Collectors

Post Conrad © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on canvas)

Post Conrad © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on canvas)

I have a theory about the collecting of art. People want to use their money to express something about themselves. Now that lots of things are cheaply and conveniently available, people would like to find more individual ways to express their interests and tastes. Handmade things are a sure way to assert ones individuality, and, in a world of convenience, our generation in particular is bending over backwards to source original and limited items, if not fashioning them themselves.

Art seems like the best candidate for such selective spending, but I believe two mental obstacles hinder people spending money on it. Firstly, there is the reluctance to spend large amounts of money all at once. And secondly, there is the mental block of seeing art as a luxury good. Even smart shoes, however smart, evade this block by having some instrumental value. And nice furniture, equally instrumental, softens the blow of its price tag by being available to buy in installments. Artists need to address these two obstacles if they are to subsist from their job as from any other job.

Tulpen (oil study)

Tulpen (oil study)

First of all, art need not be considered a luxury item. And, I would wager, people are not so taken with scattered and individual paintings, but become interested in the person behind them. Even when people buy a painting as though it were a product, to decorate their apartment and to express something about their own personality, it brings them satisfaction to think of the role they have played in the painter’s path to greatness. In that transaction, two paths intertwine, at least momentarily, and the buyer becomes part of the fabric of the painter’s life. The buyer learns that they are enabling someone to work, not satiating their own unjustified whim for luxury objects. I feel very strongly that this side to buying art should be recognised and emphasised in the midst of our consumerist haze of acquisition.

Secondly, art need not be out of reach. Even the artist doesn’t buy all her materials at once, but spaces it out. Imagine if you could set aside a small amount of money per month, slowly building up a tab, and at the next show you were automatically entitled to a painting—or more than one. You would be invited to the exhibition, drink some wine and partake in some pleasant conversation. Perhaps you had chosen your favourite painting long ago, and knew you were going home with it well in advance, because as a collector you have been in private communication with the painter, and aware of her doings. As time wears on, the painter—now at liberty to work—finds her rhythm and grows in prowess. Her paintings are not objects in a marketplace. They already belong to you and to others in a supportive elite. The party is for you.

Basilikum (study; oil on canvas)

Basilikum (study; oil on canvas)

At my forthcoming show, nothing will be for sale. I don’t want you to come to buy pictures, but to look at them, because paintings are for looking at. I hope this will be a breath of fresh air to art-lovers. I’ve certainly heard enough of the ear-grating rattling of tin cans at art shows, echoing the desperation of beggars in the street. The reason none of my work will be for sale is that it already belongs to people: my collectors. Rather than buying single paintings (under time limits, social pressures and the influence of alcohol), my collectors understand that a long-term solution to my being able to work is to support me. Not to think of my work as products, but to think of me as a worker.

Kohl (study; oil on canvas)

Kohl (study; oil on canvas

And so my collectors just make sure I have a roof over my head and something to eat. I don’t think this is a revolutionary idea, but I think it’s one that has become obscured in the current climate in which we trade heavily in products. Yet it shouldn’t sound so foreign, since most people are working in jobs where they are paid for their time. Some of my collectors send me money each month. Some of them let me stay with them for months at a time. Rents are paid, needs are met, worries are eliminated. And I happily carry on painting. And the paintings have homes, because in a sense they are bought in advance.

Should this idea interest you, and should my work and my ongoing ability to produce it delight you, you need only write to me. No campaigns with time-limits, no alcohol, no third parties, no commission. Only an arrangement between a discerning individual and a hardworking painter.

And to my existing collectors: thank you for being a part of the fabric of my life.

Flusspferd (study; oil on board)

Flusspferd (study; oil on board)

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A rich inheritance

The enabler (Dr Jacques Pienaar) © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

The enabler (Dr Jacques Pienaar) © Samantha Groenestyn (oil on linen)

It is, of course, extremely unpopular to paint the way that I do—representational pictures, ‘stuff that looks like stuff,’ images thoroughly stripped of their purpose by the speed and apparent accuracy of photography. Though I’m finding pockets of representational painters around the world, we are undeniably on the periphery, and perhaps rightfully so. Different demands are made of art now, and art must adapt accordingly. I cling to what I do because it is the most satisfying thing I know to do, and because the roots of it run deep and strong all the way back through our Greek heritage, a heritage of which I’m proud and a willing inheritor. I see this akin to a respect for our philosophical tradition and its Platonic genesis. This is where we have come from; this Greek impulse is part of our cultural and intellectual makeup.

Enabler (composition study)

Enabler (composition study)

And the Greeks, as Gombrich points out in a chapter on ‘Reflections on the Greek revolution,’ may be credited with a truly remarkable deviation. ‘There are few more exciting spectacles in the whole history of art than the great awakening of Greek sculpture and painting between the sixth century and the time of Plato’s youth toward the end of the fifth century B.C,’ he (1959: 99) writes with palpable enthusiasm. It is no coincidence that at the very time Plato was penning his timeless philosophical observations, Greek artists were asking new questions of the physical world and expressing wholly new observations of it in their work. Plato himself challenged this frighteningly unbridled power art was summoning, famously equating illusion with delusion, for this revolution unfolded during his own lifetime.

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For until the Greeks invented mimesis—the attempt to ‘match’ the visible world, which Gombrich (1959: 99) contrasts with the more widespread and primitive impulse simply to ‘make’—equally impressive civilisations were demanding something wholly different from art. The Egyptians, the Mesopotamians and the Minoans were concerned with a fixed, eternal art. Uninterested in particulars, their art rather ‘held out a promise that its power to arrest and to preserve in lucid images might be used to conquer’ the ‘irretrievable evanescence of human life’ (Gombrich 1959: 107-8). Keats expresses the deliciousness of such a timeless power in his ‘Ode on a Grecian urn’:

‘Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu.’

And, indeed, such ritualistic art never lost its attraction. ‘In the time of Augustus,’ Gombrich (1959: 124) notes, ‘there are already signs of a reversal of taste toward earlier modes of art and an admiration of the mysterious shapes of the Egyptian tradition.’ The middle ages, rather than a period of decadence and darkness, might be seen as a time of reaffirmation of this powerful mode of art. Clear, schematised, generalised, symbolic motifs executed with primitive clarity work a sort of magic that is difficult to resist. Gombrich (1959: 124) argues that it is misleading to describe art’s history in terms of progress or decline, and considers the Greek ‘revolution’ a true innovation, a notable break in the story, but he argues that the reclamation of schematic art ought not ‘be interpreted as a fresh revolution in favour of new ideals. What happened here looks much more like another process of natural selection, not a directed effort by a band of pioneers, but the survival of the fittest; in other words, the adaptation of the formulas to the new demands of imperial ceremony and divine revelation. In the course of this adaptation, the achievements of Greek illusionism were gradually discarded.’ Artists overwhelmingly produced what they were required to.

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The appeal of such ‘conceptual art,’ as Gombrich classifies it—and this arguably applies equally to the reductive abstract art of our own time and more recent history—is not difficult to account for. ‘What is normal to man and child all over the globe is the reliance on schemata, on what is called ‘conceptual art’ (1959: 101). The art which today holds sway appeals to universals, to the general, to broad human experiences in an amusingly primitive way. ‘With the beholder’s questioning of the image, the artist’s questioning of nature stopped’ (1959: 124). It is the Greeks alone who have demanded something altogether different of the image: ‘[Egyptologist Heinrich] Schäfer stressed that the ‘corrections’ introduced by the Greek artist in order to ‘match’ appearances are quite unique in the history of art. Far from being a natural procedure, they are the great exception’ (Gombrich 1959: 101).

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The nude is central to the Greek tradition, and has survived in western art even until our own time. Yet I am not clear on what its role should now be, stripped of its Greek philosophies of embodied ideas, of godlike perfection in supple human form. The role of the nude has changed dramatically since its invention by the Greeks. As Clark (1985: 337) writes, the workshops of the middle ages which trained artisans—manual workers—gradually gave way to academies which urged more intellectual pursuits. ‘When this old discipline of grinding colours, sizing panels and copying approved models was removed … what new discipline took its place? Drawing from the nude, drawing from the Antique and perspective.’ The nude became inextricably linked with cleverness in art, with intellectual abstractions (Clark 1985: 337-8):

‘Instead of the late Gothic naturalism based on experience, [drawing from the nude] offers ideal form and ideal space, two intellectual abstractions. Art is justified, as man is justified, by the faculty of forming ideas; and the nude makes its first appearance in art theory at the very moment when painters begin to claim that their art is an intellectual, not a mechanical activity.’

The Greeks made an unprecedented leap in grasping after mimesis, in matching their observations. But as Gombrich (1959: 121) argues, ‘we mistake the character of this skill if we speak of the imitation of nature. Nature cannot be imitated or ‘transcribed’ without first being taken apart and put together again. This is not the work of observation alone but rather of ceaseless experimentation.’ Here the Italians emerge, smug in their mastery over nature, with their newly intellectualised painting, built around the worship of the nude: ‘there is no doubt that the Florentines valued a demonstration of anatomical knowledge simply because it was knowledge and as such of a higher order than ordinary perception’ (Clark 1985: 340).

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The nude persisted throughout the twentieth century, but she was shamefully ravaged. The fact that the nude became almost exclusively female is significant, and Clark (1985: 343) links this change to the Florentine pride in knowledge. ‘No doubt this is connected with a declining interest in anatomy (for the écorché figure is always male) and so is part of that prolonged episode in the history of art in which the intellectual analysis of parts dissolves before a sensuous perception of totalities.’ Art, of course, grew in its intellectual aspirations, forced its way (perhaps unjustifiably) into the universities, and discarded anything tainted by technique, scrambling instead after a pitiable faux-philosophy, loosely held together by sensual feminine curves.

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What are we to make of the nude and of mimesis in our own time? Can we turn back to our cultural origins and embrace the Greek intent? This feels false in the wake of Christianity and its accompanying shame for our bodies, our gothic repulsion to the human form, our appetite for punishment and decay. And there is something surprisingly appealing in the ruthlessly grotesque German representations that Greek perfection never touches. The Judeo-Christian tradition is equally a part of our cultural fabric and our western attitudes. Perhaps, then, the nude is a private and academic exercise, and once mastered it serves only as a support to our other representational endeavours. Perhaps the interest in the nude that has resurfaced in the modern ateliers is a propitious start, but is not justified in being considered art. Ryan has spoken warily of the present-day ‘cult of the student:’ the misdirected celebration of studio nudes as ends in themselves. I’m inclined to agree.

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Certainly, the Greeks began something wholly European, a complete anomaly in the story of art. Our thoughts, our perception are unavoidably influenced by their invention. I will be so bold as to say there is something worthwhile in this, something worth preserving and carrying forward. Something beyond the schematic, conceptual art that even children are capable of, that every other culture has independently produced. ‘What most of us lack in order to be artists,’ argues Dewey (1934: 75), ‘is not the inceptive emotion, nor yet merely technical skill in execution. It is capacity to work a vague idea and emotion over into terms of some definite medium.’ Far from teaching us how to be human cameras, the Greeks taught us how to override the schematisation and simplification our brains naturally strive for and gave us an intelligent way to think with our hands. And I have no desire to abandon such a rich inheritance.

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Clark, Kenneth. 1985 [1956]. The nude: A study of ideal art. Penguin: London.

Dewey, John. 1934. Art as experience. Minton, Malch & Company: New York.

Gombrich, E. H. 1959. Art and Illusion: A study in the psychology of pictorial representation. Phaidon: London.

Keats, John. 2006. Selected poems. Ed. Deborah West. Oxford University: Oxford.

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In pursuit of control

Alexandra © Samantha Groenestyn

Alexandra © Samantha Groenestyn

Our happily proactive gang of painters in Vienna recently got together for a longer session with the model—eleven hours over four evenings. It was a great opportunity to bash away at a few things I have been trying to improve in my drawing. It has been a long time since I’ve troubled myself overly much with rendering, and I have instead been making crude visual notes about planes more than anything. I decided, therefore, that rendering would be my project. I want controlled lines, delicacy, and pure intent—no lazy, unthinking scribbles. And a little bonus anatomy and memory training never goes astray.

Alexandra1

We seem to have a never-ending supply of lovely Russian models in Vienna, and Alexandra graced us with a beautiful and complex knot of a pose. From every angle, a gentle sweep ran over the arch of her back and down her raised leg, her head tucked away. As I began to draw her, I kept this sloping mass in mind, as well as the slope at the bottom of the picture—her foot extending forward. Rather than strictly observing the jutting shapes, I pushed the unity of the drawing, clinging to big C-curves and using their rhythms to drive the composition. I loved the shocking right-angle through her head and left shoulder, but tried to subordinate it to the broader flow over the back. And what became quickly apparent as I drew was the importance of her right arm—it seemed to beg for all the attention. This was very fortuitous, since I had been studying arms, and here was a very clear and prominent arm to investigate, pronated and everything, with the radius pulling the extensor muscles over the forearm.

Arms1

After the first session, I went home and nerded out with Bammes and Goldfinger. Having noted down the bony protrusions and muscles that I thought I could see, observing the colour changes across the skin as the light hugged different forms in its predictable way, I did a bit of fact-checking. It helps to have battled with some real forms in front of you and only then to read all that involved text in your anatomy book, rather than trying to memorise everything first. You are already familiar with so much, and the explanation helps to make sense of the particular situation rather than a general one.

Arms2

My drawing felt quite stiff, though, and I was sorry that I hadn’t really warmed up with some quicker drawings beforehand. Perhaps I should have made a smaller practice one to get the feel for it. But, undeterred, I hoped I could bring some new energy to what I already had the next day. With this in mind, I made a very fast copy in my sketchbook, letting lots of things slide in favour of a looser, livelier drawing. Then I used this little practice drawing to work through what I had learned about arm anatomy as it applied to this pose. I very forcefully (in a feverish excitement, one presumes) marked in the muscles as I understood them.

Arm study

Returning to the model, I adjusted the arms of my larger drawing with the new knowledge fresh in my mind and the real thing before my eyes. This time I was searching for what I knew, and trying to subdue it according to what I could see, rather than just putting down what I could see. Satisfied, I turned to concentrate on something I had neglected for a long time: shadows. Obsessed as I am with form drawing, I haven’t made tone do much work for me in a long time.

Alexandra2

I marked in the terminators (the hazy, dark transitions between light and shadow as a body turns away from light—the form shadows) and the cast shadows (the neat-edged shadows that fall across the body because something else is blocking the light), paying attention to the masses and the way that light ought to work. Light obeys rules, because physics, and will always make certain shapes on spheres, cylinders, cones and prisms, which the human figure is more or less composed of. I wanted my shadows to help describe the form, not obscure or flatten the picture, and so I made sure to wrap them around the figure in clear, descriptive shapes. The shadow cast by the arm on the leg was a beautiful opportunity to show the gentle bulge of the thigh, meaning I didn’t need to do much to the lit area, but could keep it fleshy and soft. I tried to remember to vary the breadth of the terminator according to the curvature of the forms, and decided to keep the shadows quite light. This drives everyone mad, because they want to see me darken my shadows for maximum impact. But I potter away at my own little challenges, loving to experiment with how much I can say in a controlled and delicate manner.

shadow study

I did a bad job of this shadow business, I reflected when I got home. I made another copy in my sketchbook, enjoying the process of redrawing and my growing familiarity with this pose. I marked in the shadows again, and practiced rendering them, trying to keep the tone uniform and trying to do a better job of the terminators—expanding them appropriately, experimenting with how dark they should be. I played around a little with the transition into the light, practicing the strokes I wanted to use. I have been working so hard at hatching neatly and evenly, and I don’t know what the secret is except for probably hatching several million of those tiny lines. I’m never sure that they look any more controlled, but I live in hope that my untiring practice will reward me with superhuman dexterity.

Alexandra3

I went back on the third evening determined to take charge of those shadows. I forced myself to neaten the tone, making it uniform, and only allowing myself to knock back some subtle reflected light (only according to the form!) with my eraser.

arms3

I realised that although the arm was the star of this drawing, I was presented with a very good opportunity to study knees. I couldn’t let this pass. A bent knee and a fully flexed knee! All manner of bony goodness to investigate. I returned to Bammes and his simplified conceptions of the knee—all blocks and planes and axes. I thought long and hard about how knees fit together. I copied out drawings of the widening gap between the femur and the tibia as the knee bends further and further. I made notes in my sketchbook so I wouldn’t forget: ‘Kneecap never slides upwards because anchored by the straight patellar ligament.’ ‘Skeleton accounts for greatest part by far of sculptural form of knee.’

Alexandra4

Armed with these mantras, I spent some time on the final day trying to match my understanding with what I saw. Then all that remained were the light zones. Having worked out all the forms, the most prominent anatomy, and the direction of rendering, all that was left to do was exercise a controlled hand and make the nicest little lines I possibly could.

Alexandra memory

Bonus exercise! The next evening I put my drawing and sketchbook away, and began with a fresh sheet of paper. I redrew the same drawing entirely from memory (without the hours of refinement!). This part really feels like magic. Have I really internalised all this information? This extra test really consolidates all the new knowledge and all the particular decisions that you have made when working with the model. And you realise what power you have when you understand the human figure, and can summon one at will.

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Vernissage

GroenestynVernissage

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It gives me great pleasure to announce that an exhibition is on the horizon. Next month I will be showing the work I’ve produced during this period of intense independent study in Vienna. I’ve had the unimaginable luxury of a Dachgeschoss studio with north-facing windows beaming me achingly lovely views of the city, impressive galleries but minutes from me by bike, the world’s best and creamiest coffee, and, most importantly of all, sweet, precious time in which to draw, paint, study anatomy and think.

I’m pleased to share my studies and experiments in the flesh, in a cavernous brick cellar hidden underground in the ninth district. It promises to be a tasteful Viennese affair: witty conversation, philosophising and elegant attire are encouraged. Ich freue mich auf deinen Besuch!

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