‘Tightrope Walk: Painted Images After Abstraction’

‘Tightrope Walk: Painted Images After Abstraction’, North & South Galleries, White Cube Bermondsey

25 November 2015 – 24 January 2016

Tightrope Walk Painted Images after Abstraction, White Cube Bermondsey, 25 December 2015 - 24 January 2016 1

Photo © White Cube (George Darrell)

There are many reasons to put on a group show. It could be to draw attention to a common style, to address a unifying theme, or perhaps the artists, if they are peers, feel a straightforward connection, so why not show together? For new art school graduates there can be strength in numbers. If the show is curated, there may be a conceptual brief. In the latter case however the artists would typically produce work with the concept in mind. Tightrope Walk; Painted Images after Abstraction, is one of those rarer breeds of group show where the individual contributors necessarily play second fiddle to the concept. Barry Schwabsky and White Cube have assembled a concept exhibition featuring some big hitters in painting; both alive and dead. I say featuring, in the knowledge that this word could be misleading. Nobody really features in this show. In fact, to discuss the individual merits of this or that painting in the show would seem to me to be like asking what breed Schrödinger’s cat was. Notwithstanding the fact that I am a huge fan of the paintwork of Picasso, Katz, Tal R and Morandi, amongst other artists in the show, it is hard to imagine an exhibition in which solidly impressive works by these artists seem almost hard to find; such is the homogenising power of the concept behind the show and the way it has been hung.

And that concept is about as big as they get.  The press release speaks of an effort to “…illuminate how the act of making a representational painting became redefined over the past century, following the emergence of abstraction as a competing proposition.” A sizeable selection of “representational painting” has been gathered and hung in such a way that it frustrates (perhaps intentionally) any attempt at comparison between individual works, and also discourages the viewer’s natural instinct to categorise the works according to any hierarchy based on quality, painterly virtuosity, renown or notoriety of the artist, or even based on unmediated visual pleasure. It is difficult to simply sit back and enjoy the painting. And why should we expect to? Clement Greenberg lamented the “laziness” of the public when confronted with what he called “advanced” art and “difficult” artists. (1) In this case it would seem to represent a missed opportunity as much as laziness not to address the concept of the show but to just sit back and admire the paintwork.

Tightrope Walk Painted Images after Abstraction, White Cube Bermondsey, 25 December 2015 - 24 January 2016 3

Photo © White Cube (George Darrell)


The tightrope of the show’s title is taken from a quote by the painter Francis Bacon. As a metaphor it suggests the potential for artwork to fall definitively into one of two distinct territories; representation or abstraction. It also implies a narrow space which is almost uninhabitable; at the very least a space in which it requires the greatest level of skill and concentration to remain. Let’s not squeeze Bacon’s observation too tightly however. He was speaking about his own work very specifically and as an image with which we might seek to represent the central concept of this show, it tells us about as much as a ringtone does about the caller. By announcing its concerns to be abstraction and representation the show raises several interesting questions. If there is a space between abstraction and representation, was it always there just waiting to be noticed? If representation and abstraction are indeed two distinct territories, has the latter wrested territory from the former, and if so, is that territory lost forever to abstraction. Is abstraction an improvement on representation? And perhaps most difficult of all; what do we mean by abstraction?

By way of example, with regard to difficulty, let’s take a brief look at just one assessment of the theoretical minefield that is the territory of abstraction. Andrew Benjamin discusses abstraction via Clement Greenberg, who was averse to lyrical obfuscation when it came to interpreting artworks. As Benjamin notes, Greenberg’s reading of abstraction, albeit mainly limited to Abstract Expressionism, took as its starting point this type of painting’s immediacy to the viewer. The question of temporality was critical to Greenberg’s opinion of what constitutes an abstract painting. “The time of viewing is linked to the object maintaining and thus containing a single temporality, a temporality that would be united in the act of sheer presentation.” (2)  In other words, we no longer have to spend time, even seconds, chasing a narrative or a reference to something external to the painting itself. According to Benjamin, for the viewer “The interpretive consequence…is that there is no need to interpret painting from within the framework of representation.” (3) The point of this kind of abstract painting is “…the object’s own work.” (4) Greenberg focused on the evidence of the medium in front of the viewer. By this measure, when we look at an abstract painting we are looking solely at the object that is there in front of us, an object freed “…from the necessity of having to be the negation of representation.” (5) So abstraction is not just the opposite of representation. It has something to say in its own right, which doesn’t depend on comparisons to representational art for legitimacy. Or does it?

Tightrope Walk Painted Images after Abstraction, White Cube Bermondsey, 25 December 2015 - 24 January 2016 2

Photo © White Cube (George Darrell)

It is easy to see some of the difficulties inherent in abstract art when we look back over the Twentieth Century and the claims that have attached themselves to it in all its forms. It’s hard to love something that turn’s its back to us. Writing about Robert Ryman’s painting Yves Alain Bois speaks of “…ineffable silence.” (6) This apparent silence has meant that throughout the Twentieth Century abstract art has been used in the service of a great many movements, ideologies and social experiments. Its malleability as mute, immediate form has allowed it to be taken up time and again in different contexts. At times the vocabulary employed has verged on the hysterical or the religious. Its apparent refusal to articulate a recognisable narrative has led to the idea that abstraction either has nothing to say or that it is saying all things at once, depending on our reading of it. The liberation of painted forms from “…extrinsic conventions…” of narrative, description and depiction meant that “…abstract painting…(could)…tell the final truth and thereby terminate its course.” (7) Without the “extrinsic conventions” of representational painting, abstract art it seems will necessarily make itself redundant. This redundancy has been re-enacted time and time again since the early Twentieth Century.

Despite the efforts of critics such as Greenberg to attribute a voice to abstraction, it remains difficult to talk about abstract painting in terms of the object in and of itself. We are constantly drawn back to the language of representation, if only to draw distinctions between the two. Representation it seems can be spoken of without referring to abstraction, but not the other way around. The language employed to put shape on abstraction so often reverts to the familiar vocabulary of representation. For Bois, Rymans paintings “…(cut) short any attempt at associative readings…” (8) These are works which “…suggest their own commentary,..define their own discursive terrain…” (9) I tend to believe that some of the best work being produced today which could be called abstract, admits more than a token amount of commentary. By this I mean that it looks abstract but often makes reference to recognisable sources, and in fact embraces “associative readings.” Patricia Treib would be one example.

Tightrope Walk Painted Images after Abstraction, White Cube Bermondsey, 25 December 2015 - 24 January 2016 5

Photo © White Cube (George Darrell)

It could be seen as anachronistic to put on a show nowadays based on such a binary division as the one between representation and abstraction. For quite some time now the general assumption has been that we have moved on from seeing painting as either one or the other exclusively. I was surprised to see so much work which was determinedly representational and so little that really seemed to be consciously trying to operate within the narrow space between the representational and the abstract. Of all the work in the show I would wager that many of the artists had decided to retreat altogether from any debate about the space between the two territories. Again I was struck by the feeling that so much of the work on display was being mobilised to help illustrate a concept which is far more complex than the evidence of these paintings on their own could do justice to. Given the central idea behind the show; to assemble representational painting which has been made “in cognisance of abstraction”, I wonder whether a more homogenous grouping of artists would have made for a more coherent argument.


  • Clement Greenberg: Hans Hofmann,(1961) essay: Paris: Editions Georges Fall, 1961
  • Andrew Benjamin. 1996. What is Abstraction? London: Academy Editions.
  • Ibid.
  • Ibid.
  • Ibid.
  • Yves-Alain Bois. 1993. Painting as Model. Massachusetts: MIT Press.
  • Ibid.
  • Ibid.
  • Ibid.




Cy Twombly @ Gagosian / Rudolf Stingel @ Sadie Coles

Cy Twombly at Gagosian Grosvenor Hill London from Oct 10 to Dec 12, 2015 and Rudolf Stingel at Sadie Coles Davies Street and Kingly Street London from Nov 4 to Dec 18, 2015



Bacchus, 2006–08
Acrylic on canvas
128 3/4 × 162 3/8 inches (327 × 412.5 cm)

© Cy Twombly Foundation

Apart from being inaugural shows there might not appear to be much common ground between Cy Twombly’s colossal meshes of looping marks in Gagosian’s new Grosvener Hill space and the Rudolf Stingel paintings on show at Sadie Coles’ new space on Davies Street and the existing Kingly Street venue. When it comes to artworks, the interpretive process can often involve making less than obvious, sometimes even forced connections in order to illustrate a viewpoint. So why not compare two apparently different shows if it serves to expand on issues of medium; in this case paint being the medium under discussion?

Cy Twombly’s paintings often elicit the response that they are condescending to the viewer in their simplicity, that they are painting’s response to the unmade bed. And many of the marks do look as though they followed the path of least resistance. They could be marks made by an idle colossus testing the largest marker pen in the world. The loops might seem to correspond to the orbit of an arm that has stopped wondering where to go next with the brush. There is not enough variation in the marks or the palette to reward the eye that is hungrily looking for variation in marks and palette. Twombly’s work was never about quick fixes of virtuoso paintwork. His marks demand an unexpected amount of time from the viewer; time in which we scan and differentiate between gestures and assimilate the collective impact they make on us as we stand in their shadow. For painting that looks so immediate, these epic doodles have an impact which is as much physical as it is visual. They are paintings which are much more than the sum of their parts.
Twombly’s marks could be said to be repetitive in the sense that they are the product of similar gestures repeated across the canvas. Seen from a distance they are meshes of loops and these meshes lean slightly to the right; further evidence of the body which made them. As mark making, they may not be as immediately gratifying as Jackson Pollock’s drips. Pollock’s drips however, employed a hidden tool with which the artist was able to conceal the mark of the hand. In allowing momentum to take control of the medium as it travelled through the air from the end of the swiftly moving brush, Pollock was, from a certain point of view, encoding his gesture. Twombly’s marks are direct. There is no mediation between the brush and the canvas. The paint is on the brush and the brush is on the canvas, and the gestures are made directly. But with the exception of marks such as Pollock’s, isn’t almost all painting made directly by brush on canvas?
When we talk about painting, there is more to be gained by dealing with different aspects of a work individually, rather than trying to arrive at an over-arching view of the work as a harmonic single object. We can discuss Twombly’s paintwork as an attempt to choreograph marks to appear random. In terms of distribution of marks we could say that they share the all-overness that Clement Greenberg spoke of in Pollock’s work. Some of the works here are also colour field paintings of a sort through their repetition of monochrome gestures which threaten to obliterate the light ochre ground beneath. The drawings with clusters of almost legible writing and mysterious geometric shapes could be seen as walls of graffiti on which one tag has attracted another. It is unlikely that Twombly was not aware of all of these possible readings. Each one on its own is worthy of far more discussion. A problem might emerge when we come to reconcile these observations about the work of paint in Cy Twombly’s canvases with the titles he chose for them. Hans Hofmann made various claims for his paintings which nowadays can act to disrupt the discussion of his paintwork. It can be hard to reconcile the sophistication of Hofmann’s arrangement of marks on canvas with his esoteric pronouncements about his work. In Twombly and Hofmann there is arguably enough going on in the paintwork alone to allow the viewer to make their own ruminations on how paintwork can be analogous to so much else in the world.

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Installation view, Rudolf Stingel, Sadie Coles HQ, London, 04 November – 18 December 2015
Copyright the artist, courtesy Sadie Coles HQ, London
In Cy Twombly the viewer might find themselves squinting to perceive signs, images, breaks in the patterns which might speak to us of things being referred to. In Rudolf Stingel’s current paintings in Sadie Coles images disappear as we get closer. These are paintings, some on a sizeable scale, composed of hundreds of thousands of brush marks. They are photorealistic paintings, laboriously, methodically executed. As paintings which are meant to look like photographs they are hugely convincing and have an archive melancholy that is masterfully maintained across every inch of every canvas. And yet they are more than that alone. Perhaps the most interesting element of this series is the paintwork itself. The marks are not pointillist. They don’t have uniformity and definition as brush marks. For the same reason they can’t be seen as analogous to pixels. In fact the individual brush marks appear to lose all power to form fields of visual information the closer we get to them.

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Installation view, Rudolf Stingel, Sadie Coles HQ, London, 04 November – 18 December 2015
Copyright the artist, courtesy Sadie Coles HQ, London

As images these paintings each represent a solitary animal in a wilderness. They could of course be animals roaming around the periphery of an urban area. Each animal is poised as though listening, deliberately frozen in anticipation, lending added tension to the melancholy within the canvas. There are several areas of the canvases which depict either the blackness of a forest at night or snow covered ground. To the observer primed to examine the paintwork these areas are as interesting as the features of the animal subjects. Areas of white fur delineated against snow, tree bark next to bird feathers; achieving a convincing distinction between these textures on such a grand scale takes no small amount of skill. As we lean in to examine the brushwork that has succeeded so well in convincing us that we were looking at photographs, we are surprised to see order break down. Instead of millions of uniform pixels, what we see is an infinity of apparently unique gestures made with the end of the brush. Each mark looks as deeply considered as the next.
Whether or not Stingel intended for his paintwork to be examined up close, or whether he was simply executing a series of works which had been conceptualised to a high level of completion ever before the canvas was even primed, the effect of composing such convincing images with tiny brush marks was always going to foreground the medium of paint. Why bother going to such effort to create these painstaking paintings if one of the main things you want to say is not about the power of paint, not just to transmit meaning, but to hold meaning. Stingel’s stoic, lonely subjects disintegrate the closer we get to them. What started as an evocative image of an animal becomes no more and no less than an abstraction; paint on canvas. The works in these two shows are striking, immediate paintings which require time and slowness from the viewer to be fully appreciated.

Erika Verzutti @ Alison Jacques

Erika Verzutti at Alison Jacques London from Oct 13 to Dec 17, 2015


© Erika Verzutti
Courtesy of Alison Jacques Gallery, London

Erika Verzutti has found a way around some of the difficulties any self-aware painter might find themselves dealing with when they come to question what they do. This is all the more notable given that Verzutti’s work is not strictly painting at all, and the fact that her work which preceded the type we see in her show “Two Eyes Two Mouths” at Alison Jacques, London, is more recognisable as sculpture. The works are relatively shallow, square or rectangular wall-mounted panels made of cast and painted bronze. Yet despite the fact that they reveal themselves to be bronzes, they have lightness and range which defies the homogenising effect of bronze. In a very painterly way these works deal with questions of surface, depth, scale, finish, and colour.
Verzutti speaks of the moment she lifted her sculptural works off the ground and hung them on the wall as resulting in making “…a sculpture of a painting” (1), and they do look very much like paintings at first appearance. In carrying out this apparently casual relocation from floor to wall she might appear to be diminishing the efforts of the kind of painter who agonises over the weave of a canvas, the depth of a stretcher, the mattness of a finish or the hardness of an edge; painters to whom this show is beautifully infuriating.
Of course the decision to relocate the sculptural object within the traditional context of the painted canvas both is and isn’t as simple as it sounds. The inverse action carried out by Pollock in the 1940s in taking painting off the wall has generated so much accumulated theorising over the intervening decades that the work itself can often seem to disappear under the sheer weight of commentators’ discussion about it. Nowadays, when an artist choreographs a shift of context for their work, it will inevitably be seen as having intent, as being a knowing gesture. Verzutti however, speaks about this moment as a discovered one. Of the process of lifting her sculpture off the ground, she says “It felt like I was doing something inappropriate” (2). While this is a credible image; of the artist playing around in the studio and making chance discoveries in the process, it is impossible to believe that she is not scrutinising every subsequent decision she makes with her work. The movement from floor-bound to wall-bound, whether a chance occurrence or not, is a transition in which the artist has spotted vast potential. The inappropriacy that Verzutti felt, as she reinvented her sculpture as painting tells us that she is more than aware of the weight of history in the field of painting. The word inappropriate implies a trauma around the practice of painting, which may be a result of endless theorising on the end of this medium. Could the artist be feeling self conscious about taking the retrograde step of hanging a sculpture on a wall, and by doing so, cutting off so many hard won possibilities? Of course that debate has also run out of steam and artists in general now feel comfortable cherry-picking from a vast archive of movements, styles and forms. Looking at the way Verzutti manipulates the vocabulary of painting, it is far more likely that her feeling of inappropriacy came from a slight sense of guilt at having stumbled upon something that successfully addresses so many issues in painting with such ease.


Bikini, 2015
Bronze and acrylic
61 x 40 x 9 cm
24 1/8 x 15 3/4 x 3 1/2 ins

© Erika Verzutti
Courtesy of Alison Jacques Gallery, London
Informed audiences have become used to multiplicity, cross-referencing, re-readings, reinterpretations, to such an extent that a certain amount of complexity is presupposed in the work of many artists. This complexity need not necessarily be immediately apparent in the work itself; a fact which allows for the artist to have quite a lot of fun making it. So much great work being produced today looks relaxed and effortless and very much like it was enjoyable to make. Verzutti’s works are playful, almost comical looking at times. The artist refers to the way some of the pieces began to look like crude makeup sets, with variously shaped indentations filled with colour. One of them resembled a Flintstones’ makeup set, according to Verzutti. Another looked like an abstract painting. So far, so whimsical. The decision to cast the work in bronze however, means that all the casual experiments of the studio, the meandering references to whatever comes to mind, the unsophisticated rendering, and the playful irreverence to the ghost of painting past, have been reconciled as equal in a medium which was intended to remain above the chaos of shifting tastes and interpretations. If bronze is a memorialising medium, then it can be no accident that the apparently spontaneous decision to raise sculpture off the ground and into the traditional space of painting has been delivered to the viewer in this most permanent of materials.
With regard to painting, the work in this show operates simultaneously from two fertile positions. It involves on the one hand an acknowledgement of the threshold of what defines a painting; even today when so much critical analysis would suggest that this discussion is outdated. On the other hand it shows disregard for any of those definitions that one might care to mention, of what a painting should be . As paintings we could speak about their generally rectangular shape, the relatively shallow box mimicking the stretched canvas, the exaggerated impasto effect created by the impressions of the artists’ fingers, which have been captured in the final bronze, and the fact that dull acrylic paint has been added in places to imply a horizon here or to create a highlight there. But why press the issue of what these works are, of whether they are painting or sculpture? Well as we have heard, Verzutti herself has commented on the significance of the moment when she re-situated her work from the floor to the wall. Of her earlier work she has spoken of having “…a favourite angle for every sculpture”. It would seem that her view of sculpture was already leaning towards the two dimensional, if not exactly the pictorial. With this in mind, it would seem to be a logical next step to transfer the work to the wall. Primed to accept the works as painting, they now look somewhat like they have been carefully excavated from a larger plaster frieze in some alien Pompeii. They look like fragments of something pictorial. But at what stage then did they become painting? Was there any significant adjustment made in order to make a sculpture a painting besides hanging it on the wall? Not likely. It is more credible to see these pieces as having developed into paintings well before they were hung.
If we try to forget what we know about the artist’s development of these works from sculpture, our impulse to see them as a series of pictorial reliefs is both encouraged and disrupted as we approach each piece individually. There are occasional pictorial suggestions; ‘Van Gogh with Eggs’ is an appropriately berserk rendering of blue sky and yellow cornfield, both of which meet unceremoniously to create a horizon in the middle of the cast bronze. Another piece, entitled ‘Bikini’, is a confidently executed anthropomorphic abstraction. We can imagine the artist pausing momentarily as she works the dumb clay and spotting the opportunity for a beautiful one-liner by creating the eponymous motif with no more than four marks. To call something a one-liner could in the context of a lot of other artists’ work be considered a criticism. The consistency of the work with regard to its scale, treatment and choice of medium act as homogenising factors on the series. The disruption of the pictorial impulse as we walk around the show however makes us continually question whether we are looking at painting or sculpture. Within the squares and rectangles on display our eyes constantly adjust to accommodate what we imagine is beyond the edges of the work. Some of the pieces have a horizon and contain all the ‘pictorial’ information we need, others have one single motif, as in the piece entitled ‘Black Sun’, and some appear to be details of figures or landscapes, which we find ourselves standing back from in order to take in the space around the panel. If we were to approach this work as painting in the first instance, we would find ourselves coming around to sculpture again and again.
The playfulness of this work is intoxicating. A diptych entitled ‘The Dress’ uses the surprisingly golden tone of the bronze to riff off a recent puzzle in popular media about perception of colours as we believe we can see them. It’s a story that will be forgotten quickly, but nonetheless, it was one of the rare instances of genuine curiosity about perception infiltrating popular culture. As such, the question of whether the dress is blue or whether it is black will continue to have wider implications for as long as we continue to make objects to look at.


Van Gogh with Eggs, 2015
Bronze and acrylic
52 x 46 x 9 cm
20 1/2 x 18 1/8 x 3 1/2 ins

© Erika Verzutti
Courtesy of Alison Jacques Gallery, London
If Verzutti were not so adept at using the vocabulary of both painting and sculpture, the question of which category these works fall into might not be as persistent as it is. The pictorial is suggested but it never materialises fully. It remains as a sort of shorthand. Marks imply things which the titles reinforce. The artist is playing with our desire to pictorialize and perhaps hers too. Thankfully they never deliver on this and the images that we sense are about to emerge end up being withheld. It may be their debt to the sculptural which gives these works their licence to play so fast and loose with the pictorial. If these works were paint on canvas, we might not spend so long with them. Their rudimentary forms and rough textures and edges might not be nearly as rewarding had Verzutti not chosen to cast them in bronze. This decision, and the restraint with which she has painted them, work to consolidate all the wit and playfulness the artist has brought to the work.

(1) Taken from a video interview with Erika Verzutti on Guggenheim UBS Map. Artist Profile: Bronze, Clay and Paint.
(2) Ibid.

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