“[ ahr-key-dee-uh ] A mountainous region of ancient Greece, traditionally known for the contented pastoral innocence of its people. Any real or imaginary place offering peace and simplicity.” Dictionary.com
Not really an appropriate title for an Instagram-like scroll of images that depict some aspect of nature: landscape, plants, some potted, and so forth that led me to wonder—do I actually even like painting anymore? It might be the way the show is hung—the artists seem to have so little to say to each other—or that it is so content driven that it becomes a series of illustrations— or not enough work by any one artist to get a sense of what they are trying to do.
But then I got into the back of the second gallery and rested my eyes on the paintings of Colin Brant, Mark Laver and Agnes Treherne. They are in a corner together and interact very powerfully.
Could a landscape painting make people more aware of our environment, more willing to do what it takes to restore it to a livable, beautiful, sustainable place in which we might live contentedly? I think that’s the hope, whether or not the artists or curators of this show are aware of that as a motivation.
Hemlock/Ice works because the viewer is in a specific place—on a ridge, looking down through trees to a stream, at a specific time—late afternoon; the trees are illuminated obliquely and the stream is already shadowed. We may be looking for a place to swim, taking a last look back after climbing the hill or taking a piss by the side of the road. There are thousands of places like this just in the northeast—it’s a beautiful country. I like to stop and memorize them as Brant has done so beautifully. A good painting stops time; could it also open our eyes?
“An exclamation of surprise broke from the lips of Deerslayer… when on reaching the margin of the lake, he beheld the view that unexpectedly met his gaze. It was, in truth, sufficiently striking to merit a brief description. On a level with the point lay a broad sheet of water, so placid and limpid that it resembled a bed of the pure mountain atmosphere, compressed into a setting of hills and woods.
But the most striking peculiarities of this scene were its solemn solitude and sweet repose. On all sides, wherever the eye turned, nothing met it but the mirror-like surface of the lake, the placid view of heaven, and the dense setting of woods.
“This is grand!—’tis solemn!—’tis an edication of itself, to look upon!” exclaimed Deerslayer…”
The Deerslayer, James Fennimore Cooper
Let’s Move… is a combination of a map and a picture. The underpainting is a creamy white and is painted in transparent washes and scumblings of muted colors. It is oil on panel but has all the fresh spontaneity of a watercolor.
Instead of standing for a moment, the viewer is in motion plotting a walk down a path. It takes a minute to notice that we will be walking into a storm. That combination—the perception that the path is inviting and noticing the storm—plays out again and again as I continue to look at the painting perceiving the painting in more and more detail: the comical anthropomorphic shape of the bush in the foreground, what looks like a nice rock for a picnic, some intriguing sidepaths.
That feeling of being about to enter the picture is strong in Untitled too. There are elements that remind me of illustrations in children’s books, with all of the charm and none of the soupiness. I am goggled, figuring how to swim through this underwater landscape—is it a bit dark through there though?
I read once that a characteristic of Cezanne’s woodland paths was that there was always an obstacle, a fallen log for example. Maybe every good painting is itself plus a metaphor?
Saplings is a witty landscape made with directional brushstrokes on a slightly acid yellow ground. The view is from a sunlit hill falling off into a black abyss and a densely forested area with no visible path. The eponymous little trees in the foreground seem to be surviving the transplant. I have an atavistic urge to leap into that forest and escape civilization, though I have no skills to survive in it.
Does it seem strange to you that I am continuously inserting myself into these landscapes?
“Landscape painting is the thoughtful and passionate representation of the physical conditions appointed for human existence. It imitates the aspects, and records the phenomena, of the visible things which are dangerous or beneficial to men; and displays the human methods of dealing with these, and of enjoying them or suffering from them, which are either exemplary or deserving of sympathetic contemplation.”
Lectures On Landscape, John Ruskin, 1871
Ruskin positively asserts that the “interest of a landscape consists wholly in its relation either to figures present—or to figures past—or to human powers conceived” or it is useless. It is surprising at first—placing the human experience as central. On further thought though, a good painting is not evidence or surveillance—it offers a completely subjective experience to a human viewer.
We know that apes and elephants can paint and, if they are connoisseurs of each other’s paintings as well, I think we can assume that they will be seeing them from their respective points of view. I have noticed this from our cat Sammy; the only thing that interests him on television is a bird sound—or one time a mewing kitten.
Two other works stopped me in my tracks simply for the deep pleasure of looking at them. A complex tour de force drawing from life by Tyga Helme and a painting by Will Gabaldon that I didn’t write down the name of and which I saw at Gallery 1969 across the street from Cohan—it seems simple but I guess it’s not, because it exerts a strange power to focus my attention.
—CNQ
*Lectures on Landscape can and probably should be read in full on Project Gutenberg here
