Showing posts with label painting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label painting. Show all posts

Monday, January 23, 2006

Alisa Margolis

Vilma Gold



The first thing that hits is the smell. Not that usual art gallery smell of MDF dust in the air from recently built walls, or the smell of the emulsion that covers them, but a heavy, pungent, oily paint smell hanging heavy in the air. The visual impact isn't far behind - mouth wateringly decadent swirls and eddies of colour rise out of the inky black canvasses like coral appearing out of misty aquamarine water, or nimbus clouds billowing out of endless azure skies, or the retina-scorching clarity of gas giants and moons against the dizzying nothing of space. Opulent flowers bloom against aged backgrounds that resemble old scarlet velvet, and schools of tropical fish hover on the edge of existing in the patterns and paintily flourishes. The effect is one of visual overload, in the best possible way - the eye becomes hungry for more of these treasures with their strings of stellar pearls and naggingly familiar forms made of drips and explosions of decadently drooled paint.
These paintings are so very beautiful, and yet so very overdone, that in the tension between abject appreciation and borderline repulsion I don't know whether I want to laugh, cry or throw up; but the resulting indecision allows me to gorge on them for just another few moments.
© John Brainlove 2006


Alisa Margolis at Vilma Gold 12th Jan - 12 Feb 2006.
VILMA GOLD 25b Vyner Street, London. E2 9DG

T: +44 (0)20 8981 3344

www.vilmagold.com

Wednesday, January 23, 2002

Keith Tyson

A Tiny Bubble of Complexity



The South London Gallery is a little bit off the beaten track. Emerging blinking from the Oval tube you are confronted with a mosaic montage of cricket players in various poses, batting, bowling, catching, in green and white... then, outside, the Oval itself, imposing and slightly careworn. The number 36 bus runs on a busy line, bustling, always full, stopping and starting down the busy Peckham road.

But stepping into Keith Tyson's show is like stepping through the looking glass. The space is quiet despite its proximity to the busy street. It hums with the sound of show's centrepiece, a visually striking kinetic sculpture that spins twelve defined points through the space of the gallery/galaxy, constantly shifting, random but rhythmic and systematic, exploring a defined space but suggesting an vast amount of possibilities. "Field of Heaven Longshot Magnet" embodies a dichotomy that runs through many of the works in the exhibition and more than once brings to mind the noise and organised chaos of the city outside. And beyond - the moon turning around the earth turning around the sun, or the deep inner space rush of corpuscles and haemoglobin through our veins. There is a tension in this work in terms of scale and subject, systems and rules set against a backdrop of inconceivable disorder and perceptual limits. "Field of Heaven..." spins through a finite amount of space, and therefore must explore a finite amount of positions and correlation. But trying to follow these positions as they move is a mind bending experience that quickly becomes dizzying in scope.

On the far wall of the gallery lies a massive painting constructed of black, white and gray polygonal forms. The size and shape of the piece is echoed on the right wall by a similarly huge painting of the stars against the blackness of space, and to the left by the painting "Supercollider". Each is an exploration, or a conception, or an expression, or projection (?), each written it a recognisable language, each bending and twisting that language to illustrate it's potential limitations. The painting of the stars, entitled "A Night in a Billion", is accompanied in the catalogue by and equation. This equation begins by explaining that the painting consists of 12 panels that can be arranged in any order, and each panel turned to face any direction. It continues to work out the amount of possible permutations that this must entail (11,771,943,000,000 approx.). "How close an approximation of this view exists or has existed from some position out there?".

"Supercollider" consists of textual fragments written in a variety of sizes, fonts and colours, small images under and overlapping the text, splashes and drips of paint, all set against a bright yellow backdrop. The text is seemingly grasped out of thin air, memory, imagination, books, dreams, thought. "high blood pressure problems", "an exquisitely fashioned coronet", "repairing a dry stone wall", "the heat fluctuations inside a frying sausage", "the strokes", "33.07%". It soon becomes apparent that you will never be able to hold them all in your memory, or even read them all. And also that some all or none of them are probably happening while you stand there. It's been attempted before, but rarely so successfully as here... combined with the other pieces in the room, "Supercollider" shrinks and implodes the viewer with it's conceptual landscape of possibility and incompehendable mass.

There is, of course, much more I could say about this show. Tyson would probably say an infinite number of things. But suffice to say that it is a must see exhibition of very contemporary art.

© John Brainlove 2002



Keith Tyson at South London Gallery Jan 16th - Mar 17th 2002

South London Gallery, 65 Peckham Road, London SE5 8UH

T: +44 (0)20 7703 6120

www.southlondongallery.org


Monday, November 12, 2001

John Russell and Fabienne Audeoud

Abstract Painting



I haven't seen this exhibition.
I look around. To my left there's some kind of scrapyard. Through the wire mesh a large Rottweiler stares at me, and behind him a larger Alsation drags it's chain along the ground. To my right there lies a violently derelict industrial estate and a petrol station that looks recently shut down, all smashed windows and tyre marks scorched onto the concrete. Grass and weeds grow through the cracks in the pavement and slowly smash open the rotting road. I haven't seen another person in about five minutes. A car cruised slowly past me about two minutes ago, but it's windows were blacked out. I could feel the searching eyes looking at me from inside. I can hear trains in the distance entering and leaving Manchester's Piccadilly Station. I was there just a few minutes ago, but now I'm in the heart of the darkest, most derelict urban wasteland imaginable, and I'm terrified.
I arrived in Manchester 15 minutes ago to view and review John Russell and Fabienne Audeoud's "Abstract Painting" exhibition at The International 3. After navigating the station, which is under heavy renovation, I found the taxi rank, where a slightly manic driver told me that Fairfield Street was a one minute walk away and not worth the fare. So I walked. Big mistake - Fairfield Street must be miles long, and it cuts through the most desolate area in Manchester. The International 3 might as well be in Spain. I only have an hour in town before my connection, and I've wasted half of it. So I return to the station, furious, but glad not to have been shot.
So I don't know what the exhibition is like. I assume that the paintings are a continuation of Russell and Audeoud's previous collaborative work, as seen in the Becks Futures 2001 show. That work seemed to be an assimilation of certain genres of painting used to create a kind of mongrel piece, existing as several things at once. As a painting, using the familiar orthodoxies of painting, as a painting about painting, and as something entirely new but which looks a bit like a painting.
But fuck knows. I haven't even seen it. If I can manage to actually get there before the show closes, I'll have a proper look. Sorry.
© John Brainlove 2001


John Russell and Fabienne Audeoud at International 3
International 3, 8 Fairfield Street, Manchester, M1
T: +44
(0)161 237 3336)
www.international3.com