Two Fires: In Phoenix or Judgement
So we know that photography killed painting, which then came alive, phoenix-like from the ashes of light sensitive paper and chemicals. Artists had to find new ways of making painting an art. And they were pretty successful. They looked at that flat surface in front of them, asked quintessential questions and answered them in two dimensions, without even trying to give the impression of a third. Art was renewed. Then Lucio Fontana sliced into the canvas and said “Ha. Now what do you think?” Of course, Marcel Duchamp had already let the cat out of the bag, but I have to still wonder if he was making art, or just messing with our heads. Although, to some degree or other, that’s exactly what art should do.
And now of course, the internet is killing physical art. Why bother having the real thing, when you can see a really good photo of it on an artist’s website, or even download a photo and have it printed on canvas yourself? We know that many artists have assistants who create the work, the artist maybe having a little job at the end, with some varnish, or just a signature. The aura, in this case, seems to be a glowing quite slightly.
So, anyway, photography decided to get in on the act and start calling itself art. But I’ve always been very suspicious of this. And this week my suspicions were confirmed. At Galería Víctor Saavedra I helped myself to a glass of cava (I literally had to open the bottle myself). Here, Marcos Bauzá is showing some serendipitous holiday snaps. We don’t have to sit down with him and go through all the photos he took, though. At least this is just a selection, presumably of the best. Pity his poor mum and dad. “So, Mum, here’s a picture of a person at the beach. And Dad, look, here is another person, yes, at the beach”.
I want to pause here and say that at this point I went looking for some more information about the artist. But there was none. Nothing on the gallery’s website, which hasn’t been updated since the middle of 2014. Nothing on the artist’s website. And here I mean literally nothing. Just the flyer for this show. Literally nothing else. Incredible. So maybe the internet isn’t killing art. Maybe collectively, all artists should take a stand against the virtual world, and delete every one of their images that is on the web.
In all there were three photos here that I might have been called “art”. The first was of a man’s legs, feet in flip flops, and two other legs, but of different people, in stockings and high heels. The shadows were intriguing, including one of a girl, looking (or being made to look) at the man. There was a story here, and while I’m not sure what it was, it made me uneasy, and I’m happy with that. But ultimately for me, this is a just a still from a film. The second was of two rather large men, sleeping on the beach, on their sides, with their rather large bellies flopping onto the sand. One man had one hand buried in the sand. Bauzá has, by taking the snap, rightly pointed out that this is an interesting scene. But has not gone any further than this. I wanted to see this as painting by Chris Ofili or Alison Malinsky because then I could believe that the artist really, truly believed that there was something to say here. That there is some artistic intent. That he had chosen some compositional elements and arranged them to say something. That he believed that this image could make us feel or think or be.
The third art photo is quite stunning, if it hasn’t been photoshopped. Or even if it has. But if you’re going to photoshop stuff, then you are not telling the truth. I can’t believe any of your photos, Marcos. Which is to say, if you photoshopped this one (and really, it’s absolutely fine if you did, it shows that you are really putting the thing together for a reason, your reason) then why not ‘shop all of them, to match the quality of this one. So what is this amazing photo? It’s a view from the MNAC, of some people and a pigeon taking flight. A child is wearing a gorilla mask. It’s a stunning, surreal photo, that stands some looking at. Yes, we are back here again. The notion of art as being something that can hold the gaze. It’s not funny (see pic of policeman and mirror), it’s not meta (see pic of a photographer with tripod taking a photo), it’s not quirky. It’s not quotidien. And yet. And yet, I don’t know just HOW long I could look at it. Could I really stand to look at it for the next fifty years?
Five minutes later I was taking a look at David Rodríguez Caballero’s new show at Marlborough Gallery. At first sight, I realised I was missing out already… here were some movers and shakers in the art world of Barcelona. I was too late for cava, but the man in the nice waiter’s uniform did offer us a beer. To share. My bad. Next time I’ll have to get there before the lush crush drinks it all. So here we had some good sized wall and freestanding metal sculptures that would look good in the homes of any pijo Catalan. Or an upmarket hotel. It’s art to give an impression, but it’s not impressive art. The forms are conservative, there’s nothing to grab the attention. It’s art for looking through, not for looking at. Which is a pity. Because just the other day I was at a Marc Calzada Gallery and one of the bits and bobs which caught my eye turns out to be by Rodríguez. A piece of folded semi-transparent sheet, with just a triangle of colour. A three dimensional painting, if you will, framed behind glass. It was tentative and fragile and by no means perfect, with smudges and crease marks. But it had soul and spirit and the promise of things to come. But this show just made me feel that by going bigger, Rodríguez has lost his nerve. There were some hints at lingam, some nods to a yoni. But the tantric spirituality stops quickly. The pieces look and feel like they’ve come out of a factory for giants’ bathroom accessories which makes the whole thing feel genital, not profound. His website simply adds to this view. It is sanitized, clean, work-a-day. It was put together in 2013 to create the impression of an active, hands on artist. Even the photos of his sketchbook are clearly made up to give the sense of artistic endeavour. There is no passion here, no love. The tentative, probing, seeking for truth has gone, and is replaced with sterile, if serviceable, work. The kind of work that makes a lawyer seem trustworthy, or your shrink antiseptic.
I don’t know what quintessential questions these artists are asking. I don’t really understand what impressions they are trying to make. I feel as if both artists are trying to hide behind their work, in case someone asks them to express their feelings, and they come up short. They are themselves scared that if challenged they couldn’t really justify what they do as artists. They need to throw their work into the fire, not of the phoenix, but of the Last Judgement. And see what is made evident. For the fire itself will test the quality of each man’s work.
