October 1, 2014 · Print This Article
By Kevin Blake
I drift. A good drift. A perfect drift. One that will catch a nice trout. I swing my rod overhead and flick the tip upstream. Mend. Mend. Recover and drift….fish. My memory takes me downstream and the water sweeps my feet from underneath me. I allow the current to drag me away from here.
As I rush past the shores of my recollection, I realize that it may take a lifetime’s worth of attention to learn the secrets of the river. I realize that each section of the stream requires a different understanding and consequently, a different approach, to unlock the mysteries of each pool, eddy, and riffle. I’m reeling but not too aggressively. I don’t want to lose this fish.
Fly fisherman, like painters, have an uncanny ability to liken any conversation to their pursuits with a rod or paintbrush, on the theory that the essence of anything is in how it relates to their quests. In Kim Piotrowski’s show, Catch and Release at Linda Warren Projects, this perpetual metaphor is alive and well and permeating from the walls of the gallery. The rush flows from one piece to another. The fish spook and swim under rocks and stay there until I walk away, only to emerge again as I distance myself from the work–forcing me to return and throw another glance at the image. These are freshwater works(predominately made with water-based media), bottomless and infinite–their currents creating a generative energy for their creator that seemingly erodes her immediate boundaries and transforms those limits into the conditions upon which the next work is made.
I lodge the toe of my boot underneath a submerged log as to brace myself for another run. It’s trying to get away from me. I hold my rod high and behind me with my left hand and keep my right hand on the reel. My body twists to make the position possible. I’m adding line as fast as the fish rips it off. The cold water makes new seams around my legs, adapting to my temporary damn. I watch my line tighten. The fish changes direction–and once again–I’m reeling.
I stand suspended in the gallery, surrounded by effort–large and small. Piotrowski has transformed the space to not only display her achievements, but to advance her inquiry. In her debut exhibition with LWP, Piotrowski casts her lines in every direction. Her massive site-specific painting done directly onto a gallery wall that spans 43 feet, is a glowing example of her fearless attempts to allow opportunities to be the source of her invention. She has titled the piece Tide Tango and in her words, it represents “the dance we do with the rush of thoughts as life runs over and through us.”
Like the river, Piotrowski’s paintings meander, dash, swirl, and coalesce in spaces that cannot be confined by the limits of the page. She recognizes the necessity to expand the space into different formats(see Corner Lot, 2014), providing new borders to break free from and allowing new puzzles to emerge.
Piotrowski’s paintings remind me of Matthew Ritchie’s complexly scaffolded spaces that find organization in chaos. The ability of arbitrarily small occurrences to greatly affect the outcome of a painting is particularly present in both artist’s works. Though Piotrowski seems to be making the paintings with much less discrimination. Less rules. Less fuss. More risk. Yet, in both artist’s work, there are common mark-making strategies, similar viscosities in paint applications, and there is an ever present familiarity in the natural locomotion of fluids on the surfaces they paint on. While Ritchie seems to be interested in corralling those fluids to work within his system, Piotrowski seems to let paint go where it wants, and her next move is a response to its uninhibited resting place.
I’m bringing him afoot. The line is tight but loosening. As the fish lays down, I pull him softly toward my free hand. In an instant, before I could grab him and at exactly the moment our eyes meet, he gives one last fit of terror and snaps free of the fly.
Fishing and painting are matters of timing in a changeable universe, and even when one returns to a place or moment of success, its doubtful that it will be under the exact conditions. Having broken the rhythm of a brilliant performance, it’s possible to never go back at all, and one shouldn’t go back–forward is the only worthwhile direction. The next hole upstream holds a trophy too, and its there that Piotrowski seems to be constantly aiming.
Life is a dangerous and unmanageable mess, but somehow these paintings have achieved a different description. Piotrowski’s description of life and linear time, is something much more approachable. Catchable even. As life runs over and through her, Piotrowski stands in the river waving a stick, trying to catch the catchable and upon success, immediately releases it back into the water for the next fisherman to stumble upon.
October 3, 2013 · Print This Article
This summer I visited slow gallerys’ group show,Â Rehearsal Attire.Â It was an exhibit about painting and something about what slow’s Director Paul Hopkin said has stuck to my ribs. Hopkin talked about how many Chicago painters created flat canvases, with a picture plane that stands parallel to the viewer, suggesting this predisposition might have something to do with our immediate landscape â€” the way we live in a flatland, on urban streets crowded with buildings. By comparison Â Southwestern painters are prone to pictures with expansive skies and topographical landscapes Â stretching indefinitelyÂ out. Hopkin admitted that conversations like that â€” about horizon lines and abstraction â€” led Fischer and Hopkin to organize Rehearsal Attire together. In this case, however, landscapes were not expressly present, nor limitless topographies. Rather, Fisher’s abstract paintings hung alongside Meg Duguid, Mindy Rose Schwartz and Charles Fogarty. Duguid disassembled a wall in the gallery and packed it in a suitcase. Fogarty removed a wall from his studio, on which he had painted a gingham cloth and re-situated it insideÂ slow,Â beside a pile of campaign-like baseball hats that read “LUNCH”. Mindy Rose Schwartz sculpted a figure out of plaster cast with an unprimed, and partially stitched canvas face; in another work a delicate series of hoops reach off the wall at variant angles. Between the hoops’ bounds, flowers and thread weave in abstract, figurative compositions. I was drawn into these works with many questions â€” questions about limits, deconstruction, assembly and abstraction, questions that brought me to Andreas Fischer’s studio, where we discussed his approach to painting, and howÂ Rehearsal AttireÂ came about.
Caroline Picard:Â How do you think about horizon lines in paintings? Can you have multiple limits operating at once in the same piece?
Andreas Fischer:Â Things like horizon lines and spatial boundaries come from Â conventions embedded in the images I have been using. Â The starting points for all of my recent work are what I would call conventional everyday image types -the kinds of images that are so present that they often get taken for granted or ignored. Â At the same time, though, they have a problematic status because they are completely Â contested territory even though they might look stable.
On Â one hand I am using various aspects of the conventional states of these images, which are socially determined. On the other hand I am Â materializing a reaction by trying to reconstruct these images, which I see as an example of how any individual might react. So, yes there are definitely multiple limits and they are directed by moving changing negotiations that I see as a kind of intersection of one idea of what is social and another idea of what is individual. Painting in this sense is a kind of materialization of reception or reaction â€” action painting in a sense, but not as a statement â€” maybe more like the way an electronic instrument might monitor a changing environment.
CP:Â Wait â€” that’s exciting. How is a painting like an electronic instrument? Is it responding to you or the viewer?
AF:Â Well, I think of painting as decidedly not static and that is a big reason I am interested in it.Â I do think that so called fixed images are different from what we more clearly accept to be in motion.Â Paintings are moving perhaps more slowly and can be understood as attempts to visualize actions in a heightened way.Â Literally and chemically paint is Â moving and changing over time from the moment pigment is ground, through the gesture of applying paint, to the drying; shrinking; aging and cracking that paint undergoes over time.
More importantly, though, a painting is an Â action or gesture that begins to happen under certain circumstances and changes as the context around it changes. Our perceptions and interpretations of paintings change as the changing chemical compounds intersect with worlds that are always trying to figure themselves out. In this sense painting is like an electronic instrument in that it is a kind of sensor and feedback system that outputs interpretable data as the world moves â€” the meaning of the painting (or its output) changes as the stuff around it changes.
I am interested in the act of painting as a way of thinking, sorting or Â diagnosing.Â Both painting and electronic instruments come into being in a sense because of what they need to be able to do with their environments.Â Electronic instruments are programmed to track, calculate, and relay data based on socially developed criteria or perceived need.Â Maybe we do a version of this too as individuals Â and if so I think painting is likely a materialization of this kind of reflection of a larger social environment.
CP:Â Â How do you think about the logic of a single composition?Â
AF:Â The operating functions for composition and formal relationships for me are negotiation and process. In a sense each work is compositionally and formally its own activity. The kinds of reactions and procedures that an image seems to provoke on a given day especially as these bounce off of different patterns of thought and expectation floating around in the world vary quite a bit. This part of the operation Â is not a logical progression â€” it is more preformative, maybe a bit like the way a player responds to the action in many kinds of sports.
CP:Â But in that case are you playing against yourself? Like a soccer player bouncing a ball against a concrete wall with static, physical and predictable qualities? Or do you feel like the canvas/paint/medium brush are less predictable and somehow capable of responding to you, like â€” say â€” another player on the field?
AF:Â I definitely experience it as the latter. Â What I was thinking about was the way a body navigates and responds to various barriers and desired outcomes in real time â€” the spontaneous interaction of it all is so much like the act of painting for me. Â Maybe the ingredients of painting are not quite like another player, but more like the entire context of the game.Â So yes, the medium is not predictable for me.Â If I could control it I wouldn’t paint. Â Furthermore, Â I suspect that I am deciding or acting and reacting coextensively with social interactions I have had or might anticipate having in the future. Â I think this is where the distinction between Â what is social and what is individual falls Â apart in an interesting way because each of these determine the other and maybe there is not really even a distinction in the end. Â Maybe we are really post-individual.
CP:Â How did your recent show “Rehearsal Attire” come together?
AF:Â Paul Hopkin and I have been talking about doing something for a while and when we started to think seriously about what a project might look like we started trying think of way to Â acknowledge conversation as a generative tool. I was making work that was in many was the product of specific conversations I was having with a few people and was very interested in a group show as a way to extend that dialogue. Â I think Paul had been on that page for a while before we started working on the project.
Much of art history is really the act of watching very particular materialized conversations between a surprisingly small group of people. One could argue that the real content of much art is the function of conversation or relatively intimate social interaction. I wanted to start acknowledging my work as a set of Â indexes of Â lines of conversation. Â I wanted to take that system Â into a gallery and mix it with a different group of people Â having different conversations so that one conversational context would bounce off of a few others to see how they would co-mingle and resisted each other. Â There are so many amazing ways that groups or specific conversations out in the world intersect with other groups. Â There is something fundamentally fascinating about a semi closed circle bumping into another semi closed circle. Â Â That vibration, that negotiation is incredibly exciting to me and has been a huge motivator for my work over the last several years.
CP:Â How do you see that fitting into the more general dialogue of painting at the moment?
AF:Â I see a great deal of coolness of one kind or another in painting right now. I might be interacting with that characterization in the sense that, even though I kind of love much of the work I would characterize this way, I am much more interested in a state of being thoroughly tangled in the messiness of thought, struggle, material, and process. Â I am probably not anything like cool in my interaction with painting.Â I think I embrace a kind of sloppy affirmational complexity that has more of a diving-into-the-muck quality to it.
CP:Â How do you think about deconstructing frames? Is that something of interest to you in painting?
AF:Â I love deconstruction and the expectation that it will yield different layers of meaning. But I don’t think of my work in those terms right now. I think the negotiations that I see the work enacting are more like a struggle to bring things together. There is the familiar idea about early modernism that at a certain point painting became more opaque, more interested in its own materialism as a way of enacting skepticism toward unified illusion and its ability to function as a vehicle for certain idealisms, perhaps dangerously so. This is a way of seeing materially oriented painting as engaged in negation, criticism or the act of taking apart to an extent. Now that the idea of a unified illusionistic painting is historical and the more usual way for painting to function is through assertions of materialism over illusion, I think materially active painting has executed one critical task that maybe does not need to be rehearsed as insistently anymore meaning that materialism is a kind of free floating signifier that can attach itself to a much wider range of potential functions. Â The range of possibilities for material activity has opened Â up.
One of the possibilities can be a link between opacity and the act or struggle to form an image or to produce rather than take apart. Painting can be expected to Â create a narrative construction relative to images we know to exist or not. For me the act that is most important is the act of framing in a sense, or getting an image to grow and take shape inside a frame, on a surface, or within a field. Â In that case when we watch a painting we are watching something grow.
CP:Â One of the things I often struggle with in abstract painting is how to understand the meaning, or what is at stake in a given work. Taking what you said into account, I wonder if this idea of emergent order (is that an accurate paraphrase for “getting an image to grow and take shape inside a frame”)Â isÂ at the heart of the matter. Namely, whether or not a painting succeeds and/or fails at that â€” whether it makes the pursuit of that order interesting, and â€” if you’ll allow a sentimental tone â€” heartbreaking (again, because it succeeds, or almost succeeds)?
AF:Â I totally agree with what you are suggesting at least in terms of how I would like my work to live or die. Â Heartbreak could very well be a part of it all.
I like that you use the term emergent order as well.Â I understand that to be a bottom up kind of growth based on a kind of exchange and growth where no one entity is in charge, is designing or directing the process or even knows what is going on, but great innovation or development takes place anyway.Â I think social interaction that flows beyond individual intent or understanding (or maybe just determines it in the end), but operates none the less is totally fascinating and it might be that many kinds of paintings are symptomatic of this kind of function somehow because they happen through a group of impulses, gestures, thoughts, urges, curiosities that just move around an individual Â kind of unknowingly.Â There is an argument about Cezanne, for example that his supposedly individualistic innovations in paint handling are really just marks that anyone could make, which means that Cezanne is not an old fashioned modernist genius, but a kind of repository of commonality and his brilliance is really in his assertion of a shared, common, everyday kind of simple mark that anyone could make.
In the end if all of these interactions somehow reflect something valuable Â then they work.Â And as you suggest, maybe if this kind of thing is true then it establishes a different way for painting to function than relying on what we might have called meaning in the past. Â Maybe it is not really about the question of where or even if it ends up, but a kind of empathetic struggle to move toward something.
This week: Bad at Sports presents an interview from our media partner Art Practical. Kim Anno is interviewed by Bruno Fazzolari as a part of his ongoing series of interviews with artists regarding abstraction. Kim Anno is an Associate Professor of Painting at CCA who makes videos, photos and paintings with an undercurrent of environmental activism. Bon Appetit!
Somehow I missed this series when it debuted at the end of November, but my trusty feedreader eventually makes sure the good stuff gets my attention. BOMB’s Jackie Saccoccio posed this question to twelve painters whom she admires: “What is the current state of abstraction?” The answers, provided by Dan Walsh and Amy Sillman, Jessica Dickinson and Philip Taafe, Steve DiBenedetto and Eric Wendel, Jason Fox and Eva Lundsager, and Carroll Dunham and Keltie Ferris, are as tonally varied, compelling, cheeky and angst-ridden as is, well, the state of abstraction today, I guess. (Amy Sillman uses the question as the opportunity to formally break up with Abstraction). Read all of the responses here. The last entry in the series, including responses from Marc Handelman and Cheryl Donegan, are coming up in a future installment.