the camp, of which around seventy survive.
Mušič’s work offers us an authentic response to the horrors of the Nazi concentration and death camps, perhaps the most genuine of all artistic voices on this subject. Yet we notice that his artistic response to the horrors of Dachau began as a direct recording of the sights he observed, only being synthesised some 25 years later into a more metaphorical format and a form we would view as art rather than record. This holding trauma apart for an extended period permits the emotional response time to breathe, enabling something more considered and meditative to emerge. It brings us to an understanding that great art may not be born of an immediate reaction to trauma, but instead grows slowly as a measured reply to the subject it explores.
In this way we might begin to observe that with Zoran Mušič, first came the recording of suffering, then much later a symbolic reply to it. And I believe what occurs within the individual is mirrored within society, and that what has been recorded in a time of pain, becomes the material with which artists much later build a metaphorical bridge between individual experience and a broader social understanding. This was the foundation of understanding for my own series of paintings Nazi Gas Chambers: From Memory to History (2008 – 2009). Having no personal connection to the Holocaust, I felt it was neither appropriate nor possible for me to produce a personal response to the sorrow and death caused by the events in question. Nor did it seem appropriate for someone in my position to undertake the creation of monument to those departed. Instead, what I hoped for was an alternative meditation on the origins of this tragedy and how it arose.
For the first part of this project I drew six delicately coloured pencil drawings designed to be reminiscent of hand tinted postcards. They represent external views of the hospitals in Germany and Austria where the T4 Euthanasia programme took place between 1939 and 1941, the programme which acted as the first whisper of the death camps which were to follow. I wanted them to have the appearance of holiday photos, the locations do after all look like retreats and hotels, places where state sanctioned murder would appear to be the last thing on the agenda. This somehow innocent and innocuous view is something I hoped might act as a visual stepping stone to the larger more direct paintings which make up the second part of the series.
The second part of the project consists of five large scale black and white oil paintings, each portraying the interior of a gas chamber. Each painting shares the same horizon line so that they work visually as a unit when hung together. Over the course of the five paintings the spaces depicted widen out, from the small and confined adapted shower room presented in Bernberg through to the large purpose built killing room at Auschwitz. As each painting visually expands we gain a sense of each room having the capacity to accommodate more people, and notice a gradual falling away of the pretence of cleansing the newly arrived to the straight forward practicalities of exterminating as many people as possible in the shortest given time.
The rooms themselves are painted devoid of figures, so that we might view them as places which hold no moral position about the events they were used for. They stand silent and empty, unconcerned by what we might think or feel. With this somewhat detached observance it is my aim that we view the Nazi gas chambers not so much as killing centers, which of course they were, but as a perverse cultural expression, constructed by a social group acting together towards a common goal, during a particular time and place. Each brick cemented in to position, every tile carefully laid down and all the pipes meticulously plumbed. In doing this it is my hope that we might begin to consider visually how no one person was individually responsible for the realization of these rooms or what took place in them. Not the architects who drew up the plans or the suppliers of materials to build them, not the factory workers who made the tins which held the Zyklon B or the truck drivers who delivered it. Instead they are the manifestation of a series of people acting in unconnected and banal roles towards a common goal.
Evil, if that is the term we use within this context, is allowed to occur because it takes root in the mundane. The gas chambers of Auschwitz, Sobibor, Majdanek and the many other locations of Nazi mass killing did not just appear overnight, someone somewhere received an order to tile the gas chamber, someone was contracted to make and fit the pipes, supply the bricks make the metal doors and their hinges. All these people and many more will have received money for their work and not thought of themselves as directly responsible for the atrocity of the Holocaust, because they did not carry out the actual killing or come up with the original policy. They were in fact just getting on with their lives. And perhaps this is where one aspect of denial can take hold, that when no one person can be held wholly accountable, then no one person can be easily held to blame. Denial can of course be used as a coping mechanism. By ignoring or disbelieving powerful events which have the potential to emotionally overwhelm us, we enable our everyday lives to continue, we gain the capacity to ‘carry on as normal’.
As an artist coming to the subject of the Holocaust without any special connection and at a considerable time lag behind the events, it would be fair to ask; why should one do this? Personally, my motivations lie in a drive to explore the often difficult subjects that underpin contemporary society and appear as universal human themes. When we look at the history of the twentieth century in particular, we see violence enacted on a grand scale. We witness rampage shootings, total war and genocides which have occurred in places as diverse as Cambodia, Columbine, Armenia, Nanking and Rwanda, acts which have come to define the twentieth century as perhaps the most brutal of all time. In fact it would appear that violence is somehow hard wired into the human psyche. But as we know, it was the industrialisation of the killing process which for many marks out the Holocaust of Nazi Germany as a chapter to be treated separately from all other atrocities.
Now, after seventy years, as the last survivors die out, memory of the Holocaust has the potential to fade, despite written, spoken and visual legacy. Perhaps after seventy years we have a duty not only to archive and shore up the testimony of survivors but to examine our past for lessons as to how we might live more fully in the future, one in which we treat each other with respect and dignity.
So what lessons might we begin to learn by studying the gas chambers of Nazi Germany? For me, it is that social atrocities, when they arrive, come with little warning, yet they are enabled by the commonplace activities of many people who cannot be held individually fully accountable for what occurs. And it is perhaps these small sins of omission which we must all be on our guard for if we are to maintain and build communities of peace and prosperity in the future, societies where each person is valued for their uniqueness within the group regardless of their opinions. By embracing our differences we are able to nurture and develop strong communities, creating civilizations which are enriched and rendered beautiful through diversity.
Robert Priseman
This essay was first published in the journal ‘The Holocaust in History and Memory’ Vol 6. The full series of original paintings and drawings‘Nazi Gas Chambers: From Memory to History’ is held in the permanent collection of the Museum der Moderne, Salzburg, Austria. See the work at http://www.robert-priseman.com/projects/gas-chambers/
I was born in 1965 in the United Kingdom, was raised Christian and became an artist. Between 2008 and 2009, with no personal connection, I set out to create a series of paintings which would in some way explore an aspect of the Holocaust of Nazi Germany.
As an artist I believe in the civilising power of culture and have a deep love and admiration for the heritage of German society. Yet to see that a nation so great had in the past turned its means to an act so dark is a source of profound intellectual and emotional disturbance. How is it that a society as culturally and materially advanced as that of 20th Century Germany, a society that had previously nurtured Beethoven, Goethe and Kant, be capable of instigating a mass killing programme? The idea of creating a set of paintings in response to this question had been gestating within me for around 20 years. In many senses it feels that the greater the trauma, either individual or social, the greater the period needs to be before examining how one feels about it. So it was not until almost seventy years after the Wannsee Conference and the instigation of the Holocaust, that it felt even remotely appropriate for someone like myself to attempt to tackle the theme.
The main source of inspiration for this undertaking did not come from the imagery of starving figures or contorted piles of dead bodies which have become the all too familiar yet tragic representation of the Holocaust; in fact it emerged from many hours spent visiting the Seagram Paintings (1958 – 1959) by Mark Rothko (1903 – 1970) at the Tate, London. As a set, the Seagram Paintings hang like a painted version of Stonehenge, acting as a metaphorical gateway to the eternal void. The German artist Caspar David Friedrich (1774 – 1840), who practiced a century earlier than Rothko, was also famous for producing images around the theme of a universal emptiness experienced within the human psyche, such as his Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (1818), The Monk by the Sea (1808 -1810) and The Abbey in the Oakwood (1809 – 1810). With these and many other of Friedrich’s paintings we are confronted by a lonely figure who stands on the threshold of something much bigger than ourselves, something unknown. In studying Friedrich’s work we imagine ourselves to stand in the shoes of the subject. A hundred years later and Rothko removes any proxy figure within the picture plane that we might imagine ourselves to be, and in doing so places us the viewer directly at the metaphorical heart of the painting, making for a more immediate visual experience.
It was this idea of meditating over a void which most intrigued me. Not images of the Holocaust itself, because as horrific as they are, as time passes, the shock of what we are looking at subsides; in fact one thing which puzzles me is just how quickly we become de-sensitized to pictures of brutality, and how over time audiences become hardened by portrayals of atrocity. Instead, what I hoped to achieve with this series is a renewed look at the subject, a reflection which aimed to consider how there may be an underlying darkness residing in us all. More specifically, what intrigued me revolved around how we act within our social setting as individuals. And that this may on occasion, if we don’t pay attention to the seemingly insignificant details, pave the way towards our own culture descending into a void of inhumanity. This meditation seeks in some way to explore whether a social evil is the responsibility of only a small handful of people who manage to manipulate and distort a broader culture, or whether a whole society can be held in some way accountable for its actions.
As I began to contemplate this series, I was highly conscious of Theodor W. Adorno’s line ‘To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.’ (1949) and wondered if, indeed, there can ever be any art after Auschwitz? After all, historians, survivors and nations are still trying to grasp exactly what happened decades after its occurrence, so how could any artist hope to approach a theme of such magnitude? Is this subject in fact off limits to all artists aside from those who have witnessed it first-hand? If this is the case, then it would seem at first appearance that an art of either reportage or catharsis, an art of account or therapy, rather than of symbolism and interpretation would be the only authentic response.
In order to explore this I first want to ask the question: What actually is art? For me, art is the creation of metaphor, the statement of one thing as being something it clearly is not. By engaging in this way the artist seeks to create a fresh way of looking at a subject, opening our eyes to additional angles and ideas which help bring new perceptions to bear. How then can this be applied to a trauma as great as the Holocaust?
For a person who was there, who recorded and depicted scenes they witnessed first-hand, by camera or with pen and paper, perhaps it is impossible to make metaphor from an event of such magnitude and instead perhaps we should regard the greatest achievement in this context as being to have witnessed and documented in some way, as a testament for others, events so horrific. This, I would argue, is both reportage of the highest order and a statement of the strength of the human spirit to be recognised and heard against extraordinary odds. Works of this nature are documentation brought back from the edge of humanity. It is this material, the written, spoken and recorded matter of survivors and eye witnesses which becomes the substance of authentication. And it is this substance which artists can attempt to use as the source material from which to create metaphor.
Art then appears to enter as a second stage to understanding; it arrives as a reflection of our emotional responses to events, rather than a description of them, enabling us to gain in some small way an alternative angle on our sensitivities to experiences.
In the 1970’s the Slovenian born painter Zoran Mušič (1909 – 2005) produced a series of haunting images in response to the Holocaust titled We are not the Last which depict twisted and emaciated human figures, often appearing as a kind of knotted undergrowth. Mušič was recognised during his lifetime as an artist of international importance, with his works hanging in many of the world’s most important art museums, and in 1956 his status as a major artist was confirmed when he won the Grand Prize at the Venice Biennale. Mušič had moved to Venice in October of 1943, and in the November of the following year he was arrested and deported to Dachau concentration camp by Nazi forces. Whilst at Dachau he produced over one hundred sketches of life in the camp, of which around seventy survive.
Mušič’s work offers us an authentic response to the horrors of the Nazi concentration and death camps, perhaps the most genuine of all artistic voices on this subject. Yet we notice that his artistic response to the horrors of Dachau began as a direct recording of the sights he observed, only being synthesised some 25 years later into a more metaphorical format and a form we would view as art rather than record. This holding trauma apart for an extended period permits the emotional response time to breathe, enabling something more considered and meditative to emerge. It brings us to an understanding that great art may not be born of an immediate reaction to trauma, but instead grows slowly as a measured reply to the subject it explores.
In this way we might begin to observe that with Zoran Mušič, first came the recording of suffering, then much later a symbolic reply to it. And I believe what occurs within the individual is mirrored within society, and that what has been recorded in a time of pain, becomes the material with which artists much later build a metaphorical bridge between individual experience and a broader social understanding. This was the foundation of understanding for my own series of paintings Nazi Gas Chambers: From Memory to History (2008 – 2009). Having no personal connection to the Holocaust, I felt it was neither appropriate nor possible for me to produce a personal response to the sorrow and death caused by the events in question. Nor did it seem appropriate for someone in my position to undertake the creation of monument to those departed. Instead, what I hoped for was an alternative meditation on the origins of this tragedy and how it arose.
For the first part of this project I drew six delicately coloured pencil drawings designed to be reminiscent of hand tinted postcards. They represent external views of the hospitals in Germany and Austria where the T4 Euthanasia programme took place between 1939 and 1941, the programme which acted as the first whisper of the death camps which were to follow. I wanted them to have the appearance of holiday photos, the locations do after all look like retreats and hotels, places where state sanctioned murder would appear to be the last thing on the agenda. This somehow innocent and innocuous view is something I hoped might act as a visual stepping stone to the larger more direct paintings which make up the second part of the series.
The second part of the project consists of five large scale black and white oil paintings, each portraying the interior of a gas chamber. Each painting shares the same horizon line so that they work visually as a unit when hung together. Over the course of the five paintings the spaces depicted widen out, from the small and confined adapted shower room presented in Bernberg through to the large purpose built killing room at Auschwitz. As each painting visually expands we gain a sense of each room having the capacity to accommodate more people, and notice a gradual falling away of the pretence of cleansing the newly arrived to the straight forward practicalities of exterminating as many people as possible in the shortest given time.
The rooms themselves are painted devoid of figures, so that we might view them as places which hold no moral position about the events they were used for. They stand silent and empty, unconcerned by what we might think or feel. With this somewhat detached observance it is my aim that we view the Nazi gas chambers not so much as killing centers, which of course they were, but as a perverse cultural expression, constructed by a social group acting together towards a common goal, during a particular time and place. Each brick cemented in to position, every tile carefully laid down and all the pipes meticulously plumbed. In doing this it is my hope that we might begin to consider visually how no one person was individually responsible for the realization of these rooms or what took place in them. Not the architects who drew up the plans or the suppliers of materials to build them, not the factory workers who made the tins which held the Zyklon B or the truck drivers who delivered it. Instead they are the manifestation of a series of people acting in unconnected and banal roles towards a common goal.
Evil, if that is the term we use within this context, is allowed to occur because it takes root in the mundane. The gas chambers of Auschwitz, Sobibor, Majdanek and the many other locations of Nazi mass killing did not just appear overnight, someone somewhere received an order to tile the gas chamber, someone was contracted to make and fit the pipes, supply the bricks make the metal doors and their hinges. All these people and many more will have received money for their work and not thought of themselves as directly responsible for the atrocity of the Holocaust, because they did not carry out the actual killing or come up with the original policy. They were in fact just getting on with their lives. And perhaps this is where one aspect of denial can take hold, that when no one person can be held wholly accountable, then no one person can be easily held to blame. Denial can of course be used as a coping mechanism. By ignoring or disbelieving powerful events which have the potential to emotionally overwhelm us, we enable our everyday lives to continue, we gain the capacity to ‘carry on as normal’.
As an artist coming to the subject of the Holocaust without any special connection and at a considerable time lag behind the events, it would be fair to ask; why should one do this? Personally, my motivations lie in a drive to explore the often difficult subjects that underpin contemporary society and appear as universal human themes. When we look at the history of the twentieth century in particular, we see violence enacted on a grand scale. We witness rampage shootings, total war and genocides which have occurred in places as diverse as Cambodia, Columbine, Armenia, Nanking and Rwanda, acts which have come to define the twentieth century as perhaps the most brutal of all time. In fact it would appear that violence is somehow hard wired into the human psyche. But as we know, it was the industrialisation of the killing process which for many marks out the Holocaust of Nazi Germany as a chapter to be treated separately from all other atrocities.
Now, after seventy years, as the last survivors die out, memory of the Holocaust has the potential to fade, despite written, spoken and visual legacy. Perhaps after seventy years we have a duty not only to archive and shore up the testimony of survivors but to examine our past for lessons as to how we might live more fully in the future, one in which we treat each other with respect and dignity.
So what lessons might we begin to learn by studying the gas chambers of Nazi Germany? For me, it is that social atrocities, when they arrive, come with little warning, yet they are enabled by the commonplace activities of many people who cannot be held individually fully accountable for what occurs. And it is perhaps these small sins of omission which we must all be on our guard for if we are to maintain and build communities of peace and prosperity in the future, societies where each person is valued for their uniqueness within the group regardless of their opinions. By embracing our differences we are able to nurture and develop strong communities, creating civilizations which are enriched and rendered beautiful through diversity.
Robert Priseman
This essay was first published in the journal ‘The Holocaust in History and Memory’ Vol 6. The full series of original paintings and drawings‘Nazi Gas Chambers: From Memory to History’ is held in the permanent collection of the Museum der Moderne, Salzburg, Austria. See the work at http://www.robert-priseman.com/projects/gas-chambers/
Art and Death: From Crucifixion to Lethal Injection
In early 2005 I was visiting the National Gallery in London and found myself looking at The Mond Crucifixion by Raphael. I was transfixed by the beautiful handling of paint, the delicate portrayal of skin and fabric, and the sensitive expressions on the faces of the subjects. And I found myself thinking over how universal images are of people being put to death in western culture and how many of these have their root in the execution of Christ.
Raphael’s 1503 Mond Crucifixion conveys a sense of deep calm. At the feet of the central figure of Jesus kneel Saint Jerome to our left to whom the painting is dedicated and opposite him Saint Mary Magdalen. Behind Saint Jerome stands Saint the Virgin Mary and behind Mary Magdalen, Saint John the Baptist. In attendance two angels catch Christ’s blood in chalices as it issues from his wounds and in the sky above, the Sun and the Moon appear as silent witness to one of the most famous events in history.
This painting is modelled in the classical tradition. The composition of the figures is arranged into a formal rhombus design which helps establish a sense of balance and order. Elsewhere the use of atmospheric perspective in the background landscape and a rich use of colour all contribute to present a scene which radiates a feeling of immense beauty. Artists of the Renaissance, like Raphael, employed geometrical principles to help compose their paintings so that the mathematical order observed in the movement of stars would be reflected upon the earth. In this way, the adoption of the golden section rule, Fibonacci sequence and Euclidian geometry were engaged to mirror the divine order of heaven upon the world, which in turn placed the human actions depicted at the center of a celestial symmetry.
Whilst Raphael’s painting is rooted in a specific historical event, we see his portrayal of it is deliberately set at a far remove from reality. The horror of a public execution has been transformed into a scene of serenity, where Christ, who we witness from the discharge of his blood in the picture, remains alive yet apparently free from physical agony. As viewers, Raphael leads our emotions to experience his work in quiet reverence. We accept the tableau we witness as one of God’s grace enacted on human drama, where heavenly order triumphs over the chaos of emotion, where our own pain is removed and death is finally defeated. We are offered peace.
In presenting capital punishment as salvation, Raphael uses painting as a metaphor of deliverance from sin and transforms despair into hope. Yet the same event depicted by the hands of another artist who employs an alternative approach, can convey an entirely different message. An interesting example of this is found in the Russian artist Nicolai Ge’s 1893 painting The Crucifixion. Here Ge presents us with a brutal counterpoint to Raphael’s vision of order and beauty, which is perhaps one of the most accurate depictions of a Roman crucifixion ever to have been painted. Gone for Ge are the richly dyed robes worn by Christ and his attendants and in their place are no more than a few tattered rags. And where the crucifix in The Mond painting stands, judging by the height of the figures, at around 11 feet tall, the same structure in Ge’s image has a much shorter and more practical height of around seven feet, which, unlike Raphael’s skilfully constructed cross, is comprised of no more than a roughly hewn post set in the ground with a beam secured across the top. We also notice that the feet in Ge’s painting are not nailed together one over the other, resting on a small platform, which was an artistic invention, but are nailed instead through the ankles on either side of the post.
All colour in this painting has drained away to leave us with a starkly monochromatic vision. This lack of vibrancy creates a joyless impression of an unfeeling society which is carrying out its legal sanctions on the criminally guilty. Gone are the angels, the sun and the moon and the soothing mandate of heaven with its calming use of geometrical proportion. The portrayal of the contorted figures at an angle to the flat of the picture plane only heightens the sense of dramatic tension, leaving us in no doubt about how we should feel when we look at his painting - repelled. This approach to portraying the death of Christ has rarely been adopted by other painters, who by and large favour the course taken by Raphael.
Ge’s realism offers us a vision of excruciating pain and desolation. His is not a divine Christ, but a human Jesus. And when we compare the two alternative approaches Raphael and Ge take to explore the same event, we realise that by adopting different compositional techniques, colour palettes and model expressions, painters are able to influence the way we as an audience feel about what we are looking at. The artist becomes the author of our emotions.
Aside from Ge, many artists have depicted realistic images of people being put to death in the name of the state, though usually with a secular theme. When they do it is common to find the subject adopting a cruciform pose, as it is a pose which has come to represent both universal human suffering and salvation. Such examples are found in Francisco Goya’s The Third of May 1808, Edouard Manet’s The Execution of Emperor Maximilian, Robert Capa’s The Falling Soldier and in Nick Ut’s 1972 Vietnam war photograph Trang Bang after a South Vietnamese Air Force Napalm Attack. What we notice when looking at these pictures is that we tend to identify personally with the distress of the subject. Their pain metaphorically becomes our pain. This is in part because of the way the images are composed, with the main character being the focus of the core narrative around which all the other components revolve. This emotional identification with the suffering of individuals at the hand of the state is a signifier of liberal thinking and a desire to limit the extent of the power of government over the individuality of the citizen.
After viewing the Mond Crucifixion and these 19th and 20th Century examples of cruciform suffering, I became interested in exploring just how an artist might engage with the theme of execution in the 21st Century. As an artist, I had recently completed a set of paintings of empty hospital interiors and was struck by how similar they are in appearance to American lethal injection facilities, and so I decided to use these as my starting point. In undertaking the ‘Hospital’ series I had been drawn initially to the way medical environments are designed to perform their function with a matter of factness which overrides our emotional concerns by soothing them. Sealed from the outside world, like an airport or underground station, they disconnect us from everyday life. Gone is any sense of natural light, season or time of day. Gone too is the chaos of nature and any regional reference which might establish an awareness of place. This has the effect of creating an environment with a surreal quality which is detached from the every day.
In the painting Operating Theatre, which I produced in 2004, I sought to deepen the sense of the surreal already apparent in the surgical setting by removing the human figure. The specific operating theatre in question was located on the outskirts of London, in Kent, and in painting it I further softened the shadows cast by the rooms’ lights, removed labels, simplified the equipment, and enhanced the muted colours of the floor and walls. These actions were designed to heighten an already amplified sense of calm.
Around the operating gurney we can see plenty of space for a medical team to perform their duties without being constrained, and we also notice how most of the equipment is mounted on castors to help keep things fluid and easily at hand. This is a space in which all life to be cared for is valued equally and, no matter who you are, medical care for those at the receiving end provides an experience without hierarchy. It simultaneously presents a view of the best and worst place we could ever expect to find ourselves in, because we are presented with an environment dedicated to preserving our physical being, yet one which we would hope never to need. This is a theatre where the performance of real life is played out with ordered professionalism. A place where the patient relinquishes control of their body to the authority of the surgeon, so that the chaotic sensations of fear, pain and human frailty may be washed away by the cool order of scientific reason.
When we look at Operating Theatre’s counterpart, the painting Lethal Injection Gurney we find many similarities. I undertook this painting in 2007, and it depicts the interior of the execution facility at The Walls in Huntsville, Texas. Like the operating theatre it presents us with an enclosed interior removed from daylight, nature or any reference to its geographical location. Beautiful turquoise wall colouring, soft fawn curtains, subdued lighting and a crisp white sheet stretched over a soft thin mattress for the comfort of the condemned, show us that here the iconography of the hospital has been deliberately adopted. And just as with the operating theatre, we can see that all life which is subject to ‘treatment’ is handled without hierarchy. On the right-hand side we glimpse a windowed room where witnesses sit, and to the left a two-way mirror behind which the guards who administer the lethal injection sit, so that they might see without being seen.
The overriding impression here is one of a calm disconnection from reality which helps steer our feelings as far as possible from any sense of physical and emotional trauma connected to the executions which are carried out. This is not for the benefit of the person being put to death, but for our benefit. It is we the viewers who do not wish to be distressed by what we witness, a sense further enhanced by the knowledge that events are going on in private, behind closed doors.
By stark contrast, Nicolai Ge’s depiction of Roman crucifixion presents a spectacle designed to be as public and as painful as possible, with the condemned being positioned along a busy road outside the city gates where they might form a powerful public display. This demonstrates the Roman consensus for the death penalty, when enacted by crucifixion, to be seen by men, women and children, and to be preceded by the torture of the body.
What conclusions then can we draw from these observations?
It would appear that our emotions are subject to external influences, and in understanding this, an artist like Raphael can choose to paint a picture of suffering and death and present it to us in such a way that we feel a sense of tranquillity when we view it. And that just as an individual like Raphael can guide our emotions, so too can the state.
The Mond Crucifixion is one of Raphael’s earliest works and it was commissioned as the altarpiece for the side chapel of the Church of St. Dominic in the small Italian city of Città di Castell. Those who assigned Raphael to undertake this painting would have wished him to transform the visual horror of the death of Christ into a vision of visual majesty. A story about Saint Jerome, to whom the painting is dedicated, is often referenced in art of how he soothed an aggravated lion when he pulled a thorn from its paw and tamed it in the process. Which serves to remind us how Raphael has presented a comforting image of crucifixion by utilising a sense of divine symmetry to remove all of its pain and so restage it as an act of grace.
Robert Priseman
This essay was originally delivered as a talk at Amherst College on the 28th March 2014. The full series of original paintings and drawings ‘No Human Way to kill’ is held in the permanent collection of the Mead Art Museum, Massachusetts.
View the series at http://www.robert-priseman.com/projects/no-human-way-to-kill/
Raphael’s 1503 Mond Crucifixion conveys a sense of deep calm. At the feet of the central figure of Jesus kneel Saint Jerome to our left to whom the painting is dedicated and opposite him Saint Mary Magdalen. Behind Saint Jerome stands Saint the Virgin Mary and behind Mary Magdalen, Saint John the Baptist. In attendance two angels catch Christ’s blood in chalices as it issues from his wounds and in the sky above, the Sun and the Moon appear as silent witness to one of the most famous events in history.
This painting is modelled in the classical tradition. The composition of the figures is arranged into a formal rhombus design which helps establish a sense of balance and order. Elsewhere the use of atmospheric perspective in the background landscape and a rich use of colour all contribute to present a scene which radiates a feeling of immense beauty. Artists of the Renaissance, like Raphael, employed geometrical principles to help compose their paintings so that the mathematical order observed in the movement of stars would be reflected upon the earth. In this way, the adoption of the golden section rule, Fibonacci sequence and Euclidian geometry were engaged to mirror the divine order of heaven upon the world, which in turn placed the human actions depicted at the center of a celestial symmetry.
Whilst Raphael’s painting is rooted in a specific historical event, we see his portrayal of it is deliberately set at a far remove from reality. The horror of a public execution has been transformed into a scene of serenity, where Christ, who we witness from the discharge of his blood in the picture, remains alive yet apparently free from physical agony. As viewers, Raphael leads our emotions to experience his work in quiet reverence. We accept the tableau we witness as one of God’s grace enacted on human drama, where heavenly order triumphs over the chaos of emotion, where our own pain is removed and death is finally defeated. We are offered peace.
In presenting capital punishment as salvation, Raphael uses painting as a metaphor of deliverance from sin and transforms despair into hope. Yet the same event depicted by the hands of another artist who employs an alternative approach, can convey an entirely different message. An interesting example of this is found in the Russian artist Nicolai Ge’s 1893 painting The Crucifixion. Here Ge presents us with a brutal counterpoint to Raphael’s vision of order and beauty, which is perhaps one of the most accurate depictions of a Roman crucifixion ever to have been painted. Gone for Ge are the richly dyed robes worn by Christ and his attendants and in their place are no more than a few tattered rags. And where the crucifix in The Mond painting stands, judging by the height of the figures, at around 11 feet tall, the same structure in Ge’s image has a much shorter and more practical height of around seven feet, which, unlike Raphael’s skilfully constructed cross, is comprised of no more than a roughly hewn post set in the ground with a beam secured across the top. We also notice that the feet in Ge’s painting are not nailed together one over the other, resting on a small platform, which was an artistic invention, but are nailed instead through the ankles on either side of the post.
All colour in this painting has drained away to leave us with a starkly monochromatic vision. This lack of vibrancy creates a joyless impression of an unfeeling society which is carrying out its legal sanctions on the criminally guilty. Gone are the angels, the sun and the moon and the soothing mandate of heaven with its calming use of geometrical proportion. The portrayal of the contorted figures at an angle to the flat of the picture plane only heightens the sense of dramatic tension, leaving us in no doubt about how we should feel when we look at his painting - repelled. This approach to portraying the death of Christ has rarely been adopted by other painters, who by and large favour the course taken by Raphael.
Ge’s realism offers us a vision of excruciating pain and desolation. His is not a divine Christ, but a human Jesus. And when we compare the two alternative approaches Raphael and Ge take to explore the same event, we realise that by adopting different compositional techniques, colour palettes and model expressions, painters are able to influence the way we as an audience feel about what we are looking at. The artist becomes the author of our emotions.
Aside from Ge, many artists have depicted realistic images of people being put to death in the name of the state, though usually with a secular theme. When they do it is common to find the subject adopting a cruciform pose, as it is a pose which has come to represent both universal human suffering and salvation. Such examples are found in Francisco Goya’s The Third of May 1808, Edouard Manet’s The Execution of Emperor Maximilian, Robert Capa’s The Falling Soldier and in Nick Ut’s 1972 Vietnam war photograph Trang Bang after a South Vietnamese Air Force Napalm Attack. What we notice when looking at these pictures is that we tend to identify personally with the distress of the subject. Their pain metaphorically becomes our pain. This is in part because of the way the images are composed, with the main character being the focus of the core narrative around which all the other components revolve. This emotional identification with the suffering of individuals at the hand of the state is a signifier of liberal thinking and a desire to limit the extent of the power of government over the individuality of the citizen.
After viewing the Mond Crucifixion and these 19th and 20th Century examples of cruciform suffering, I became interested in exploring just how an artist might engage with the theme of execution in the 21st Century. As an artist, I had recently completed a set of paintings of empty hospital interiors and was struck by how similar they are in appearance to American lethal injection facilities, and so I decided to use these as my starting point. In undertaking the ‘Hospital’ series I had been drawn initially to the way medical environments are designed to perform their function with a matter of factness which overrides our emotional concerns by soothing them. Sealed from the outside world, like an airport or underground station, they disconnect us from everyday life. Gone is any sense of natural light, season or time of day. Gone too is the chaos of nature and any regional reference which might establish an awareness of place. This has the effect of creating an environment with a surreal quality which is detached from the every day.
In the painting Operating Theatre, which I produced in 2004, I sought to deepen the sense of the surreal already apparent in the surgical setting by removing the human figure. The specific operating theatre in question was located on the outskirts of London, in Kent, and in painting it I further softened the shadows cast by the rooms’ lights, removed labels, simplified the equipment, and enhanced the muted colours of the floor and walls. These actions were designed to heighten an already amplified sense of calm.
Around the operating gurney we can see plenty of space for a medical team to perform their duties without being constrained, and we also notice how most of the equipment is mounted on castors to help keep things fluid and easily at hand. This is a space in which all life to be cared for is valued equally and, no matter who you are, medical care for those at the receiving end provides an experience without hierarchy. It simultaneously presents a view of the best and worst place we could ever expect to find ourselves in, because we are presented with an environment dedicated to preserving our physical being, yet one which we would hope never to need. This is a theatre where the performance of real life is played out with ordered professionalism. A place where the patient relinquishes control of their body to the authority of the surgeon, so that the chaotic sensations of fear, pain and human frailty may be washed away by the cool order of scientific reason.
When we look at Operating Theatre’s counterpart, the painting Lethal Injection Gurney we find many similarities. I undertook this painting in 2007, and it depicts the interior of the execution facility at The Walls in Huntsville, Texas. Like the operating theatre it presents us with an enclosed interior removed from daylight, nature or any reference to its geographical location. Beautiful turquoise wall colouring, soft fawn curtains, subdued lighting and a crisp white sheet stretched over a soft thin mattress for the comfort of the condemned, show us that here the iconography of the hospital has been deliberately adopted. And just as with the operating theatre, we can see that all life which is subject to ‘treatment’ is handled without hierarchy. On the right-hand side we glimpse a windowed room where witnesses sit, and to the left a two-way mirror behind which the guards who administer the lethal injection sit, so that they might see without being seen.
The overriding impression here is one of a calm disconnection from reality which helps steer our feelings as far as possible from any sense of physical and emotional trauma connected to the executions which are carried out. This is not for the benefit of the person being put to death, but for our benefit. It is we the viewers who do not wish to be distressed by what we witness, a sense further enhanced by the knowledge that events are going on in private, behind closed doors.
By stark contrast, Nicolai Ge’s depiction of Roman crucifixion presents a spectacle designed to be as public and as painful as possible, with the condemned being positioned along a busy road outside the city gates where they might form a powerful public display. This demonstrates the Roman consensus for the death penalty, when enacted by crucifixion, to be seen by men, women and children, and to be preceded by the torture of the body.
What conclusions then can we draw from these observations?
It would appear that our emotions are subject to external influences, and in understanding this, an artist like Raphael can choose to paint a picture of suffering and death and present it to us in such a way that we feel a sense of tranquillity when we view it. And that just as an individual like Raphael can guide our emotions, so too can the state.
The Mond Crucifixion is one of Raphael’s earliest works and it was commissioned as the altarpiece for the side chapel of the Church of St. Dominic in the small Italian city of Città di Castell. Those who assigned Raphael to undertake this painting would have wished him to transform the visual horror of the death of Christ into a vision of visual majesty. A story about Saint Jerome, to whom the painting is dedicated, is often referenced in art of how he soothed an aggravated lion when he pulled a thorn from its paw and tamed it in the process. Which serves to remind us how Raphael has presented a comforting image of crucifixion by utilising a sense of divine symmetry to remove all of its pain and so restage it as an act of grace.
Robert Priseman
This essay was originally delivered as a talk at Amherst College on the 28th March 2014. The full series of original paintings and drawings ‘No Human Way to kill’ is held in the permanent collection of the Mead Art Museum, Massachusetts.
View the series at http://www.robert-priseman.com/projects/no-human-way-to-kill/
Susan Gunn: The Beauty of Imperfection
Broken glass. It’s just like glitter, isn’t it?
Pete Doherty
Between 1915 and 1923 Marcel Duchamp created The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even which is also often referred to as The Large Glass. It is a work of art comprised of two large glass panes, one positioned above the other. In notes Duchamp produced on his work, he described it as the depiction of an erotic encounter between a “Bride” in the upper panel and her nine “Bachelors” gathered below in the lower panel. Neither painting nor sculpture, The Large Glass was composed using materials such as lead foil, fuse wire, and dust, combining elements of chance, carefully considered perspective and a delicate craftsmanship in its construction.
The Large Glass was shattered in transit following its only public exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum in 1926. Duchamp repaired his work, gluing the shards of glass back together again and it now forms part of the permanent collection of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The accidental element incurred in its breakage has become part of the fabric of the work as we now see and appreciate it, in much the same way we might feel comfortable with the surface cracks in old oil paintings which are known as craquelure.
Like all things formed in nature, cracks never travel in straight lines; they cannot be controlled by human hand or forced into a particular direction or pattern. Just like our fingerprints, they are unique and beyond duplication. Even when we apply the same conditions and forces to bear upon identical objects, cracks never repeat, revealing their structure to be outside ourselves, existing in a condition of fragility. We can never return cracks to their perfect unbroken state, only hold them in place and secure them, as Duchamp did when he sandwiched his repaired Large Glass between two further glass panels.
The special nature of cracks and the pathways they take is central to Susan Gunn’s work as a painter. Her often large scale, monochromatic canvases, such as Divided ground: Red, Dark Matter I and Sacro Terra Grande, present the viewer with a delicately fractured surface of uniformly coloured gesso contained within a series of straight edges which are carefully defined by human hand. She describes the end result of her work as being “like a mirror of life” where “things happen which are beyond our control”, yet which, in the presence of Gunn’s work, we realise we seek to contain. In this way, her canvases present the viewer with a metaphorical meditation on the fragility of life, beautiful in all its flawed and imperfect manifestations. Somehow they appear to represent an innate desire to protect.
Gunn’s working process begins with the building up of layers of gesso mixed with pure pigment over the surface of a canvas. Gesso is a traditional medium employed as a ground by Italian renaissance artists and is usually comprised of chalk mixed with glue formed from the skins of rabbits or calves. Typically it is employed as a primer to coat solid surfaces such as wooden painting panels, carved furniture and picture frames over which oil paint and gilding can be applied. Painting panels were initially prepared by Italian craftsmen with a base layer of gesso grosso (rough gesso) which was comprised of a coarse plaster, over which a series of thin layers of gesso sottile (finishing gesso) were then applied. These were prepared with a fine plaster slaked in water to produce an opaque, white, reflective surface. The absorbent quality of gesso makes it suitable for painting on in all media, as well as providing an ideal surface for the application of gold leaf.
Gesso, which is typically applied in 10 or more fine layers, has a brittle consistency susceptible to cracking, and it is this property Gunn manipulates in an attempt to alter and control the way cracks appear within the fabric of her paintings. Speeding up or slowing down the drying time of gesso contributes to the way the fractures form, while heating up the surface creates more cracks and cooling it down produces less. Correspondingly, when more layers of gesso are applied to the surface the fissures appear more pronounced. The cracks created by Gunn in the composition of the gesso form clean breaks in the medium, just like shattered shards of glass, which extend through to the canvas, unlike the craquelure we see in old paintings which rests wholly on the surface.
Once the gesso on Gunn’s paintings has dried the surface is initially rough. Gunn smooths this by polishing it with wax and oil, while also applying water to the gesso which treats it as a kind of watercolour paint, allowing the pigment to seep through to the canvas surface and stain it. This renders the white of the canvas imperceptible to the viewer.
In the mid 1950’s the Italian artist Lucio Fontana initiated a series of monochromatic ‘slash paintings’ which consisted of a sequence of gashes he made through his canvases. Fontana lined the reverse of these paintings with black gauze in order to create the appearance of a profound darkness which appeared behind the open cuts, creating a mysterious sense of illusion and depth. In 1952 Fontana also began a ‘Stones’ series which fused the sculptural with painting by encrusting the surfaces of his canvases with a heavy impasto paint and coloured glass.
Yet where Fontana employed a wide range of contemporary colours to create paintings which he labeled as “an art for the Space Age”, Gunn limits herself to a small handful of around four or five pure pigments which have their origins in the depths of human history. These are comprised primarily of lamp black, white, carmine, orange and ivory with some canvases making use of gold leaf which is applied to the finished surface. This choice of colour is an important consideration for Gunn who favours ancient working materials and techniques. For example, Lamp Black, which is one of the oldest colours in use today, was commonly used as a pigment in Egyptian tomb painting and was made using the carbon residual from the oil burnt in lamps, which is where its name originates. Carmine, on the other hand, which is also known as crimson, was made by extracting the dye from the kermes insect. An alternative source was discovered by the Spanish in Mexico where the Aztec and Mayan people were found to be using carminic acid from the cochineal beetle to dye fabrics a rich red. A tiny insect, it took the Aztecs around 70,000 cochineal beetles to create a pound of crimson pigment.
Interestingly, whilst Gunn’s paintings may bring to mind mediaeval stained glass windows without pictures or sacred doorways leading to the realm of the unknown, she does not describe herself as an abstract painter, stating that “my works are not abstracted versions of things we find in the World”.[i] This belief is one sympathetic to a conviction Mark Rothko held, who insisted he was not an abstractionist, feeling such a description was inaccurate to his core interest “in expressing basic human emotions - tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on. And the fact that a lot of people break down and cry when confronted with my pictures shows that I can communicate those basic human emotions . . . The people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them.”[ii]
Rothko’s paintings became increasingly sombre as he grew older and appear to be representative of a deepening despair he felt in his personal life. We perhaps sense this most clearly in his ‘Seagram’ series which were produced using a method of applying thin layers of binder mixed with maroon and black pigment directly onto untreated canvases, painting thin layers to create a subtle fusion of overlapping colors and shapes. In many senses the adapted traditional working techniques employed by artists such as Rothko and Gunn underpin a traditional understanding of the role painting plays within society at large, which is not, as they see it, to create a wholly intellectual response to the evolving conversations artists have between themselves within the confines of art galleries, but to speak more broadly of the human emotions and traumas which define the way we all experience the World and which we can only attempt to rationalize after the event.
On 25th February, 1970, a consignment of Rothko’s ‘Seagram’ paintings arrived in London for permanent display at the Tate Gallery. On that same day, Oliver Steindecker, Rothko’s assistant, found the artist lying dead in his kitchen. He had sliced his arms with a razor which was found lying at his side. For many, this act transformed the meaning of his work, saturating his paintings with a profound gravity.
Whereas tragedy came at the end of Rothko’s life, for Gunn it struck in her mid-twenties and may be central to our understanding of how she approaches painting. Gunn worked initially as a wedding dress designer on leaving school until the birth of her first daughter Francesca, who was diagnosed with Leukaemia just after her first birthday. Francesca lived for a further18 months, during which time she underwent intensive chemotherapy. While in hospital with her daughter, Gunn drew portraits of her child “because it didn't seem right somehow to take photographs of her in there”[iii]. Following her daughter’s death and the birth of two subsequent children, Gunn enrolled at art school at the relatively late age of 35. She said that “As I developed my practice I had a strong feeling that I didn't want to share the images in my head with anyone else.” [iv] Feeling instead that “I wanted to go beyond what could be immediately defined, though for me the cracked and marbled surface of the gesso was and is very much like a memorial slab.”[v] The painted surface in this sense appears to represent Gunn’s weekly ritual of cleaning her daughter’s gravestone, where in the polishing she declared an attempt to try to impart dignity to the memory of her lost daughter.
Tragedy is the birthplace of the sacred, underpinning many of our prayers and rituals. The loss of those we love reminds us of how precious life is. In representing this in art, Gunn offers a series of universal images which depict the fragile and lost in all of us, highlighting our consistent inability to pay close attention to that which is most important. In doing so, she creates a metaphor for our broken nature, which clearly defines the beauty of our imperfect humanity
Robert Priseman
View Susan Gunn's website at http://www.susangunn.co.uk/
[i] From a conversation between Susan Gunn and Robert Priseman on the 6th November 2012
[ii] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Rothko
[iii] http://www.edp24.co.uk/what-s-on/susan_gunn_exhibition_at_norwich_castle_1_711836
[iv] From a conversation between Susan Gunn and Robert Priseman on the 23rd August 2013
Pete Doherty
Between 1915 and 1923 Marcel Duchamp created The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even which is also often referred to as The Large Glass. It is a work of art comprised of two large glass panes, one positioned above the other. In notes Duchamp produced on his work, he described it as the depiction of an erotic encounter between a “Bride” in the upper panel and her nine “Bachelors” gathered below in the lower panel. Neither painting nor sculpture, The Large Glass was composed using materials such as lead foil, fuse wire, and dust, combining elements of chance, carefully considered perspective and a delicate craftsmanship in its construction.
The Large Glass was shattered in transit following its only public exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum in 1926. Duchamp repaired his work, gluing the shards of glass back together again and it now forms part of the permanent collection of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The accidental element incurred in its breakage has become part of the fabric of the work as we now see and appreciate it, in much the same way we might feel comfortable with the surface cracks in old oil paintings which are known as craquelure.
Like all things formed in nature, cracks never travel in straight lines; they cannot be controlled by human hand or forced into a particular direction or pattern. Just like our fingerprints, they are unique and beyond duplication. Even when we apply the same conditions and forces to bear upon identical objects, cracks never repeat, revealing their structure to be outside ourselves, existing in a condition of fragility. We can never return cracks to their perfect unbroken state, only hold them in place and secure them, as Duchamp did when he sandwiched his repaired Large Glass between two further glass panels.
The special nature of cracks and the pathways they take is central to Susan Gunn’s work as a painter. Her often large scale, monochromatic canvases, such as Divided ground: Red, Dark Matter I and Sacro Terra Grande, present the viewer with a delicately fractured surface of uniformly coloured gesso contained within a series of straight edges which are carefully defined by human hand. She describes the end result of her work as being “like a mirror of life” where “things happen which are beyond our control”, yet which, in the presence of Gunn’s work, we realise we seek to contain. In this way, her canvases present the viewer with a metaphorical meditation on the fragility of life, beautiful in all its flawed and imperfect manifestations. Somehow they appear to represent an innate desire to protect.
Gunn’s working process begins with the building up of layers of gesso mixed with pure pigment over the surface of a canvas. Gesso is a traditional medium employed as a ground by Italian renaissance artists and is usually comprised of chalk mixed with glue formed from the skins of rabbits or calves. Typically it is employed as a primer to coat solid surfaces such as wooden painting panels, carved furniture and picture frames over which oil paint and gilding can be applied. Painting panels were initially prepared by Italian craftsmen with a base layer of gesso grosso (rough gesso) which was comprised of a coarse plaster, over which a series of thin layers of gesso sottile (finishing gesso) were then applied. These were prepared with a fine plaster slaked in water to produce an opaque, white, reflective surface. The absorbent quality of gesso makes it suitable for painting on in all media, as well as providing an ideal surface for the application of gold leaf.
Gesso, which is typically applied in 10 or more fine layers, has a brittle consistency susceptible to cracking, and it is this property Gunn manipulates in an attempt to alter and control the way cracks appear within the fabric of her paintings. Speeding up or slowing down the drying time of gesso contributes to the way the fractures form, while heating up the surface creates more cracks and cooling it down produces less. Correspondingly, when more layers of gesso are applied to the surface the fissures appear more pronounced. The cracks created by Gunn in the composition of the gesso form clean breaks in the medium, just like shattered shards of glass, which extend through to the canvas, unlike the craquelure we see in old paintings which rests wholly on the surface.
Once the gesso on Gunn’s paintings has dried the surface is initially rough. Gunn smooths this by polishing it with wax and oil, while also applying water to the gesso which treats it as a kind of watercolour paint, allowing the pigment to seep through to the canvas surface and stain it. This renders the white of the canvas imperceptible to the viewer.
In the mid 1950’s the Italian artist Lucio Fontana initiated a series of monochromatic ‘slash paintings’ which consisted of a sequence of gashes he made through his canvases. Fontana lined the reverse of these paintings with black gauze in order to create the appearance of a profound darkness which appeared behind the open cuts, creating a mysterious sense of illusion and depth. In 1952 Fontana also began a ‘Stones’ series which fused the sculptural with painting by encrusting the surfaces of his canvases with a heavy impasto paint and coloured glass.
Yet where Fontana employed a wide range of contemporary colours to create paintings which he labeled as “an art for the Space Age”, Gunn limits herself to a small handful of around four or five pure pigments which have their origins in the depths of human history. These are comprised primarily of lamp black, white, carmine, orange and ivory with some canvases making use of gold leaf which is applied to the finished surface. This choice of colour is an important consideration for Gunn who favours ancient working materials and techniques. For example, Lamp Black, which is one of the oldest colours in use today, was commonly used as a pigment in Egyptian tomb painting and was made using the carbon residual from the oil burnt in lamps, which is where its name originates. Carmine, on the other hand, which is also known as crimson, was made by extracting the dye from the kermes insect. An alternative source was discovered by the Spanish in Mexico where the Aztec and Mayan people were found to be using carminic acid from the cochineal beetle to dye fabrics a rich red. A tiny insect, it took the Aztecs around 70,000 cochineal beetles to create a pound of crimson pigment.
Interestingly, whilst Gunn’s paintings may bring to mind mediaeval stained glass windows without pictures or sacred doorways leading to the realm of the unknown, she does not describe herself as an abstract painter, stating that “my works are not abstracted versions of things we find in the World”.[i] This belief is one sympathetic to a conviction Mark Rothko held, who insisted he was not an abstractionist, feeling such a description was inaccurate to his core interest “in expressing basic human emotions - tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on. And the fact that a lot of people break down and cry when confronted with my pictures shows that I can communicate those basic human emotions . . . The people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them.”[ii]
Rothko’s paintings became increasingly sombre as he grew older and appear to be representative of a deepening despair he felt in his personal life. We perhaps sense this most clearly in his ‘Seagram’ series which were produced using a method of applying thin layers of binder mixed with maroon and black pigment directly onto untreated canvases, painting thin layers to create a subtle fusion of overlapping colors and shapes. In many senses the adapted traditional working techniques employed by artists such as Rothko and Gunn underpin a traditional understanding of the role painting plays within society at large, which is not, as they see it, to create a wholly intellectual response to the evolving conversations artists have between themselves within the confines of art galleries, but to speak more broadly of the human emotions and traumas which define the way we all experience the World and which we can only attempt to rationalize after the event.
On 25th February, 1970, a consignment of Rothko’s ‘Seagram’ paintings arrived in London for permanent display at the Tate Gallery. On that same day, Oliver Steindecker, Rothko’s assistant, found the artist lying dead in his kitchen. He had sliced his arms with a razor which was found lying at his side. For many, this act transformed the meaning of his work, saturating his paintings with a profound gravity.
Whereas tragedy came at the end of Rothko’s life, for Gunn it struck in her mid-twenties and may be central to our understanding of how she approaches painting. Gunn worked initially as a wedding dress designer on leaving school until the birth of her first daughter Francesca, who was diagnosed with Leukaemia just after her first birthday. Francesca lived for a further18 months, during which time she underwent intensive chemotherapy. While in hospital with her daughter, Gunn drew portraits of her child “because it didn't seem right somehow to take photographs of her in there”[iii]. Following her daughter’s death and the birth of two subsequent children, Gunn enrolled at art school at the relatively late age of 35. She said that “As I developed my practice I had a strong feeling that I didn't want to share the images in my head with anyone else.” [iv] Feeling instead that “I wanted to go beyond what could be immediately defined, though for me the cracked and marbled surface of the gesso was and is very much like a memorial slab.”[v] The painted surface in this sense appears to represent Gunn’s weekly ritual of cleaning her daughter’s gravestone, where in the polishing she declared an attempt to try to impart dignity to the memory of her lost daughter.
Tragedy is the birthplace of the sacred, underpinning many of our prayers and rituals. The loss of those we love reminds us of how precious life is. In representing this in art, Gunn offers a series of universal images which depict the fragile and lost in all of us, highlighting our consistent inability to pay close attention to that which is most important. In doing so, she creates a metaphor for our broken nature, which clearly defines the beauty of our imperfect humanity
Robert Priseman
View Susan Gunn's website at http://www.susangunn.co.uk/
[i] From a conversation between Susan Gunn and Robert Priseman on the 6th November 2012
[ii] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Rothko
[iii] http://www.edp24.co.uk/what-s-on/susan_gunn_exhibition_at_norwich_castle_1_711836
[iv] From a conversation between Susan Gunn and Robert Priseman on the 23rd August 2013
[v] http://www.edp24.co.uk/what-s-on/susan_gunn_exhibition_at_norwich_castle_1_711836
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