Louise Fishman and Josh Smith: Complexity and Simplicity; Sensibility

Louise Fishman, Easy Living, 2014; oil on linen, 64 x 34 in.

We can't help but bring our taste and our sensibility along with us when we look at art. Many years ago, my teacher Philip Pearlstein noted that I had an "architectonic sensibility", and my desire for clarity and order guide my taste. It is therefore not surprising that my favorite paintings in Louise Fishman's exhibition at Cheim & Read were those with the most spare compositions. I admire Fishman tremendously––her continuing muscular explorations of painting are inspiring––but I don't always love all her paintings. I do love Easy Living: there is tremendous energy contained in a very taut structure. The speed of the brushstrokes is in tension with their clear spacial description.

Louise Fishman, Easy Living detail

This kind of painterly immediacy, with its accidental flows, can only be harnessed successfully and repeatedly by a painter who has been working seriously for many years.

Louise Fishman watercolors

Some of my other great favorites at the Fishman show were a group of small watercolors, painted over the past few years.

Louise Fishman, Untitled, 2011; watercolor on paper, 6 x 9 in.

Louise Fishman, Untitled, 2013; watercolor on paper, 9 7/8 x 4 in. 

They are full of air and light, and are succinct in their form.

Louise Fishman, Living Forward, 2014; oil on linen, 66 x 39 in.

Living Forward is powerful with its three massive vertical forms, interrupted by canvas canyons, and startled by a thin orange line.

Louise Fishman, Sven Jesper, 2015; oil on linen, 74 x 88 in.

My favorite among the larger horizontal paintings was Sven Jesper; its heavier bands of blackish-grays at the bottom anchor the more complex spaces above. The strokes of lighter paint pop up to the picture plane, allowing the area on the right, with its bare canvas, to settle back. There are tough barriers to entry, but we can find our way into the space.

Louise Fishman, Bel Canto, 2014; oil on linen, 74 x 88 in.

When it came to some of the other paintings, such as Bel Canto....

Louise Fishman, Credo, 2015; oil on linen, 72 x 88 in.

 ....and Credo, I couldn't find my way in amid the welter of rushing colors and marks. My orderly sensibility wanted to go back to the spareness of Easy Living, a painting that seems reticent alongside these others. But, a funny thing has happened as I've been processing these photos: I like the paintings more and more. Of course I'm now seeing them in a small size, with the paint flattened out, with the energy of the actual work dissipated on the computer screen, but it has allowed me to see the structure more clearly and not be overwhelmed by the paintings' complexity. I wish I could see this show again.

Josh Smith, Untitled, 2014; rabbit skin glue, calcium carbonate, white pigment, ink, watercolor, graphite, grease pencil, and paint pen on panel; 32 x 26 x 2 1/2 in.  

The visual experience couldn't have been more different around the corner at the Josh Smith exhibition "Sculpture" at Luhring Augustine (this show is over). On mid-sized gessoed panels were minimal marks, made with various painting and drawing tools. I felt pleasure in seeing the off-hand marks, their casualness, on the open white ground. They reminded me of Richard Tuttle's work, especially some of his most spare watercolors.

Detail of the above

The gesso of the panels––made with rabbit skin glue and calcium carbonate, a true gesso––was full of cracks, probably because of being prepared incorrectly. Smith used this occurrence as a strange conceit, calling the show "Sculpture"; he said "You could call them paintings, but they're not paintings. They're sculptures. They have to be sculptures." It's a very odd thing to say, though I suppose it's not any stranger than Frank Stella calling his huge 3 dimensional works "paintings".

Josh Smith, Untitled, 2014; rabbit skin glue, calcium carbonate, white pigment, ink, watercolor, grease pencil, and paint pen on panel; 50 1/2 x 38 1/2 x 2 1/2 in.  

I liked some of these works very much: they satisfied my sensibility. The balance of line and emptiness felt right.

Josh Smith, Untitled, 2014; rabbit skin glue, calcium carbonate, white pigment, graphite, grease pencil, and paint pen on panel; 32 x 26 x 2 1/2 in.  

In the work above, the single line moving erratically down the surface has a poetic relationship to the lines of the cracked gesso.

For me there's something touching, almost poignant, about these thin wavering lines, as though they are beings uncertain of their place in the world. From what I've seen, though, of Josh Smith's other work, this body of work is a quirk, probably the only work of his I'll ever like; I certainly don't like what came before this. I know I will continue to admire Louise Fishman's work, but doubt I'll feel the same about Josh Smith's.....(but you never know; I've been surprised before)....

A New Textile: "Zigzags and Curves"

Zigzags and Curves, hand dyed wool on linen, 14 x 16 1/2 in.

Two overlapping rectangles; two colors: a very simple idea. To add a little complexity, a different hooking pattern in each rectangle: repeated zigzags, and gentle curves. I wasn't sure that this would be enough visual interest to carry the piece, but because it's fairly small, I think it works, and I like its minimal quality. The patterned hooking causes the edges to become especially uneven, but that doesn't bother me much; irregularity tends to be a characteristic of rug hooking. 

Zigzags and Curves detail

At the Met: Egypt's Middle Kingdom; The Real and the Ideal

Lintel of Amenemhat I and Deities, detail,  ca. 1981-1952 B.C.; limestone, paint, 14 1/2 x 68 in. 

The exhibition currently at the Met, "Ancient Egypt Transformed: The Middle Kingdom" is spectacular. Beautifully installed and lit, with room to contemplate each object with quiet attention, the show is full of remarkable objects. They are gathered from the period of the Middle Kingdom, around 2030-1650 B.C., when Egypt was reunited after a period of decentralization. Did the fact of having strong rule lead to the making of such refined and sensitive sculpture? I don't know, but I do know that the works are entrancing. Above, the god Horus, his headdress still showing patterns of paint, holds an ankh, a sign for eternal life. 

Relief of Nebhepetre Mentuhotep II and the Goddess Hathor, detail, cas. 2010 -2000 B.C.; limestone, paint, 14 3/16 x 38 9/16 in. 

I love relief carving, Egyptian and Persian; perhaps it's because it is intermediate between painting and sculpture in the round. The carefully carved ideograms, here and in the first image, give me such deep pleasure in their keen observation and their clarity. When the form is idealized, it is still based on an understanding of visual reality. The modeling of form is minimal, but because the outlines are so carefully drawn, they imply fullness.
(I have provided links––in the titles––to the Met's website for all the works I've shown only in detail, so you can see the entire sculpture.)

Stela of the Overseer of the Fortress Intef, ca. 2021-2000 B.C.; painted limestone, 30 11/16 x 55 7/8 in. 

This stela is quite incredible (click to enlarge images!) in its delicacy. There is as much care taken with the carving of the hieroglyphs as with the offerings and the portraits of Intef and his wife.

Stela of the Overseer of the Fortress Intef detail

There is very little modeling, just a light curve at the edges of forms, but the effect is poetic in the rhythms of shapes and in their reserve.

Face of Senwosret III, ca. 1878-1840 B.C.; red quartzite, 6 1/2 x 4 x 4 1/2 in. 

The forms in Middle Kingdom sculpture were not solely idealized: in this portrait head of Senwosret III we can feel the presence of a living man; the stone seems soft, like flesh; the lips about to part, the eyes to blink. Thousands of years old, this portrait might be of a contemporary.

Head of a Statue of Amenemhat III Wearing the White Crown, ca. 1859-1813 B.C.; greywacke, 18 1/8 x 7 5/16 x 10 1/16 in. 

This portrait too has a precisely observed realism that brings an ancient character to life. It is especially vibrant because of the contrast between the carefully rendered face and the abstract form of the tall crown.

Relief of Seankhkare Mentuhotep III and the Goddess Iunyt, detail, ca. 2000-1988 B.C.; limestone,

31 x 53 x 4 1/2 in. 

Here is another king, but rendered as we usually expect in Egyptian art, in an idealized form. I love the pattern of headdress and collar, and the way the delicate ear stands forth.

Relief of Offering Bearers, detail, ca. 1961-1917 B.C.; limestone, paint, 57 9/16 x 50 1/2 x 5 3/4 in. (entire relief)

I especially delight in the picturing of animals in the reliefs. The Egyptian sculptors had a true affinity for depicting them. Here, the patterns of the ducks' feathers are described in paint.

Relief with Crocodile and Fish, ca. 1981-1919 B.C.; limestone, paint, 11 1/4 x 28 5/16 in.

The elegant form of the fearsome crocodile flows across this relief. He has a catfish in his mouth, and water plants float above.

Relief of a Woman Presenting an Ointment Vessel, ca. 2030-2000 B.C.; limestone, paint, 10 1/4 x 

6 1/4 x 1 9/16 in. 

I love the geometry above the figure in this relief. It represents wooden architecture.

Relief of Clapping Women, ca. 2051-2000 B.C.;  limestone, paint, 12 1/2 x 11 x 1/2 in. 

Because this is a sunken relief, there's a fascinating flipflop in the figure-ground relationships: the vase-like forms between the women's bodies take on more importance than the bodies themselves. The arms and bodies and negative spaces create a lively rhythm, appropriate to the subject.

Shrouded Royal Statue, Standing, ca. 2124-1981 B.C.; sandstone, 55 x 19 x 13 1/2 in. 

This sculpture truly stopped me in my tracks: its simple form was so powerful and moving. Because the body is shrouded, its details are hidden, except for the bony knees, which become a kind of human landmark, a connection to the earthen realm from that of the spiritual.

Statue of the Sealer Nemtihotep Seated, ca. 1981-1802 B.C.; quartzite, 30 1/8 x 9 13/16 x 30 5/16 in. 

This piece is another which is idealized and simplified, but still having tremendous emotional presence. It is so interesting to think of this and the one above alongside the two portraits that are much more naturalistic. Each style has its power, each moved me deeply. It is the work itself and not its style that is important.

Statue of the Sealer Nemtihotep Seated, side view

The forms are so beautifully integrated in this sculpture, leading to a true sense of the eternal.

Lintel of Senwosret I Running Toward the God Min, left panel, ca. 1961-1917 B.C.; limestone, 

43 11/16 x 60 5/8 x 11 in. 

Lastly, a sunken relief of a king, very finely wrought, with clear definition of musculature. It's unusual to see a king running, but here it is for a ritual: he is running towards the god Min, who is a fertility god.

Lintel of Senwosret I Running Toward the God Min detail

What I really enjoyed about this relief were the ideograms surrounding the main figure, especially the small, very expressive head. I asked my Egyptologist friend about these images and she told me that the top line reads, from right to left, "in the midst of"; the second line "city" (the crossroads), then an end of word sign; then the horned viper (which she corrected me from thinking it was some kind of giant slug) means "his". The eye probably starts another word, but the stone is broken off below it. The fact that we can read languages from so far in the past is very exciting to me. What is most thrilling, though, is to be able to see so much beautiful work from the rich visual culture of Egypt's Middle Kingdom.

A New Painting: "Gray Circles"

Gray Circles, egg tempera on calfskin parchment, 6 3/4 x 9 in.

It's quite unusual for me to make a painting whose color is essentially a neutral gray; during the six years I've been painting on parchment, I've done only one other, in 2012, which you can see here. It's fairly easy to make a lively painting whose primary color is yellow or blue, but with gray it's something of a challenge. The many repeated circles, large and small, drew me to this image. I decided to keep the color close to the original grays of the galvanized metal, rather than invent a more brilliant hue. I think it's a painting that swings between reserve––because of the quiet color––and energy––in its many circles and its cast shadows. And I swing between thinking it's a good painting and one that's just ho-hum. 

Gray Circles detail

The Transitions of November

On Sunday we turned the clocks back, making us even more aware of the changing light as we move towards winter. The sun is lower in the sky, the days are shorter, and something I am very aware of as I look out my east facing windows at dawn: the sun is rising farther in the south as its arc in the sky lessens, and we move closer to the winter solstice.

The sunflowers have dried, but I've left them in the garden for the chickadees, who love their seeds.

In the orchard, one tree of winter apples is still festooned with fruit, though all the leaves are gone.

The Burning Bush has turned from leafy crimson to scarlet berries.

Grasses and perennials have a quiet beauty, very different from the vivid colors of summer.

In the woods, drying grasses are pale green against the warmer hues of fallen leaves, once bright but now dun.

The grays of November can be very beautiful in their subtle variations, which look softer at this time of year; once snow is on the ground, the contrasts of tree and field become more intense.

Although October's brilliant maple foliage is gone, there is still color in the woods: the golds and rusts of beeches glow in the duller light. When I drove to NYC last week, there were also the rich colors of oaks, which grow closer to the Connecticut river, but not near my home.

And, there are the tamaracks, a deciduous conifer, growing here and farther north, adding their color to the remaining dark evergreens. There is much visual pleasure during this month of change, before the world becomes white with snow.

Svenja Deininger: Shape and Surface

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, 90 1/2 x 59 in. 

Shapes which nod towards geometry, but are not bound by it, are strongly or subtly colored: rhythms flow and jump.

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, detail

Svenja Deininger's exhibition "Untitled/Head" at Marianne Boesky is a deeply satisfying one: there is a sense of exploration, of expanding ideas; there is also a wonderful sensitivity to the weights of color and shape. Each of 12 paintings in this show, large or small, has beautifully realized surfaces: they are smooth and glassy, or revealing of the canvas beneath the color, or richly textured.

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, 90 1/2 x 59 in. 

The work is all from 2015, and untitled. I learned from the gallery press release that with the title of the show the artist tips her hat to Philip Guston's paintings from the late 1960s, when he was transitioning from abstraction to figuration. The painting above has a balance between the density of shapes––with some having a feel of transparency––and the pale area to the lower right; somehow that light, with two additional small bands, supports the rest of the painting. Some of the works have thin bordering lines, calling attention to the boundaries of the image. Although there's that reference to Guston's figurative works, for me the paintings remain resolutely non-referential.

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, detail

Another fascinating quality that Deininger brings to her paintings is that of low relief, having shapes meet at different levels, and with great clarity. This isn't always evident unless we walk up to the painting and look at it closely, and our attention is richly rewarded.

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, 70 3/4 x 51 1/8 in. 

This subtly colored painting is primarily a relief....

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, detail

....with building layers of paint or primer creating the form. I love seeing the care and precision which Deininger brings to her work.

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, 90 1/2 x 59 in.

Here is another compositional idea: a simple curved shape, almost disappearing at its top edge, bounded by a thick black line and beside whitish shapes. (The mustard yellow is a flat color; the variation in the photo is because of the lighting, and my not-perfect photography; here's a link to the gallery photo.)

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, detail

Like the red area in the first painting pictured, the yellow reveals the texture of the canvas. Pointing to the raw canvas makes us more aware of the process of making a painting, its beginnings, its magical illusions.

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, 90 1/2 x 59 in.

A neutral colored shape outlined in gold floats above a blue-ish ground, a ground that is very much a textile.

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas,  detail

We all know that many paintings are made on canvas, but it is usually covered over; it's a convenient, light, and durable surface that accepts gesso and paint well. Here, Deininger reminds us that canvas is indeed a textile, with its own nature, different from that of paint.

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, 23 5/8 x 18 1/2 in.

Lastly, two smaller paintings, one that is shaped, pushing off into the space around it. The black shape at the center is thickly textured, with a volcanic feel. The off kilter edges keep the piece in tension, and don't allow it to settle calmly into balance....

Untitled, 2015; oil on canvas, 19 5/8 x 15 3/4 in. 

....while this painting has a clear contrast between the linear edges at top and the more organic shape below, bringing them into an equilibrium which is enhanced by the quieter colors. There is so much invention and liveliness in this show that I look forward to seeing more from this young (41 is young to me) Viennese painter.