Tuesday, 4 August 2015
Tuesday, 23 June 2015
Mezzotint is justifiably famous for what it’s famous for.
It is famed for the black, the night sky cosmos deep black first seen in print at a time before we’d come to know that every milliarcsecond in the skies is glinting with galaxies, that black nevertheless, a black that in the intaglio pantheon only mezzotint gives.
No other printed black had quite compared to it, never before, and not yet since.
Mezzotint is famous for having two zeds. As a word, the double zedded mezzanine, seems to be well liked too.
It’s famous as a clique. Historians love it, dealers specialize and collectors compete, online social media groups cluster and chat making heroes of the print-tech gurus, for its fame is justified in the studio, where it really counts.
Mezzotint gives the artist nigh infinite, and very intimate control of tonal values.
It gives a lot for free in this respect, and the harder worked the more rewarding it becomes. The giving though, is not given for free for marvelous as mezzotint is for tone, it is considerable less good for line, which, in print terms means any hard edge. Hard edges can be achieved in mezzotint only by contrivance either in the plate making, or at the printing stage.
Mezzotint is the quintessential monochrome medium. This does not preclude colour but however the mezzotinter wishes to use colour, whether by pre-colouring the printing paper, by inking the plates in colour either single or multi-plate, or by hand-colouring the prints, the making of the plate(s) has to be pre-figured accordingly. Failure to do this results in a gloomy mess, which if gloomy is what the artist wants all well and good, but if not, the printmaker will be in trouble.
Thirdly, a minor but not unimportant point: the mezzotint print surface is flat. Not so flat as lithography and nothing like so flat as screen polished digital, but mezzotints don’t have the surface vivacity of an etching or aquatint. If print surface texture, either physically or within the image is required, this too can be achieved but only at the price of elaborate contrivance.
Contrivance is fine.
The notion of spontaneity in printmaking is a highly conditional quality, elusive and of course much sought after, and much prized.
The direct mark, the emotive rapid response and fluidity of thought are all subject to the slowing and sure battering of process and technique. There is always something between artist and viewer be it plate, block, or computer screen. Spontaneity can be nodded at in direct lithography, even nodded to in line etching, but by the time the printmaking artist addresses the more abstruse, arcane, and new, print media, contrivance is the name of the game.
Mezzotint is contrived to a fault. To push the point, the thought of winging it in mezzotint is a non-starter even though I hate to be the one who says, ‘Don’t do it, don’t try’.
No, I’d like to say, ‘Go for it’. (Break your arms, and bank account, make the time, it might work.)
Actually don’t. Really.
To get the best from mezzotint, play the game. Pre-figure the image then contrive it in the making.
Does this mean that mezzotint is not a pure medium?
Consider that mezzotint was the most glorious flowering of reproductive craft when reproduction meant the interpretation of an original as opposed to the multitude of photographic rendering processes (many now historical oddities) that we are accustomed to. As a craft skill, the contrivances however elaborate, became intrinsic, and unsurprisingly were encouraged and indeed limited by commercial imperative.
Artists took note. Think of Turner’s famous set of 10, pre-etched, rocked over and craft worked up to his drawings; of John Martin, who’s in-house mezzotint interpretations of his paintings arguably transcend the originals.
Today, the killer is the cost.
If only mezzotint was just expensive (like photogravure) it would be easier to deal with. Either, one has the money or not; you can raise the cash, or you can’t; the ante can be justified one way or another, or, you try it another way.
The cost of mezzotint is not the tools, or the materials, neither cheap but not bank breaking either. There are no chemicals involved, or software, and there is no wizard to hire.
Mezzotint is slow.
No amount of cash can shortcut time and time is the costliest of commodities.
Sunday, 31 August 2014
THE NEIGHBOUR I haven’t seen for three years, not a whisker, landed with a thump and parting of leaves, cries of recognition and the early courtesies of long absence.
I thought she were dead, or geriatric, rueing the faster breed of mouse and finding that garden walls were higher than they used to be.
I’ve had a decade birthday in the intervening time, now she has a rheumy eye, but that aside we look in fine fettle, or so I told each other as fur flying, we cuddled and purred. The only neighbourhood mog smart enough to negotiate my insect screen net without a hissing squalling tangle, Mad Mog called at will, appeared at my feet, surprised at my bedside, vetted my guests, harried the house spiders and went on her way again. She came and went so frequently, it was like having a cat of my own. Fur collected amongst the dust. A smeary of grime from her self stroking passage marred the lower edges of door jambs. Never hungry, she’s loved at home, well catered for chip and pinned, Mad Mog didn't come for the food that I would provide a needy visitor. I gave her nothing yet still she visited and I got into the habit of checking she wasn’t here each time I locked up and left.
Two kittens, brother and sister, one black one gold and now grown, have taken pussy possession of the jungle that my yard has become. They in their curiosity have each attempted access, both confounded and black one entrapped in the netting. Their youthful bombast, I’d thought, would be too much for an old puss, high wall notwithstanding and perhaps it was.
But, I’m not forgotten and I shall check the premises carefully when I leave for my feet and the chair legs are being face wiped as I type.
There’s a floor level purring.
Thursday, 23 May 2013
On-screen work and the online project is compulsive.
VERNISSAGE was obsessive to do, and now done, I sit in front of an idle screen and twiddle through the links, see I haven't blogged, nurtured social networks or tweeted.
I've thought I had something to blog but I haven't written a post this year.
The neighbours have vacated to quieter premises leaving me their builders who work hard and long, breaking down, drilling, grinding and hammering. One by one, all my neighbours dance the property market value massage jig, the compulsive attention deficit social disorder to tinker and titify to the music of cash. I don't know what they see in their extra bits here and there.
Turkish eyes don't see what I do.
The city of Izmir is a Turkish anachronism. A secular bastion in an increasingly religious, modernizing country. Risen from the ashes of Smyrna, Izmir is a work and play hard, fad-fast, stuff needy, get it and flaunt it place. A reactionary throwback of pre-crash rich noughties style, of good-life middle-class expectations dressed up as liberality.
It is an art-free zone.
There is a vast exhibition centre set in a beautiful central park smack downtown, and quite predictably, business minded Izmir tries an International Art Fair of its own. The art-fair is an established business model, there's cash and cachet in art somewhere, it's just more than a question of working the angles.
Turkish artists face difficult times.
Istanbul aside, Turkey is an art-free country. There is rich heritage and art in Turkey, and both are there to stand in front of as photo backdrops. For good reason. Any area beyond the perimeter is unheeded. There is no view that is not marred by block on blocks of apartments and more-of-the-same development in concrete poured drab uniformity.
I don't know what Turkish eyes see. They certainly look at each other looking at everyone on the lookout. From my Kamilkoç coach, the urban homogeny is almost painful. A sprawl of 6-8 storied blocks, the odd new mall and mosque, and what have Turkey done to their mosques? They're all new. Not the famous ones of course, they're still there as backdrops, no, the local mosques big and small built to centralized designs with concrete-pipe-perfect tin topped minarets, and silver domes glinting like freshly washed and draining cooking pots.
Wondrous food and hospitality and Turkish eyes too, but what do we see?
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Sunday, 9 December 2012
I grew up with Rima Farah. Not literally for we aren’t nurtured of the same soil and we weren’t student fellows, but as young artists we shared the post-art-college years of hope and struggle, we shared our first studios. Together she and I formed a business and over 20 years we collaborated on hundreds of prints and paintings. We exhibited all over in all sorts of guises; at fairs, corporate shindigs, in lobbies and galleries; we had dozens of showings in London, Europe, Japan, the USA, and across the Middle East. That ended in 2000 and in the years since our work and lives have spiraled apart, touching here and there, occluding and eclipsing and colliding.
Definitions, is Rima Farah’s first major exhibition since Dubai in 2003. It has been a long time in the careful maturing and her path has brought her to sufism, calligraphic complexities, paintings on ceramics, and in the while to establishing herself in Tangier.
I must refrain from attempted critique as my history with Rima compromises any objective view of the artist’s new work, but I do have insight to the backstories. I know the moves, her exhibition routine, for her moves and mine are born of our moves together. I know well the pre-exhibition busyness of mustering finance, timing, of the printing, framing, photography, transportation, of hanging and pricing; and preparing spiel for the catalogue, for online, the invite, the press and gallery’s pet clients; a different spiel for friends and yet different again for artist colleagues and rivals. Executing the tasks seems endless, like that list, exasperating and there’s an opening deadline and post-exhibition party to arrange, success to prepare for, and a brave face put in reserve for disaster.
Exhibiting is an intrinsic part of an artist’s job, if a job artist be, yet exhibitions are infrequent and an entirely different activity to the seclusion of studio working. Exhibitions need rarely used and unpracticed skills of personal presentation. The work is given public chance to speak, but the artist in public has to be looking good, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to glad-hand all comers with the real right words ready pat on demand. Every detail matters; of looking good, hair, teeth, face, wardrobe and shoes; an exhibition is a performance, an act of not seeming anxious or tired even while you are fraught and stressed.
Exhibitions are the artist's main chance and chance plays the hugest part in the success of any exhibition.
I opened one that coincided with an outbreak of Gulf hostilities, Rima and I contended with an earthquake in Cairo, and this summer in a tempt of fate I launched a show the night of the Olympic Opening Ceremony which worked surprisingly well. Unwittingly competing for attention with Gulf War 2 was haplessly grotesque.
The artist cannot second guess events but you can curse your luck.
Definitions opened to thunderous rain which added to the drama and dampened a fine opening attendance. Rain didn’t stop the professionals, the press and TV crew, and it didn’t stop the success, or the party. The artist cannot second guess either people, or the elements.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
- OLD HOUSE NEW ART, IZMIR, OCTOBER 2012 - a seven day meeting and old-style-symposium drinking-party-whirl of new places and new faces. Artists as symposiasts is new one on me and we are 20 strong. In the main Turkish artists, from Izmir and flying in from Ankara and Istanbul and Canada. We have a Dane, two Italians; twin sisters, one a painter the other sculpting; an Austrian, a Georgian and a German. I'm the token Brit and for any painting contributions I might make, this is a new working time frame.
My work takes longer than days, my creative processing is slower taking months in gestation, sometimes years, and as often months more in the making. Producing several paintings in a week is unbelievably fast and only the dynamism generated by being amongst artists working together at fever-pace could allow me such profligacy.
I am without the full and reassuringly complicated facilities that my studio affords, without privacy, and with no time to contemplate, to experiment or to fail.
One of 20 crowded cheek by jowl into a beautiful old house ripe for renovation though please not for destruction and redevelopment, my allocated spot, the first floor lobby landing, is a thoroughfare and a meeting place. So, I painted in public in the transience of a crossroad or intersection and almost without knowing it, crosswise, çapraz became the theme and titles for 5 of the seven paintings I tried in the week. The other two, Sweet Miasma I & II, worked up while I made many new art-making friends making New Art in the Old House and enjoyed the boundless generous hospitality of our Turkish hosts.
video by Oliver Feistmantl.... and a lot of friends who helped us to make this possible,...
KATILIMCI SANATCILAR, CEMAL DEMIR, DANIELA NOVELLO, DEMET BARLAS, ENIS AKTAS, KERSTEN THIELER KUECHLE, KEVIN JACKSON, KIRSTEN BALLISAGER, MISHIKO MAKHARADZE, MUSTAFA HORASAN, OLIVER FEISTMANTL, ORHAN UMUT, PATRIZIA NOVELLO, REYHAN ABACIOGLU, SELAHATTIN YILDIRIM, SEMA BARLAS, TARIK GÖK, TUNCAY TOPCU, TÜLAY CELIKEL, VITUS WOLFSTEINER,