The Strip Suite – Jacqueline Millner
Some of the most exciting painting today is not about images but about the materiality of paint and the embodied process of making. Even those painters who take inspiration from images they find in popular culture and the net are not working with the meaning of the image and certainly not with the significance of transcribing a photograph to a painting: these were questions that were key to an earlier moment, that moment dominated by questions of appropriation. To be concerned with the materiality and process of making is to be concerned with the phenomenology of paint as an organic substance grounded in the physical world and everything that this brings forth: about the liveness of the human body as much as the matter it is working with; about the materiality of bodies; about the intricate, real time interdependence of material, emotion, intelligence and hand that brings the process of painting close to the process of thinking; about the always developing, never resolved nature of being in the world that is echoed in the infinitely plastic nature of painting. As American art historian Richard Shiff has suggested, because its mechanics are so simple, painting allows for tremendous inventive freedom.[i]
These material concerns serve to save painting, and us, from the rhetoric of radical pluralism — the catch-cry of that all practices are possible in the post-medium state of contemporary art. To focus on the intimate, sometimes modest, but always contingent and unresolved nature of painting is to evade calls for the definitive ‘next big thing’: there is no need for a new neologism that essentialises what period we are in, or that names what is the most ‘advanced’ way of working.
With its sensuality and ambiguity, paint, an organic substance grounded in the physical world, can evoke a material connection between viewer and image, inviting us to be physically involved with the image, to touch it and to be touched.[ii] But paint, in particular abstraction, also evokes the viewer’s imaginative involvement. Painting strategies that heighten material presence and ambiguity echo more generally the processes of human perception and memory: we focus in and out of images and sensations as we strive to construct a coherent narrative of our existence, but our experience of reality remains ambiguous, with memory and imagination at times indistinguishable. American curator Alison Gingeras argues that painting corresponds more closely with the brain’s mnemonic functions than photography, the medium most commonly used to ‘capture’ our memories. And American art critic Raphael Rubinstein suggests that while much contemporary art ‘comes with its interpretation pre-packaged’ and caters to viewers who ‘prefer the backstory to what is in front of their eyes’ — as artist David Salle has put it — many paintings require that the viewer spend time examining the picture’s internal logic: a mental effort that parallels that of memory.[iii] As Salle recently wrote, the focus required to look at or make a painting is the opposite of the internet’s ‘frenetic sprawl’.[iv] It may be that ‘in our image-saturated culture, digital technology has given painting and its slow, full-resolution images a new lease of life’.[v]
Julie Harris’s recent acrylics on polyester — exhibited as The Strip Suite in Blue Mountains City Art Gallery in October 2017 — elicit this slower pace, sustained looking and material immersion. Installed in a wraparound strip at eye level, the paintings hold us with their acute balance of formal constraint and process-induced looseness, of sharp saturated colour and soft wash. The base layer of the paintings is free, emerging from a collaboration between art and nature. The artist in effect distresses the canvas, allows time and site to make their mark as she pools and swirls pigment, exposes paint and support to rain, heat, dust and wind. The resulting surfaces are textured like tree bark or river beds, riven with activity and continually evolving. But what most accentuates the freedom of these forms is the overlay of narrow strips of vivid, even iridescent colour that rather than restrain actually amplify the energy the paintings radiate. This interplay between the flowing, chance-like poolings of paint that in places appear to thin out into pure light, and the dense, sharp lines, asserts that these are works in progress, ever moving. In The Strip Suite, Harris has extended her material explorations beyond the canvas, leveraging off collaborations with master craftsmen in glass and ceramics to add to the dynamic interplay between stripe and wash in the painted surfaces.[vi]The carefully colour calibrated blown organic forms, rectilinear steel structures and vertically balanced ceramic spheres all heighten the painting’s formal aspects.
Harris has honed her craft over several decades of experimentation, observing the discipline of painting even as it was many times declared by critics, theorists and curators incapable of speaking to contemporary concerns, or blighted by its association with the expression of narcissistic personality and toxic masculinity. Such commitment to practice — the continual return to familiar problems, the repeated attempts to yield different answers even as many ended in failure — underpins the integrity of Harris’ work. It is what has allowed her to develop a distinctive pictorial style which, unlike easily forgotten art made within an economy of short attention spans and instant gratification, serves as guide to the artist’s private feelings and emotions.
Harris’s art demands to be experienced with actual physical proximity and duration. The way she has installed this body of work invites us to walk closely alongside it, to look and keep looking, but also to keep moving, and as we do so to take up the repeated opportunities to see how qualities of surface and texture reflect deeper impulses. We get a sense that the surface has been constructed piece by piece over time, the result of a subtle dance between chance and intention: a response to personal worry or preoccupation is balanced by the weight of hard-won skill; an almost automatic mark-making process impelled by music is tempered by specific commitment to care for the natural world; a desire to leave imperfection be is in equilibrium with the aesthetic impulse to manage and arrange. In this way, Harris’s painting remains ever responsive, if not necessarily provisional in the sense that some critics have recently attempted to resuscitate the legitimacy of contemporary abstraction.[vii] While Harris’ work is concerned with its own materiality and process of making, focused on structure and on discovering and moulding pictorial form, it comes from a place of deep commitment over many years. Her painting retains a certain ethics, a certain politics that is grounded in the material relations between paint and body — both of the artist and the viewer.
As American artist David Salle wrote recently: ‘Painting may no longer be dominant, but that has had, if anything, a salutary effect: not everyone can paint, or needs to. While art audiences have gone their distracted way, painting, like a truffle growing under cover of leaves, has developed flavors both rich and deep, though perhaps not for everyone. Not having to spend so much energy defending one’s decision to paint has given painters the freedom to think about what painting can be. For those who make paintings, or who find in them a compass point, this is a time of enormous vitality.’[viii]
Endnotes:
[i] Richard Shiff in Hunter College roundtable reported in Patrick Neal, ‘Enduring Meaning in an Old Medium’, Hyperallergic, 18 January 2013
[ii] Barry Schwabsky’s observation in ‘An Art that Eats its own Head: Painting in the Age of the Image’, catalogue essay for Triumph of Painting, London, 2005. Available online: www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/current/essays.htm.
[iii] Ralph Rubenstein, ‘Provisional Painting’, Art in America, 97 (5) 122-128, 2009
[iv] ‘Structure Rising: David Salle on “The Forever Now” at MoMA’ Artnews, 23 February 2015
[v] Marc Valli and Margherita Dessanay, A Brush with the Real: Figurative Painting Today, London: Laurence King, 2014
[vi] Her collaborators include Simon Reece, ceramics artist, and Keith Rowe, glass artist.
[vii] For example, Ralph Rubenstein, ‘Provisional Painting’, Art in America, 97 (5) 122-128, 2009
[viii] ‘Structure Rising: David Salle on ‘The Forever Now’ at MoMA’ Artnews, 23 February 2015
Dr Jacqueline Millner
Associate Professor, Visual Arts
School of Humanities and Social Sciences
La Trobe University
Visual Arts Building, 2.23 Bendigo Campus
+61 3 54447481
Sigur – Pam Hansford
Like all of Julienne Harris’s work her paintings in the Sigur series are almost entirely autobiographical – the physical remnants of the artist’s feelings and ideas. They deal with Nature, about how to work with colour, texture, rhythm, time, and what disappears or stays as time passes. For instance, Nordic Blue coincides with the collapse of the Birch Glacier, but it is not a protest painting. It is artist’s response to what happens when a glacier collapses into a massive cascade of rock that flattens the Swiss village of Blatten. Nordic Blue is what we have here, now, and never again. She writes: “I realise in reassessing my work it is in a dialogue with real moments in time. The paintings are my recollections, experiences, memories and reactions to other artists work, to events, to the landscapes I have lived in and the music I fill the studio with.”
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The Sigur series is about the feeling that something is disappearing or remaining and it is about Blue. The predominant colours in the series are blues. Harris writes: “I’ve used blues and all the colours together give a beautiful blue-black. In looking into the use of blue, it’s history and its meaning, I’m happy to situate myself there.”
The colour blue has a long association with intangibility, instability, indefinability, the infinity of the sky, the shuddering optical effects of a mirage, or distant mountains, and the hidden, murky blue- blacks in the depths of oceans. It is the colour of mystery, meditation, longing, distress, loss: “We love to contemplate blue, not because it advances to us, but because it draws us after it.” (Goethe) “Blue is the colour of wishes because we know we can’t have it.” (Robert Frost).
The indefinability of blue is a perfect analogue for the difficulties language has describing all colours. Blacks, whites, reds, yellows, blues and greens are colours we name, we think we know and can readily identify every day. But when it comes to more complex colours such as a ‘reddish green’ or ‘greenish red’ or a ‘blackish blue’, what is missing is the clarity of their constituent components. The colour disappears and the result is something difficult to describe. We might say poetry and art exist because our (apparent) certainties to do with colour tend to vanish when the (apparent) precision of our language fails.
The title of Baselitz Blue is a nod to the German artist Georg Baselitz (b.1938). Best known, perhaps, for painting his figurative expressionist subject matter upside down, Baselitz’s work explores a highly distinctive post-representational painterly syntax. In the context of the Sigur series, Baselitz Blue moves its few flashes of blue in the direction of true black. This opens up the greyscale family, which is an affinity of hues that exploit the generative powers of black: light and shadowy dark blacks, wet and dry blacks, thick and thin blacks, matte or metallic blacks, and bluish blacks. The work is a transition to the small monochrome-like work Sigur Black. Both are quieter and slower than the frenzied activity of Nordic Blue and Sigur I and II.
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The Sigur series is about disappearing, the indefinability of the colour blue and music. The Norwegian jazz composer Tord Gustavsen and Icelandic band Sigur Rós, are on a loop in the artist’s studio during the creation of these works. She hears sounds that resonate with desire in the absence of revelation, music on an infinite delay, meditative, rapt and pristine. For instance, the vocals in Sigur Rós are sung in ‘Vonlenska’ a term invented by the musicians to describe something that lacks the formal syntax of grammar, meaning, or words. More sound that music, it consists in vocalisations that resemble the Icelandic language but is tied as closely as possible to melody and rhythm. Notably, Sigur Rós’s listeners are encouraged to make their own translation of the lyrics and record them in the blank pages of the album booklet.
The ambient qualities of Vonlenska are widely used by creatives. Here are a few examples amongst many: In dance (Bodyscript, a dance production by Wayne McGregor, Random Dance; and a collaboration with Radiohead for Merce Cunningham’s Split Sides,); in movies (Vanilla Sky, Cameron Crowe dir.); in the US version of the TV series Queer as Folk; in the BBC TV documentary (Planet Earth), and; in advertising (BBC’s coverage of England for the FIFA World Cup 2006). Ambient and ethereal sound coupled with a lack of prescriptive syntax clearly resonates with both popular and nîche audiences.
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The Sigur series is about disappearing, blue, sound, and Victory. “In these dark times, I liked the ideas the Norwegian word ‘Sigur’ (‘Victory’ in English), generates for me.” She writes: “Now that I’m in my early 70’s there is a certain feeling of victory over death - the fact that I’m still producing paintings. I identify with Colin McCahon’s credo about his painting; that victory comes from naming with confidence and freedom. I also identify with the philosophy of assimilation with nature. It is a Korean one, and it emphasises repetition, production techniques, and meditative calligraphy. I’ve adhered to these ideas throughout my career, and I only now realise I’ve been working in parallel with the same Korean artists I admire.”
Victory is the gentle feeling of triumph arrived at through disciplined process repeated over time. But it also suggests exploration, confrontation and conquest. “There are some paintings in the Sigur series I call Starcharts”, Harris writes, “because they resemble the nautical charts/maps made from bamboo and sticks from the Pacific islands. I see them as carrying a subliminal message about invention. They are experiments, tests, improvisations to help navigate what is unfamiliar.”
Interview with Julienne Harris
Pam Hansford: After completing art school in the 1970s in Australia you spent several years in the UK. What was the focus of your work when you returned from England?
Julie Harris: On returning to Australia from England in 1980 I moved to the sandstone country of the MacDonald. The works from this period originate from living in the bush and the intimacy of that experience. I remember travelling back and forth from Sydney to the Hunter valley past the great swathes of newly cut cliffs of sandstone on the F3 freeway. I was intrigued by its mass effect and sustained objectivity.
The process of looking became very intimate and intense and I started grouping the works together in sets like the later ‘Walkthroughs’.
PH: Can you talk about some of the paintings and influences from this period?
JH: Some paintings from this period hint at aerial maps, the movement of water, branches becoming escarpments, such as the Bloodwood series. The panel structure allowed me to play with the work like a huge puzzle and order out of chaos was becoming the consistent theme.
I wanted to reduce the separation between my experience and myself. It’s a similar notion to the Mescaline drawings of Fautrier when he renders the texture of states not the vision of these states. In the same way the flavour of the MacDonald percolates into the work. I identify with Rothko when he writes: “The whole of man’s experience becomes his model and so it can be said that all art is a portrait of an idea”.
PH: Your work changes from 1988 to the early 1990s can you describe what was going on?
JH: In 1988 I moved back to Sydney and started experimenting with cut outs and collages. I used re-assembled unsuccessful works – it was very comforting to have a store of ready shapes like a pantry full of food! I also enjoyed the process of collage building in colour in the same way that Matisse talks of “cutting and carving colour”.
In the early 1990s I was travelling a lot between the Hunter, Bathurst and Sydney and the sweeps of countryside, fields of lucerne and crops transformed themselves into paint textures. I wanted to create the feeling of a mass effect like a bale of hay and the ‘paint bales’ create horizontal rhythms creeping in like a script. White took on a new importance for me: I was drawing with colour-matter, raw, simple and straight to the point.
PH: I very much like the way the ‘paint bales’ look and feel, can you say a little more about this series of work?
JH: For these works I used oil on board and a square format. The paint stayed high key and I concentrated on keeping the paint on the surface and flooding some of the backgrounds with glazes and veils. The textures of nature are transformed into textures of paint. As the series progressed the sense of rhythm became stronger, denser and almost script- like, leading directly into the Fence series
PH: Can you say something about the ‘Fence’ series painted in 1996-7? Are they an extension of similar ideas?
JH: These works are about rhythm as it makes its way across a surface. I was conscious of the compositions aligning themselves in harmonic proportions, in the same way Godfrey Miller speaks about his canvases forming a grid according to proportional ratios based on dynamic symmetry.
The way rhythm links to space also fascinates me and these paintings are worked as a continuous space from all sides on the floor.
PH: In 2002 you spent some time on the Shoalhaven River at the Bundanon studio. How did this experience influence your work?
JH: During 2000-2002 I was spending time at Garie Beach and the Shoalhaven and I developed a series of works I named the ‘Walkthroughs’. These are large paintings using several smaller canvases to make up the components, like assembling a giant jigsaw and problem solving in one.
The series of works called the ‘Walkthroughs’ are about walking through the landscape, how small details catch the eye and the way memories of things seen go into the storehouse of the brain. Water was seeping into the pictures and the movement of light as it plays on the surface of the river.
With the use of panels in the ‘Walkthroughs’ I wanted to create something that the viewer had to literally walk along or past. These works are about multiple viewpoints in the same way Cezanne establishes multiple views within a single painting.
The ‘Walkthroughs’ are also about the underlying structure in things, such as the repetitions found in fractal geometry. I was looking for underlying patterns and abstract qualities in the natural landscape and the ways in which the whole is repeated in the miniature. I think that so-called ‘primitive’ art, such as Mbuti, and traditional Aboriginal painting picks up on this.
PH: Do you find it difficult or easy to start a work? I ask because the way you speak about the endlessness of nature suggests you could choose to start anywhere, or that this boundlessness might be overwhelming!
JH: I’ve always started with automatic or stream of consciousness markings, like the Surrealists and Miro, and to a certain extent the works make themselves. I like the notion of paintings that aspire to the condition of music with no beginning or end.
PH: Can you describe your current work process?
JH: Rhythm, which has always been central to my work, is taken to a further extreme. I see the latest works as performances, like huge Rorschach marks that allow the viewer into the content.
As well as reflecting patterns of being I’m becoming more aware of the process of painting. The dripped paint and open canvas are at once surface and space and there are no longer shapes but zones, areas and fields.
PH: At first glance your work can sometimes appear unstructured but is this really the case?
JH: On the surface the works are accidental but underneath there’s a grid-like structure. I like to think of these paintings as choreographed: the colour becoming the notes of a musical arrangement. I very much like how Barnett Newman puts it: “Painter, a choreographer of space, creates a dance”.
The element of time is also critical in my recent work. I take the painting in and out of the sun and the effect I get varies according to the strength of the sunlight. The process has to be followed to its conclusion depending on the weather. The humidity and temperature create the paintings. I work horizontally and vertically, upside down and right side up. In this way the paint paints the painting as the result of the passage of time. These works are like Zen exercises and the rightness of the moment: If I don’t get it right they cannot be retrieved.
PH: You draw a great deal and have always done so. What is the relationship of drawing to your paintings?
JH: I believe in the repetition of doing something to build a language, a repository of information with marks and movements. I was also drawing directly from nature to build a personal script of signs. Each drawing is a signature moment in time and part of a series of successive works. For instance, my drawings are not illustrations of ideas but ways of seeing. The drawings strengthen knowledge, the repository for ideas and an accumulation of details. They are the seedbeds of paintings. They are also a way of playing as in the portraits.
PH: In the context of new technological developments painting is often described as an anachronistic pastime. How does your work relate to technology?
JH: Older technologies such as decoration, ornamentation, pattern and rhythm interest me. I’m fascinated with the way they can close the gap between cultures. Their universal nature suggests that it is no accident that ornamentation and pattern are often shared between cultures in different philosophical and symbolic contexts.
PH: If you had to reflect on your work as a whole how would you describe it?
JH: My use of rhythm and repetition reaches back to the early 1970’s and music is very important in the creation of my work. Landscape has always been integral to my painting not in the traditional Western sense but as a catalyst to inform the work. I find abstraction intellectually stimulating. The search to make a single image out of apparent chaos and to achieve some sort of spatial logic remains a challenge. I like the idea that one can have a continual space not one that is bound and finite…
-By Pam Hansford, independent arts writer