Rob Adams a Painter's Blog painter's progress

July 28, 2016

Mad with the Power

Filed under: Art History,Philosophy,Satire — Tags: , , — Rob Adams @ 11:05 am

I am officially qualified to make art. Yes I mean it, I have a bit of paper, which only I and the person who shoved it in an envelope has ever seen, that says Robert Adams, Ba Hons Sculp (3rd class). Which is as near, I might add, as it is possible to get on a Fine Art course to failing, but none the less it confirms I have the power. I can look, or even if I am bold intervene on an object, and with a wave make it art. Move it from the category of the mundane to an elevated existence. Ok, Ok waving is probably a bit too Harry Potter with an Art Wand… maybe just pin an A4 sheet of impenetrable art-speak next to it… Now people will look at this thing differently, they will stroke their chins and ponder, they will feel the need to say that I explore the boundaries of the mundane and the elevated, with a bit of luck they might even pay me so they can stroke their chins at home and impress their friends with their avant-garde taste in art.

Great power, as Spiderman’s Uncle Ben once said, comes with great responsibility. I could theoretically pin a bit of paper on the Child Okeford village noticeboard declaring the whole village art, or even the whole of Dorset, drunk with power I could claim the entire universe as my creation and artify the whole shebang! Tricky to exhibit I suppose, just an A4 in an empty gallery declaring my act of will would do it though. Ah yes I can see it, a pure white cube of empty space with a single sheet of paper on one of the pristine walls. The Turner prize would be a shoe in, Kirsty Wark would interview me in that humble mortal talking to a high priest manner she has, hanging on my every statement concerning my realms of concern and posing deferential enquires as to how I became such a genius.

But maybe best not, how will everyone feel to be just the raw materials for my art? What if someone objects to being merely the paint on my conceptual brush? I could of course put my bit of paper in a locked box and declare that within it lay the greatest creative statement ever. Hmm that might be enough for the prize in itself! Me not saying what it is would become part of the work and no one would need to know that I had artified them and the entire multiverse without  asking first.

Other artists might be a problem too, their art would just become a footnote to my far larger conceptual reach. Artists are an egotistical lot they are bound to object. By signing and dating the entire universe I have made their work mine which could cause me to be accused of plagiarism… The other worry is that they have the power too. I would worry that they might de-artify my masterpiece. Very tricky, can an artist take back the fairy dust of artification? Is artifying a one way street? I don’t see why it should be, if I scrape off a painting it is very much de-arted, so what is possible in the practical world should be possible in the conceptual, easier too…

Lets try it there is nothing like experimental evidence. Here is my breakfast in a mundane state.

breakfast

 

now below here it is “Artified”

 

breakfast

Pretty impressive, the difference is striking it now says so much more, it comments on society and how we always seem to fall short of our dietary ambitions. How the  paradigm of the dialectical forces inherent in the working classes express themselves in a glorious hymn to cholesterol. Now the acid test the de-artified version:

 

breakfast

Well that pretty much proves it, the breakfast is just breakfast again with no subtext.

This is going to cause a storm in the art world I fear. What if Anthony Gormley de-artifies one of my paintings? Do I retaliate in kind and de-art the Angel of the North? I can envisage two artists duelling each arting and de-arting objects by pinning A4 conceptual declarations in turn. Some miscreant could pin an A4 sheet saying “This is not an Oak Tree” next to Michael Craig Martin’s seminal work. What if someone de-arts the Sistine Chapel? Would the people stop going? The Pope would have to get Damien Hurst in to re-art it or the Vatican would be very much out of pocket.

I am now worrying as to whether I should post this. By clicking “post” I am changing the whole fabric of Western Art entirely. No one will ever look at art the same way again. Perhaps best not, the disruption would set artist against artist, a civil war in the art world. Tracy Emin might get blackmailed by a rogue artist threatening to de-art her bed. The foundations of the art world would be shaken and undermined. More to the point auction prices could plummet, no collector would ever feel secure knowing that their collection of shiny Jeff Koons doggies might be mundanified at any moment by a dissident artist… Then again there is always the chance that I might get that Kirsty Wark interview and be on the telly…

 

 

November 23, 2015

The Making of a Masterpiece

Filed under: London,Painting,Satire,Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , — Rob Adams @ 3:32 pm

People who don’t paint tend not to realise the agonies that a true artist goes through to produce a painting. They just swan into a gallery and sweep a brief dismissive gaze across the works on show. They do not care about the blood sweat and floods of tears that have been expended upon its creation. So I thought to give a give a warts and all description of the agonised emotions and spiritual turmoil that goes into making a painting.

1. The Conception: Oh how to put over how painful this stage is! To reach deep into oneself, tearing open the half healed wounds of a tragic childhood through to a melancholic and lonely adulthood. Separated from ordinary mundane people by the great rift that being an artist occasions. Even though I dimly perceived the misery ahead the creative urge wells up within me like a great dark river and I must find a subject that encompasses my turbulent emotions of pity for my fellow humans and the pointlessness of existence. After several sleepless and fevered nights I was struck by the lightning bolt of inspiration which ran burning and sparking through my whole self. Shopping, it had to be about shopping. I now had a concept, I didn’t want ordinary shopping I wanted top drawer pure un-adulterated by practical needs shopping. So Harrods it must be!!

2. The Subject: I arrived in the afternoon on a cold day in Knightsbridge and looked at the various viewpoints I could choose. It was to be a representational painting but not a mere illustration, any representational or skilful qualities must be purely ironic and contemporary. At each possible vantage point I centred myself and chanted a few Buddhist mantras. I tried to draw the very essence of the place and the urgency of the shoppers into my inner being. As is so often the case I could not see my way forwards so I retired to a cafe to read Proust in the original French. Finally with a Herculean effort of will I girded my artistic loins and set forth again.

3. The Sketch: Almost immediately a place just by a pelican crossing called to me. The artist has to be sensitive to the smallest flows of energy. The people crossing the road, the traffic, the busses stopping all spoke to me with voices like razors across my very soul. Seething with anticipation I set up my paints and prepared to tease out the very essence of what lay before me and set it down in paint. The next hour passed in a semiconscious daze as I stepped into a higher plane. I rose like a phoenix from a fire of ubiquity encompassing for a moment an almost god like perception. Then inevitably I fell like Icarus to the hard stone pavement spent and grey with pain. Once I had dragged myself up to my feet I saw what my agonies had brought into the world. I’m sure you will look at the image below differently now you know what it cost me!
Harrods, Knightsbridge, London, plein air, oil painting

4. The Block In: This is of course only the first step in an arduous climb to the snowy unattainable Everest that is creating a piece of Fine Art. To transfer the gold mined at the rock face of cruel reality I needed to go through the process to purify and concentrate the image. This means reducing it to its absolute and inner simplicity. First I blessed my studio with rosewater and chanted a mantra or two. I had to stop after the next door people started banging on the wall. Do they not realise what delicate alchemy I am performing? It was too late though they had broken the spell. After weeping abjectly I went to see my therapist friend Silvia and shared my agonies with her for two or three hours. The next afternoon I rose and began the process again. I whispered my prayers this time and began to put out paint upon my palette. I tried to be aware of the smallest act, the squeezing of the tube, the small noise of the pallet knife as it sensually conjoined the different hues. Then I began to apply the paint to the surface. At all times I had to remain true to the given surface and remain honest to my materials. Once again the red blaze of raw creativity rose up and overwhelmed me. I don’t know when, but at some point darkness claimed me and I knew no more.

Block in

5. Developing the Theme: Once I had recovered consciousness and struggled up from the paint bespattered floor of my cold unheated studio, the above is what I saw. I cried out at the sheer force of it. It was only the merest beginning, but it cried out to me. Should I stop? If I did more then all could so easily be lost. I rang Silvia but she wasn’t answering. I was on my own with an aesthetic monster to wrestle. To prepare myself I popped down to the spar for some irrigation. I needed to be pure inside and out for the next battle. I dropped in on my friend Josh and spent several hours explaining my concept and sharing the agonies of being an artist. He is a musician and can only know the smallest part of what I feel but nonetheless he is a kindred spirit if only a very distant and lowly one. It was only next morning I began again. I tiptoed into my studio as if I was Theseus about to confront the Minotaur with only the thin fragile thread of my inspiration to guide me. How to describe the battle that followed? The sweeping strokes of the brush that outlined and delineated the world like a lover’s touch. The harsh jabs and cutting strokes that came as if from a duellist wielding an epee. I felt both triumph when my strokes hit home and despair when they went astray destroying what had gone before. So all day the battle line heaved to and fro, with me crying out in joy as some ground was gained in an exquisite passage of scumbling to weeping with despair as some delicate nuance of application evaded me. Eventually my energy ran out and I had to withdraw, battered, wounded but still unbeaten. Unable to look I fled the room and went to sleep wondering how I was ever to find fuel stoke my inner creative fires to continue.

6. Resolving the Parts: The next day I felt trepidation as I entered my studio. Oh Joy! Somehow I had defined the undefinable. Oh Despair! The battle was won but the war still had to be resolved. I could not immediately face the enemy. I rang Silvia but she still wasn’t picking up. Josh wasn’t answering either his home or his mobile. My heart sank I was a lone pilgrim without support. This is the moment a true artist is born to confront. I reached deep into the abyss of my being and gathered my strength. I approached the canvas with the steely uncompromising strength of a lone warrior, armoured, weary, but stern as a Judge. I now worked with a cold calm fury. I laboured as the blacksmith does taming and forging the paint with unrelenting blows. Here I struck mightily with the sparks flying and here I struck softly merely caressing the surface. I realise in such moments why there are so few of us amongst the great hordes of mankind. This kind of mastery is given only to a few, both a blessing and a curse.

 

oil painting

7. Confronting the Devil of Detail: Now was the time for the last act. In truth I did not know on that cold morning whether I would survive the trials of the coming day. I knew my body would live but would it contain my spirit or be a mere empty shell, a husk? This time I approached the work as might a poor ash strewn hermit or some bearded eastern fakir with only a begging bowl in his hand and a rag about his loins. I put aside all pride and ambition and arrayed myself in the sack cloth of pure unalloyed art. I tried to apply the paint as a humble prayer asking only for the truth. At last as my light was fading the inspiration welled up and guided my hand. Is it some ancient spirit that reaches through us to inscribe in paint what we could never conceive of? It is not for us to know, I am just grateful the struggle is over and I can rest until the cruel mistress of Art calls her poor soldier to fight the good fight once more.

 

Knightsbridge, Harrods, oil painting, art

So here it is. A poem to shopping. None of the agonies that created it show in the surface but they are there I assure you! Silvia and Josh are still not answering… odd. 12in by 20in Oils.

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