Inward Maine: Alan Bray at GARVEY|SIMON, Chelsea, Manhattan (November 2017, WSI)

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When Alan Bray was studying at the Villa Schifanoia Graduate School of Fine Arts in Florence, he was deeply influenced by the sincere faith and genuine spiritual aspirations in the work of the early Renaissance masters of that city. As he said before an audience in his home state of Maine, these were artists who “…actually believed in something”. It was a departure from the cynicism and irony he had experienced while studying in the US and, from this point on, Bray began to focus more on “stuff” he “cared about” – like his community and the natural environment of Maine.

He also picked up the method of casein-on-panel painting at that time; casein is a type of paint derived from milk protein which was used before oil paint. This type of paint dries so quickly that if an artist makes a mistake, or wants to change something, he/she has to use sandpaper. But this type of paint also seems to help to give nature, in his work, the exciting sheen and piquancy that elicits wows and oohs from many folks who look at it. To me his work is a bit like Andrew Wyeth mixed with Casper David Friedrich (many writers have mentioned a “mystical” quality to Bray’s work) with a little, to my eyes, Henri Rousseau eccentricity in there (although, unlike Rousseau, Bray does not create anything that does not exist in its original setting). 

Bray’s images compel an immediate, stunning engagement that allows us to absorb the image at a pre-cognitive or super-cognitive level. When Heinrich von Kleist first saw the paintings of Casper David Friedrich, he remarked that looking at that work was like having your eyelids torn off. Bray also offers that intense novelty or newness of vision. The intellect remains dazed for a while as we do not feel the need to articulate. Bray’s work is a narrative killer (although there are often stories behind individual pieces), a Broca’s area stupefier. It represents Bruno’s approach to the universe and not Galileo’s: a bridge between nature and us, lacking any potential to exploit the earth for profit. You do not tell yourself anything about what you see because this capacity for narrative now seems a bit anachronistic. The work packs a wallop beyond words, and becomes the type of art fully accessible beyond interpretation.

To me it packs the same wallop as, for example, something like Fra Filippo Lippi’s Annunciation at the Frick Collection. We have the basic knowledge of the story ahead of time, we know what the Annunciation was, but seeing the postures of Gabriel and the Virgin, the tilts of their heads in relation to each other, the ‘hot’ red of Gabriel’s cape and ‘cool’ blue of the Virgin’s, their spatial relationship within the framing of the pillars, their facial expressions and gestures – this all reaches us immediately and cumulatively with a big swoosh and emotional impact beyond any narrative. It is as if all previous knowledge has primed one for this direct experience. Language and knowledge took us only so far and now we can get walloped by color and form. Bray’s work, like all work that can reach beyond interpretation, is like an injection that yields immediate results instead of a slow-working ingested pill. Bray’s work gives us that big swoosh which comes from when an artist incorporates details for an effect on the viewer and not as elements of narrative analysis.

Another influence on Bray was the book by Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, which encouraged Bray to paint ‘natural phenomena’. Bray often will sit in an area for hours until the visual begins to reveal secrets (about structure?) to him. To me, Bray’s approach asks: What can we get from nature without imputing our knowledge back to nature? What can happen when we are patiently in the presence of and within nature, allowing the mind to become a part of nature and nature to become a part of the mind? What can we glean when we try to experience nature with no scientific preconceptions but trust that nature itself can reveal deep and transformative secrets to us? Bachelard’s book is a contribution to phenomenology, which has been called the ‘science of experience’. I would suggest, however, that phenomenology should be called the experience of experience. A phenomenological approach makes one not only aware of experience but yields insights into our experience of the world. 

The mysterious contrasts between aspects of nature, familiar structures which now look a little strange and the brilliance of the colors work together in Bray’s work to represent the super-enriched experience of our experience of nature. It is the joy of the perception of perception fueling deeper engagement with the perceived, without knowledge or desire.

The fact that Bray does not paint people within his landscapes is also significant. Often, by including a person or people, a painting merely becomes a work about transience. Nature and its cycle become the permanent or eternal and the presence of people reveals how brief our hour upon nature’s stage is. Adding people also adds ‘grandeur’ to nature as there will always be a contrast between the fleeting and puny human figure and the seemingly eternal and robust nature.

Interestingly, Bray tries something a bit different as he often, in this series, shows the traces of humans within nature instead of people themselves. The scaring effects of us puny and transient people is evident in many of his works to varying degrees of severity. We see, for instance, traces of a cross-country skier on a thawing lake. In one painting we see a circular pond which was created by a farmer as a source of water for potential fires on his property. As Joseph Gross of the gallery explained to me, by creating this type of pond, the farmer’s property insurance rates dropped. In Bray’s work showing such traces of human action, we see the working of the human mind and desire on the land and the land’s always benevolently regenerative response.

 

Interview with Jocelyn Hobbie

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Jocelyn Hobbie is a visual artist based in New York City known for her brilliantly painted canvases of attractive young women in introspective states. She creates a situation of inadvertent voyeurism with the viewer drawn into circumstances where personal judgment becomes subsumed by an overall mood.

Gauss: How did you hit upon this approach of having these accessory-laden young women looking inward?

Hobbie: The subject of my paintings has been the female figure for a while now, but I see an evolution in what I’m interested in painting and how I go about it. In earlier works I was interested in depicting emotional/psychological states. It was not meant to be explicit or an obvious narrative, but rather very open to whatever story or understanding the viewer might bring to it. They were highly voyeuristic, for example what a woman might be doing in private, caught unaware. The paintings were also very personal. I think I wanted to express something about myself, something about difficult emotions. Even the spaces had a psychological content, often confined or claustrophobic.

As time has passed my focus has shifted a bit from the narrative/psychological content to more formal concerns. Currently the figure acts as a sort of architectural foundation for the painting. It’s my jumping off point for the process of composing the painting, but formal concerns are driving it. I’m not actively looking to depict psychological states, per se, although I am interested in the mood of the picture. Maybe the figure itself is handled more like a straight portrait (which is not to imply I’m ever painting from life). I also don’t want the subject to address the viewer directly, for example by looking back at the viewer, because that adds a different psychological level or component to the painting— not the kind of engagement or confrontation one sees in Manet’s Olympia, for example.

So nowadays the figure is like a building block or a muse that I follow from one step to the next. Everything is emerging out of what the painting presents and demands. More a process of discovery, which I’m finding to be very engaging and enlivening. The space is ambiguous, more like an atmosphere than a specifically depicted space. I’m almost eliminating the space. Of course the figures exist in the paintings and I like the warmth of the human element, it draws me in, gives me something to grasp and build off of. It is also driven by what I feel like painting, and I like to paint a face, hair, hands etc. I used to paint more nudes, but right now I’m into the clothes and other articulated elements because they are opportunities for color & shape & invented patterns. They draw me into the picture in different ways and I hope the same happens for the viewer.

Gauss: In much of your previous work you explore mother and daughter relationships. Are you finished with this? Why/why not? What drew you to this exploration in the first place?

Hobbie: I wouldn’t say I’m finished with it. Seeing oneself and one’s own mother getting older is rich with a myriad of feelings and I just intuitively wanted to explore that. The combination of intimacy and distance, the complicated stuff. I was also interested in the juxtaposition of the old and young woman both personally and socially, and as it has historically been depicted. Maybe more extreme than that; the juxtaposition of a really decrepit old lady alongside a young, nubile woman. I love Otto Dix’s paintings on that subject. It also springs from our culture, the obsession with youth/aging and the inevitability of aging (if you’re lucky). At one point I went through a period of painting a lot of babies. My friends started having kids so there were lots of babies around all of sudden. I was naturally feeling some pressure regarding it and I guess painting could be a vehicle for exploring all those feelings….

Gauss: So, one of your influences, as you mentioned, was Otto Dix, who is an artist from the past who seems to resonate with many contemporary New York art lovers. How much of Dix did you absorb? Can you use his style without also taking his philosophical or political stance? Do you feel a philosophical affinity to him?

Hobbie: Dix has been a big influence. It’s about his way of painting. That unsayable art ingredient that I love in his work. There’s both detail, and a muscular force. Of course his paintings are inseparable from the time and political climate they came out of. The 'humanity' he captured is so powerful.

Gauss: You once mentioned in a talk that you liked the movie Rosemary’s Baby and were inspired as an artist by the acting of Mia Farrow in the film. Why is this film a bit more significant to your work and can you think of other films that are like this for you or your work? Have you referenced female characters in films very often in your art and why?

Hobbie: I think what I respond to about Rosemary’s Baby is that aesthetically it’s quite sunny to look at, but then there’s the underlying darkness of the story. I’m not into horror movies at all, but I’m fascinated by the disconnect between the way something appears and what’s really going on. Everyone does it to a certain extent. I’ve explored that a lot in my paintings. I do find inspiration in movies.

Gauss: Why are there no men in your pieces?

Hobbie: I would like to paint men, I don’t have a reason for not painting men. In general there are way more paintings of women than men. For me it’s just juicier, more colorful. Maybe I inhabit the painting more. In many cases artists aren’t always aware of why they do what they do, or why it comes out a certain way. Every moment that I’m working is a process of constant decision making, but I can’t say exactly where the decisions come from. 

Gauss: I have a goofy little theory that a work of visual art can either be about social ills/circumstances or personal insight about one’s motives, emotions, cognitive processes etc., but an artist can’t do both at the same time. Do you think your work is political or socially oriented? Is it oriented exclusively toward an exploration of inner states?

Hobbie: I’m not overtly taking on political/social concerns, but the fact that I paint what I paint at this time in history makes it inherently political. How can it be otherwise? Nothing exists in a vacuum. I can paint whatever I want, it’s my choice, that’s political.

Gauss: Do you still feel that as a female painter you are kind of like a nun?

Hobbie: I just meant that there’s a solitude and discipline that goes along with being the kind of painter I am, it seems nun-like. But it was meant to be taken in a half-joking manner. Obviously I’m not in a nunnery!

Gauss: In a talk you gave, you mentioned that you went through a bleak period of time that lasted for at least seven years. How bad were your bad days? How did you pull out of them?

Hobbie: I took it day by day, flailing around, searching. It was a lot of experimentation, frustration and throwing things out. I saved almost nothing from that time. Finally one thing led to another. That’s always the best way to work, but in the moment it’s hard to see one’s way out of it.

Gauss: You went to one of America’s premier art schools (RISD). How effective was your education there? You stated you do a lot intuitively which was never taught to you – what did you get from RISD? 

Hobbie: I have mixed feelings about art school. Some people thrive in the school environment, but it wasn’t really for me. That’s probably a personality thing. I mean, my subjects and interests came from myself, not from teachers or interacting with other students. I actually wish I had learned more concrete, practical studio information there, like how to mix mediums and properly stretch a canvas, making grounds and why one method or application of materials is preferable to another, for example, really basic stuff. But I didn’t learn things like that there. It was all trial and error. Being a fine art major was bit of a free for all. I think it was just a place for me to be and begin the idea of being an artist. But I don’t want to sound ungrateful about having the opportunity to be at a reputable school. That’s incredible, but some practical instruction would have been useful— I’m still figuring stuff out to this day technically. Who knows, I probably would have found it boring and reacted against it at the time. It’s always up to oneself to figure it out anyway.

Gauss: Why the intricate patterns and the flowers? Is this just to arrest our attention?

Hobbie: That kind of intricacy of form and color is how I compose the picture. Those elements started out as details but have kind of exploded out. I would love to make something beautiful. Maybe it’s the poignancy I’m after, that’s my hope.

Gauss: Your dog has made cameos in your work. I’m guessing your dog functions as a kind of symbolic surrogate for an aspect of the people depicted, but it’s your real dog among fictitious subjects. In one of your paintings your dog has the letter “P” on his dog tag and I – somewhat tongue in cheek – wrote it possibly represented the ancient Greek letter rho, the second letter in the chi-rho combination representing the name of Jesus. I like making over-the-top interpretations - how close was I?

Hobbie: I appreciate your idea, and I welcome it. However, there’s a “P” on his dog tag because his name is Pablo. 

Gauss: When and where is your next show?

Hobbie: May 2016, Fredericks & Freiser Gallery, New York City

Lisa Breslow at Kathryn Markel Gallery

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Stopping by the 529 W. 20^th street building on a Saturday afternoon gallery-hopping spree (or whenever you drop into Chelsea) is de rigueur.  Virtually every gallery there has art worth seeing on a monthly basis.  This go-around Kathryn Markel is presenting a show that includes some engaging and provocative city-scape paintings by Lisa Breslow.

What I’ve noticed about a lot of city-scape paintings is that the artist often shoots for a contrast between the permanent and the transitional.  We often see structures that will seemingly last indefinitely with people flitting fugitively through them.  The structures will last far past the time we are all dead and the implication seems to be that we are the builders, users and servants of the structures all at the same time. 

We are psychologically molded by structures and their functions, which we created to serve our needs, in an interesting type of feedback loop.  City-scape artists will also often contrast stark buildings or structures against the sky to reveal the relative permanence of the structures within the changing framework of nature.

Breslow is doing something arrestingly novel compared to these aforementioned approaches. Even in her painting which shows cabs and trucks going down a city avenue, everything is of one ilk. Everything is of the same soft, patchy appearance: the sky, the buildings, the street, trees, vehicles. She seems to be repudiating the whole concept of permanence and transition for a more holistic vision or experience. 

Our sense of sight and our other senses play a con-game on us, and create the notion that the world is permanent and solid. As every good Buddhist and physicist, however, knows, the world is our illusion. To me Breslow paints the city as this type of illusion, where every visual element melts into other elements revealing to us that what seems permanent is fragile and volatile while inviting us to examine what might really constitute tangibility - namely our capacity to patch experience together, discern illusions and develop from our interaction with the illusions of the outside world. 

How, for instance, do these every day sensations allow for such amazing cognitive, emotional and moral development in us? How do illusions create the reality of inner experience and human development?

There is a relative or complete absence of the human figure in these works, which may, in fact, imply that Breslow wants to highlight or question which images or visual stimulation might be most meaningful to us.  One implication might be that an awareness of the illusory nature of aspects of the outer world may lead to a greater dependency on and engagement of others or other minds or, using Buddhist terminology again, everything that possesses ‘Buddha nature’ (including the natural environment).  Once we are no longer taken in by the illusion of sensuous reality, we can realize that human engagement and a submission to nature might offer the only real reality – then, perhaps, we can really begin to develop in a more humane direction and become even more sensitive to the outer world around us.

  

Contemporary American Trancendentalists: Max Razdow and JJ Manford at F + V

Cartographers by Razdow - Paintings courtesy of F + V

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Charles Burchfield, an amazing American artist from the past, once wrote: “An artist must paint not what he sees in nature, but what is there. To do so he must invent symbols, which, if properly used, make his work seem even more real than what is in front of him.” This echoes, to a great extent, Arthur Dove’s belief (acquired from Henri Bergson) that an élan vital pervades nature and this can be discerned and will lead to a greater understanding and engagement of the world than science might provide.  A couple of artists at Freight and Volume – Max Razdow and JJ Manford – follow in this American transcendentalist tradition (Burchfield and Dove are, in fact, listed in the gallery notes as influences on their work). 

Indeed, Razdow and Manford were also, apparently, influenced by a group of visual artists from England in the 1800s who formed a type of fraternal society around the vision and work of William Blake.  The group called itself “The Ancients” and, like the Romantics, they looked back on what they perceived to be a better time.  Practical applications of the scientific revolution had lead to the industrial revolution, which was altering natural landscapes as well as relations between people. Science also meant that nature was to be controlled and exploited for profit. Science also replaced the ‘ancient’ belief in transcendence with the belief that what was useful about nature could be grasped with good math skills and this shell of nature would suit our purposes just fine. The ancients believed that a union with nature was possible and this union might even lead to greater acceptance of what underlay perception, which would then lead to greater spiritual development. The mind was not separate from nature but a part of nature to be influenced and changed by nature.

Early On by Manford

In the work of both Razdow and Manford we see that a direct attempt at a union with nature leads to the types of symbols and visions Burchfield alluded to.  Manford’s work looks like some of the drug-induced paintings I have seen by shamans done for western anthropologists. Yet, Manford, unlike the shaman, is not necessarily claiming to depict  a journey to a spirit realm. This is more of a super-heightened experience that has broken through a type of painful longing into a complete, unmitigated awareness comparable to what Teilhard de Chardin called a universe on fire.

Manford - On the Hill

In the Romantic landscape tradition it was said that English artists favored ‘color’ while Germans favored ‘line’ and this seems to be a big difference between Manford and Razdow’s work. Razdow seems to be more detail oriented and uses ‘line’ to distort perspective and to establish a contrast with more organic forms.  The line seems a remnant of the conscious mind which becomes superseded by the vision born of greater engagement. Razdow also seems to use those tubeworm creatures that live at the bottom of the sea as important symbols in his work.  To me these creatures represent sentient life at the most extreme form of survival mode. If a creature ever should have been named after Schopenhauer, it should have been one of these sea worms. It’s as if the deep plunge into direct and unfiltered nature leads to our confrontation with this creature and a challenge to determine what can elevate us above it.

Razdow - 7 Headed Serpeants

Both artists, coincidentally, use the human figure in an interesting way.  I’m reminded of how Caspar David Friedrich would use silhouettes in his landscapes to, basically, welcome a shared experience between those inside the work and those viewing the work.  Both artists seem to do something similar yet we are not engaging an outer landscape in their work, but a new vision of nature and our possible transformation within it.  The artists seem to assume we will engage the world in a way to make this vision recognizable to ourselves or that we have already done this.  

 Razdow -