Blackpaint 63


Roni Horn

I was thinking that what the Van Doesburg exhibition lacked, apart from green, was a serene, white, minimalist show across the way that you could rest your eyes in, after all those loud primary colours.  When the Constructivist show was on a while ago, Rodchenko and  Popova and all those triangles, there was the Roni Horn performing that function – as well as provoking thought, visual pleasure, etc., of course!  That Icelandic girl’s face, repeated over and over (I know with slight changes, but the repetition is what stayed with me), the water surfaces and the small drawings on white walls just what was needed.  And vice versa, I suppose, if you did the Horn first.

Reading that paragraph over, I am rather ashamed of it – it reads like Alan Bennett without the humour: “it’s always nice to see some lovely white walls and attractive faces after all that loud colour”.  But there is some truth in it.   If you Google images for,say, Gillian Ayres or even more, Asger Jorn or Appel, you find that they are too much en masse; too much colour, too busy – they give you indigestion of the eyes. One at a time, though –  fantastic.

Actually, looking round the room, I’m getting the same from my stuff – too many colours and shapes, too promiscuous.  I need to do some cool, clean blacks, whites, browns, greys, something classy that I can put in a steel frame.  Bit of the old rain-soaked, cold, misty British restraint needed.

Listening to Special Agent by Sleepy John Estes;

“Special agent, special agent, put me off close to some town (*2)

I got to do some recordin’, and I ought to be recordin’ right now”.

Blackpaint

09.02.10

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One Response to “Blackpaint 63”

  1. rickkurshen Says:

    Seems like exactly the right number of colours to me but maybe I have counted them differently.

    On the subject of Alan Bennett, I came across this poignant quotation from the man the other day: After seeing a Vermeer show in Delft he writes in his diary:

    “I have a sense of vertigo, though, in the presence of great painting, as when standing on a cliff and feeling oneself pulled to the edge. ‘If I were to put my fist through this painting,’ I think, ‘things would be irrevocably changed and my whole life be seen as leading up to this act.’

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