Bigert & Bergström
Anders Sletvold moe
Together with Elastic gallery
Bigert & Bergström
Anders Sletvold moe
Together with Elastic gallery
“A wavelength is a measure of distance between two identical peaks (high points) or troughs (low points) in a wave — a repeating pattern of traveling energy like light or sound.”
In W A V E L E N G T H, Julius Göthlin creates the desire to wake up amid the wavelengths betwixt high and low points that we constantly move back and forth from. Like currents in the sea, or wind in the trees one can also surmise this movement in the paintings. The minute details and artistry explore the dualism and discrepancy between the peaks of modern society. The meditative movement is pierced right through the high and low points by something that calls out for attention – a critique of the critique, a movement that perhaps too often cradles us into an insincere conviction of truth. With this pulsation I come to think of Symphony No. 94 written by Joseph Hayden, commonly known as the Surprise Symphony, in which he baffles the aristocratic audience with a sudden fortissimo that was sure to wake all who slumbered. The audience of today have buried their thought and mind in their smartphones, in desperate need of that sudden fortissimo.
Being interconnected and constantly filling all voids with meaningless (fake)-news, W A V E L E N G T H produces this very much needed anti-thesis of today. In western society we are nowadays predisposed to having it all, never experiencing the spikes and low points of life. The pulsation, or movement in the works by Julius Göthlin function as a filling fabric of the polarization of today, building a bridge over the void that steal our attention from what once was so important. News or fake news, climate change or denial, rich or poor, the dualism goes on for all eternity. W A V E L E N G T H is here to give meaning to all that which is pointless, with its spikes between the high and low points in the Creation as a commentary of the bizarre today, where everything is abundant. In the process of the airbrush-technique, Julius Göthlin never touches the canvas. Yet the trail of his thought and work is present. Once again, we all are called to ponder the dualism of life and art.
When gazing upon the works of Hilde Retzlaff, a re-arrangement of the soul often takes place: meaningless rubbish, seamless without cause left somewhere, suddenly appears as a possible morpheme in a ghostlike language of presence. Consider the Kafkaesque idea that the Great wall of China actually was meant as a fundament for the Tower of Babel. If truth proved to be utterly above us, should we still strive for it? It’s a Nietzschean question to ponder when the sculptures and images of Retzlaff prove themselves belonging to an underlying text. And even if that language would be inaccessible for the eyes, the same would open the art for other feelings, such as fear, cowardice, hope, courage and longing. They must carry on as a filter for art and life. That language is produced behind our backs, and even behind the back of the system. Retzlaff has made works out of pieces from billboards. But she’s not using the pictures from the ads, but what’s produced when additional layers are glued on ads. Overtime, the prints have overlapped each other, letting letters from different layers blend and be edited by the spontaneity of the material. What we see is a palimpsest, in which different eras and contextures mix into something new that has no human communicative intention. It is our surrounding. Sometimes we tell ourselves that it has meaning, that it wishes to say something. The spirit of the age, or rather the age of the spirit.
Art will not settle with realism, and its ideas don’t need to be real to get real: already as possibilities they exist and affect. Technological cinder (for example packing material or imprints) might be only technological cinder, but just as true is that it just the same transforms into something else.
Even a potentially dormant language can exist as a language, which even though it might not exist can insist. Cowardice clings onto what is, while the tendencies which can be experienced requires a wee bit courage, hope or fear to be observed. A lot of the conflicts in our time deal with this, tendencies versus facts, courage versus cowardice, the Tower of Babel versus the Wall. What insists is possibly a subsistence, who might just be waiting for the right conditions. Tardigrades are very small creatures in the animal kingdom, who can enter a cryobiotic state as long as matter is held together. Thus, they are dead. At more favourable circumstance they once more may return to life.
Lars-Erik Hjertström Lappalainen
Monopol, a group show @Spritmuseum during Sthlm Art Week, April 12-15 2018. A collaboration between Belenius, Johan Berggren Gallery and Elastic Gallery.
Catrin Andersson [SE]
Willem Andersson [SE]
Julia Bondesson [SE]
Rodolfo Diaz Cervantes [MX]
Johanna Gustafsson Fürst [SE]
Öyvind Fahlström [SE]
Inez Jönsson [SE]
Camilla Løw [NO]
Anderas Mangione [SE]
Przemek Pyszczek [CA]
Seth Price [US]
Rosemarie Trockel [DE]
It is extraordinary how much actually can be said about the works of Karl Norin in this exhibition. A lot of it is quite evident – for example how decorative and aesthetic they are, and yet this needs to be said nonetheless, as it shows the peculiar dynamics which makes the works menacing, under-mining and destabilizing. It’s not out of pure theoretical interest one asks oneself whether the works are objects, paintings or photography, it’s to know oneself and the works since they have a ghostlike presence in them, another figure in the corner of the eye. They come through as objects in a sleepless nursery during night-time. When Norin have emptied, painted and pressed together stuffed animals a picture emerges that holds serious painting skills, but also a strain of photography, collage, prints and posters. And yet it’s not only the work that is an object, but also the depicted object. Look at the ribbons on the teddy bears! They look as though they were pasted in, but they are really real! The works are permeated of this ghastly fusion of picture and reality, like when one is dreaming that one is dreaming, and no longer knows what is.
Taking a step back to see the whole picture it occurs to me that via these mild soothing colours and the funny fancies, pure terror emerges from the works. I come to think about Michelangelo’s fresco “The Last Judgement”, but in this case without the kingdom of heaven. In the centre a judging teddy bear, from left to right a hinted half circle motion. In Michelangelo’s fresco the damned lay down in the right corner. The emptiness of these teddy bears suddenly hit me, their stuffing all gone. I think of worn out people and how they wander about like fragile shells. In the fresco the artist painted himself as an empty costume of skin. The realization that the teddy bear most likely is not a prize from an amusement park sparks a grim vision of how random reality has become. “One day you’re a CEO, the next day a taxi driver and then a broker”, as someone said in a documentary. The medieval lady Fortuna has been reinstated as an example in society and hence every day is one of judgment. It is not divine justice that’s moulded in this fresco, but the fate of Man in a society where social and economic justice comes from debt companies. Being poor and getting caught in their claws produces penal fees after fees, everlasting suffering and judgment.
Yet it’s the teddy bears I see under a watery surface, and they are beautiful. What must an artist do? Kierkegaard compared the poet with a Greek tool of torture, the brazen bull. Some poor sod was locked inside of it, and they would make a fire beneath it, just to hear the screams of the one trapped in it. For Kierkegaard it was all about the poets’ torment of the soul, for Norin perhaps more about the social and economic interests of the artist; stress, chance, the market turned rollercoaster and the artist as a teddy bear for capital owners and bureaucrats – what do I know? That’s the way I see it. Just like one can marvel before the style of traditional painting, and its colours movement and depth, its way to the surface – it’s still a wonder! Art contains both sides, the beautiful surface, the living depth, and the agonies of the precariat. Ever some form of fundamental ambiguity: one’s’ life is really as a “cry in space” infinitely insignificant, but nonetheless to oneself realties centre and the most important thing there is. Being both a teddy bear and Jesus – fathom that, whoever can……..
Lars-Erik Hjertström Lappalainen
Lucidity is Rage
Text John C. Welchman
While starting out as an apprentice to Emile Nolde in the milieu of German Expressionism and finding himself some decades later at the epicenter of American Abstract Expressionism in New York in the 1950s, the fundamental commitment in the work of Adja Yunker was always additive or supplemental rather than gestural. He took up with layers, superimpositions, and folds, the manifest content of a technique predicated on accretion that while derived from perhaps, or simply most visible in, print-making and collage, was also characteristic of his work in oil, gouache and pastel—especially after he came under the influence of the cutouts of Henri Matisse and color field painting, in the 1960s. The “large lift ground plates” he etched for several days in acid in the mid-1970s at Styria Studio in New York are emblematic of this focus, their scale and manipulability also suggesting—as does the present exhibition—how the logic of accumulation and juxtaposition might be framed in three rather than two dimensions.
Yunkers work, I want to suggest, anticipates what Leo Steinberg proposed in 1968—borrowing his leading term from printing technology—as a new mode of artistic address organized around “the flatbed picture plane” conceived as an accumulating “receptor surface on which objects are scattered, on which data is entered, on which information may be received, printed, impressed.” A review of an exhibition of works in pastel and tempera by Yunkers at the Fried gallery in 1957 makes these associations clear by pointing to the artist’s multiple articulations of the surface, his “layered horizontals” and his quest for a “surface existence, through color, for his almost mechanical or automatic (or readymade) forms.” Made a dozen or so years later—shortly after Steinberg framed his thoughts—the collage-based works in the current exhibition negotiate with the cutout logic of the flatbed proposition, even if they are not fully realized within this language. Heavy, roughly torn papers with ragged edges are posed on and over fields of acrylic paint which sometimes finds its way back onto the collaged materials in the form of smudges and traces. Redolent of the figure-ground dialectic at the end of its hegemony, the “stacking” and reformatting of reference in these works extends in several dimensions. In White on white with blue stripe #X (1969) and Figure at the seaside (1969), similar compositions are diverted into different signifying economies, one formal the other iconographic. The Letter “A” (1969) refers directly to an alphabetic sign—actually splitting the letter into triangle and tripod forms underscoring its makeup as a composite of two more elementary shapes. While another collage from 1971 is a “sketch” for a print dedicated to Mark Rothko, who reflected more explicitly than any of the Abstract Expressionists on the question of how to articulate in layers. “It occurs to me in our discussion of space,” he suggested in the mid-1950s, “that it would be profitable to use pseudonyms which are more concrete in subjective attributes as for example depth, for the experience of depth is an experience of penetration into layers of things more and more distant.”
It is on the site of this challenging informational orientation, provisional but emergent in the work of Yunkers, that the relation to the sculptural practice of the young Latvian artist Indrikis Gelzis—currently living in New York City like his illustrious forebear—is most apparent. For Gelzis engages with the formatting, appearance, but also the social implications, of the graphic organization of statistical data, so prevalent in today’s media and streetscapes. His new, wall-based sculptures develop a language using square metal tubing, swatches of fabric and wooden plates in which the comportment of information is aggregated with suggestions of modular domestic living and standardized workplace furnishings. Here, the reorientation from vertical to horizontal articulated by Steinberg has in turn been overlaid by a striking conjugation of the locales in which contemporary life is experienced: at home, at work, entered into, but also passed by.
The “infogrammatical” organization of Gelzis’s sculptures adds another dimension to the innovative, spreading flatness posited by Steinberg. For not only do these works refuse to conform to either vertical or horizontal legibility, but they also incorporate and new stratum of data-based knowledge generally plotted out on the axes of a graph. In other words, they service the space between the defining parameters of up and down. Yet as with Rauschenberg’s Bed (1955), the work that for Steinberg delivered on his flatbed theory most insistently, Gelzis also attempts to embody as well as embed. His seemingly neutral materials include the kind of fabrics used for covers and upholstery, pointing us to the off-stage implications of a remaindered action. In previous work these allusive scenes have included sexual (in the exhibition “Between the Sheets”) and workplace encounters, and references to conversation and exchange.
Like Steinberg, too, Gelzis is interested in the split between the artificial and the organic symbolized for the American by how “the tilt of the picture plane from vertical to horizontal [is] expressive of the most radical shift in the subject matter of art, the shift from nature to culture.” But he presses this question further, suggesting a split between the experiential body and a data-processing head that is mirrored in the technique he employs. Building a virtual image using 3D modelling software, he waits for a certain moment of realization before reverting to effortful physical work “welding, bending, grinding, burning [. . .], oiling, sewing.” This interleaving of mental and physical, conceptual and practical circumstances, was also important for Yunkers, who somehow smuggled the implications of print-based work and material manipulation through the dénouement of gesturalism in 1950s New York. As he noted himself in what Dore Ashton called a “rather technical description” of the monotype published in Tiger’s Eye, “free execution” was a “’distrustful no-man’s land of shadow.’”
Gelzis’s sculptures at the Belenius Gallery offer an innovative address to a theme as old as modern art itself: the experience of leisure. Looking beyond the confines of work or the probable privacy of a sexual encounter, he color-codes off-duty experience (things that transpire, as the Los Angeles artist Mike Kelley’s famously put it, after “Day is Done”) by employing fabric in two basic hues both redolent of crepuscular or early morning light, the atmospheric brackets, to which Claude Monet also attended, that cordon-off the temporality of normative, wage-earning labor.
Octavio Paz helps us to glimpse a final point of reconciliation—in constituencies of memory—between Yunker’s shadow-shy layers and the corporeally-inflected framework analysis of down-time reached for by Gelzis:
Memory weaves, unweaves the echoes:
in the four corners of the box
shadowless ladies play at hide-and-seek.