This is a painting by Scottish-born, Trinidad-based artist Peter Doig. My long, scruffy figure quivered as I stood in front of it at CFA gallery, the mid-winter morning I first set foot in Berlin, back in 2009. That day, I was at the gallery with my brother of different parents, (el) Jose, who some of you might know well. Outside everything was being gobbled up by the white.
The painting hung at CFA as part of a solo show called ‘Not For Sale’, which gathered works by the artist from German museums and international private collections. Not only it was the first day my forehead was exposed to the electric air of the German capital, it was also my very first opportunity to run riot in a room packed with Doigs.
Both of these two events, the city and the exhibition, had a seismic effect on subsequent chapters of my life, both on a personal level and as an artist. The former -with its unique capacity for regeneration from all kinds of ghosts, and its unbeatable celebratory spirit- encouraged me to attend to my inner clock, follow my bliss, and move on from my somehow stagnant life situation in Sydney. In time, I left Australia after more than 10 years, and relocated in Europe: first in Berlin and then, permanently, in our quaint arctic corner, where I write these lines from.
The later -Peter Doig’s show- opened up new vistas in the noble exercise of sticking lumps of colour on a flat surface. The exhibition reset my intuition to ways of playing the drum kit (of painting) more fully, and with more intensity, without necessarily having to hit it harder.
The painting hung at CFA as part of a solo show called ‘Not For Sale’, which gathered works by the artist from German museums and international private collections. Not only it was the first day my forehead was exposed to the electric air of the German capital, it was also my very first opportunity to run riot in a room packed with Doigs.
Both of these two events, the city and the exhibition, had a seismic effect on subsequent chapters of my life, both on a personal level and as an artist. The former -with its unique capacity for regeneration from all kinds of ghosts, and its unbeatable celebratory spirit- encouraged me to attend to my inner clock, follow my bliss, and move on from my somehow stagnant life situation in Sydney. In time, I left Australia after more than 10 years, and relocated in Europe: first in Berlin and then, permanently, in our quaint arctic corner, where I write these lines from.
The later -Peter Doig’s show- opened up new vistas in the noble exercise of sticking lumps of colour on a flat surface. The exhibition reset my intuition to ways of playing the drum kit (of painting) more fully, and with more intensity, without necessarily having to hit it harder.
As I said, I was then living in Sydney, with little more time and heart to offer to anything or anyone, other than the caresses for my two-year-old princess, and a lustful marriage with the acids and fumes of an MA in Printmaking.
At the end of 2008, I went on a visit to Europe to take my daughter to her Iberian folk. I was also keen to check out first hand the cookings of the European art scene of the time (did I say art? painting, I meant), so I took the chance to do some traveling. The night before I encountered the painting starring in this story, I was staying in Hamburg, where my dear friend Rike and her partner Andy were making me feel king under their own roof. We were sitting on the sofa, I recall, sipping tea and searching on the screen for hostels and things to do in Berlin, when Rike came across Peter Doig’s exhibition at CFA with a triumphal, contagious exultation. The next day I was on a train for the Spree.
My first memory of Berlin, still through the glass of the train compartment, as we approached the Hauptbahnhof, was slipping into a reminiscence of the streetscapes Ernest Ludwing Kirchner had painted a century earlier.
I had arranged to meet up with (el) Jose in some godforsaken hostel. We somehow found each other, following that pre-smart-phones in-built intuition, which seems to be nowadays forever fading away. We, thereafter, incinerated a week in the city, sharing the incomparable, life-affirming sensation of wandering (with no agenda, no definite purpose, and nearly no money) through the unknown streets of a new big city. At night we would drink cheap beer in a paradise of underground, bunker-like bars, and in the daytime we’d explore Berlin’s art labyrinth of museums and galleries -the hangover inevitably palpitating in our temples, as we tried to ingest the artworks. We visited Doig’s exhibition a couple of times and took some historical silly pics (please enjoy below).
By the time I made it back home to Sydney, the vague, tiresome feeling of dislocation I had been dragging for far too long, became painfully acute, impossible to disregard. I knew that, despite Sydney’s sofa-like convenience, fine weathers and, beyond any doubt, the most stunning harbour in the planet, life as that membership you’re supposed to be happy to be part of was, for me then, somewhere else.
At the end of 2008, I went on a visit to Europe to take my daughter to her Iberian folk. I was also keen to check out first hand the cookings of the European art scene of the time (did I say art? painting, I meant), so I took the chance to do some traveling. The night before I encountered the painting starring in this story, I was staying in Hamburg, where my dear friend Rike and her partner Andy were making me feel king under their own roof. We were sitting on the sofa, I recall, sipping tea and searching on the screen for hostels and things to do in Berlin, when Rike came across Peter Doig’s exhibition at CFA with a triumphal, contagious exultation. The next day I was on a train for the Spree.
My first memory of Berlin, still through the glass of the train compartment, as we approached the Hauptbahnhof, was slipping into a reminiscence of the streetscapes Ernest Ludwing Kirchner had painted a century earlier.
I had arranged to meet up with (el) Jose in some godforsaken hostel. We somehow found each other, following that pre-smart-phones in-built intuition, which seems to be nowadays forever fading away. We, thereafter, incinerated a week in the city, sharing the incomparable, life-affirming sensation of wandering (with no agenda, no definite purpose, and nearly no money) through the unknown streets of a new big city. At night we would drink cheap beer in a paradise of underground, bunker-like bars, and in the daytime we’d explore Berlin’s art labyrinth of museums and galleries -the hangover inevitably palpitating in our temples, as we tried to ingest the artworks. We visited Doig’s exhibition a couple of times and took some historical silly pics (please enjoy below).
By the time I made it back home to Sydney, the vague, tiresome feeling of dislocation I had been dragging for far too long, became painfully acute, impossible to disregard. I knew that, despite Sydney’s sofa-like convenience, fine weathers and, beyond any doubt, the most stunning harbour in the planet, life as that membership you’re supposed to be happy to be part of was, for me then, somewhere else.
But going back to Doig’s painting. I had first come across Peter Doig’s works in New York City at the Whitney Biennale 2006. What the Sam Hill I was doing in NY then, I can’t summon up right now. But I do recall standing before Doig’s canvases and papers for the first time at the Whitney and saying to myself ‘Chee, so unfair this art world. Such arresting work and who has ever heard of this guy?’.
Just a few days later, I was in a dark, damp, smoky corner in the city of Bilbao, immersed in one of those never-ending conversations about painting with my friend and colleague Alain Urrutia (of whom I have the certainty, that he loves painting at least more than half of what I do), when I grasped the extent of my miscalculation. ‘Peter Doig?’ Alain smiled ‘You’ve been in the land of Oz too long, mate. He’s one of those few artists with people waiting years-long queues to own one of his paintings’ . The previous year Alain had taken a plane and travelled to a different country just to see a Peter Doig’s exhibition.
I must admit that at that time I was really into Francis Bacon’s work (and, let’s be honest, persona). I admired the raw and uncompromising intensity of his canvases, particularly those he completed during the 50’s and 60’s. At a Francis Bacon exhibition at the Bilbao Fine Arts Museum, before the hotchpotch of flesh and teeth (or was it oil) on the central panel of ‘Three Studies for a Crucifixion’ (1962), one of my then uni teachers pointed out how, with Bacon, there was nothing to understand, no passage you’ve read in an art book to bring to mind, no brainy somersault to perform in order to get closer to the essence of the painting, because all the gravy was just there, in front of your eyes.
This teacher encouraged me to ‘forget, look and engage’. And I forgot, looked and engaged. The experience changed radically the way I related to, consumed, and enjoyed art at large. It unchained my mind from the apparent intellectual demands of having to 'get' an artwork. Most importantly, it placed a sit in front of me from which I had to be clear with myself about my own thoughts, feelings, sensations and intuitions about a particular work of art. In other words, I found in this process, that would crystallise more fully in years to come, the space to be the sovereign of my own art experience
Just a few days later, I was in a dark, damp, smoky corner in the city of Bilbao, immersed in one of those never-ending conversations about painting with my friend and colleague Alain Urrutia (of whom I have the certainty, that he loves painting at least more than half of what I do), when I grasped the extent of my miscalculation. ‘Peter Doig?’ Alain smiled ‘You’ve been in the land of Oz too long, mate. He’s one of those few artists with people waiting years-long queues to own one of his paintings’ . The previous year Alain had taken a plane and travelled to a different country just to see a Peter Doig’s exhibition.
I must admit that at that time I was really into Francis Bacon’s work (and, let’s be honest, persona). I admired the raw and uncompromising intensity of his canvases, particularly those he completed during the 50’s and 60’s. At a Francis Bacon exhibition at the Bilbao Fine Arts Museum, before the hotchpotch of flesh and teeth (or was it oil) on the central panel of ‘Three Studies for a Crucifixion’ (1962), one of my then uni teachers pointed out how, with Bacon, there was nothing to understand, no passage you’ve read in an art book to bring to mind, no brainy somersault to perform in order to get closer to the essence of the painting, because all the gravy was just there, in front of your eyes.
This teacher encouraged me to ‘forget, look and engage’. And I forgot, looked and engaged. The experience changed radically the way I related to, consumed, and enjoyed art at large. It unchained my mind from the apparent intellectual demands of having to 'get' an artwork. Most importantly, it placed a sit in front of me from which I had to be clear with myself about my own thoughts, feelings, sensations and intuitions about a particular work of art. In other words, I found in this process, that would crystallise more fully in years to come, the space to be the sovereign of my own art experience
That freezing January morning at CFA, before Peter Doig’s large-sized paintings of masquerade types, impossible snowy scenes and films within films that filled the space with serene and fecund magic, as I wore out the handsome concrete floor of the gallery with my snickers, another little light went on in the chandelier of my understanding. At once it became transparent that for painting to fulfill, if you ask me, one of its most elementary, vital functions, that is, embracing without dispelling the very mystery of what the heck it means to be human here and today, no bravura, agitation or violence was necessary. Carrying a tortured soul, something Bacon had at times shown signs of, was somehow charming, but ultimately tiresome and of no consequence in that regard.
My gaze kept traveling from the figure wearing a top hat surrounded by pictures in ‘Metropolitan’, to the bleached palm-trees in ‘Pelican’, to the whimsical mortar for the ‘Lapeyrouse Wall’, to the impressive view of the Pergamon museum through the glass window, and back to the green-faced pals with indomitable moustaches in ‘Gasthof’. The descend to the catacombs of our humanity, I learned, could be indeed a jovial expedition.
The painting, which fuelled the considerations and memories of this account, presents a reflection of a human figure and a batch of near-by trees on a semi-frozen surface of a wintry pond. A screen of detritus crosses the image horizontally, breaking the spell of what is represented (or, better put, merely reflected); these floating blotches of paint, have something of galaxies and dirt, and seem to challenge every bit of certainty we hold about ourselves. Despite its unfortunate title ‘What Your Soul Looks Like’, this painting remains as one of my ever favourites pieces of Western art.
(El) Jose and I left CFA Berlin that day in good spirits, notwithstanding our unsuccessful attempts to make an impression on the iron-cold looking, metallic blonde ladies behind the front desk. I was thrilled, for my crush on painting had reached new heights. As for (el) Jose, well, I venture to believe that that was a happy day for him too in his own way. Maybe those intricate colourful canvases managed to relax, soften, if just for a tiny bit, if just for a fleeting moment, his obstinate cynicism about art. Maybe he was even moved by the paintings, who knows. Maybe, just maybe, he let himself be caressed by the worthy lie of art, that which makes our stay here a little more bearable, inflate us -sometimes- with hope, and, to many of us, keeps us going.
My gaze kept traveling from the figure wearing a top hat surrounded by pictures in ‘Metropolitan’, to the bleached palm-trees in ‘Pelican’, to the whimsical mortar for the ‘Lapeyrouse Wall’, to the impressive view of the Pergamon museum through the glass window, and back to the green-faced pals with indomitable moustaches in ‘Gasthof’. The descend to the catacombs of our humanity, I learned, could be indeed a jovial expedition.
The painting, which fuelled the considerations and memories of this account, presents a reflection of a human figure and a batch of near-by trees on a semi-frozen surface of a wintry pond. A screen of detritus crosses the image horizontally, breaking the spell of what is represented (or, better put, merely reflected); these floating blotches of paint, have something of galaxies and dirt, and seem to challenge every bit of certainty we hold about ourselves. Despite its unfortunate title ‘What Your Soul Looks Like’, this painting remains as one of my ever favourites pieces of Western art.
(El) Jose and I left CFA Berlin that day in good spirits, notwithstanding our unsuccessful attempts to make an impression on the iron-cold looking, metallic blonde ladies behind the front desk. I was thrilled, for my crush on painting had reached new heights. As for (el) Jose, well, I venture to believe that that was a happy day for him too in his own way. Maybe those intricate colourful canvases managed to relax, soften, if just for a tiny bit, if just for a fleeting moment, his obstinate cynicism about art. Maybe he was even moved by the paintings, who knows. Maybe, just maybe, he let himself be caressed by the worthy lie of art, that which makes our stay here a little more bearable, inflate us -sometimes- with hope, and, to many of us, keeps us going.