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Zeev Engelmayer (born 1962) is one of Israel’s most popular comics artists, living and working in Tel Aviv. Since 1989, he regularly publishes comics in newspapers like Yediot and Chadashot, and in several magazines. He is also a teacher at the Bezalel Academy of Arts, Shenkar College. His work has been collected in books like ‘Engelmayer’.

 

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Pictures by Ari ATLAN

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Avigdor Arikha est un véritable phénomène culturel : à la fois dessinateur, écrivain, conservateur, historien de l’art, et surtout peintre, il est l’un des rares artistes contemporains à posséder le talent, le savoir et l’intelligence lui permettant de traduire, dans l’ambiance fin de XXe siècle, l’intimité et la pudeur d’un Vermeer, l’approche objective de la réalité d’un Velasquez, la froide élégance aristocratique d’un Ingres ou d’un John Singer Sargent, le mystère d’un Hopper. En ces temps où les images électroniques défilent à toute allure, son travail peut être considéré comme une ultime tentative de reconstituer le cours naturel de la perception visuelle. Dans ses autoportraits intenses, Arikha semble toujours en train de mesurer quelque chose : avec ses mains des distances et des dimensions ; avec ses yeux des espaces, des apparitions et les merveilles ténues du monde environnant. Le corps de l’artiste au physique comme au psychique semble être figé à mi-chemin entre anxiété et sérénité, comme s’il essayait de s’interposer entre elles, de les réconcilier. Arikha, disons-le d’emblée, est doué de la rare combinaison de l’oeil scrutateur, de l’esprit curieux et de la main agile. Il dit de lui-même à Duncan Thomson : Imaginez un oeil pourvu d’une grille tissée à coups de pinceau. Cest ainsi que je vois… Comment cette expérience arikhienne s’est-elle forgée ? Quest-ce qui a fait de lui cet artiste talentueux et controversé ? Pourquoi rejette-t-il avec violence l’avant-garde (il dit même que certains le considèrent comme un réactionnaire ) ? En parcourant la monographie que lui a consacrée Duncan Thomson, on a parfois l’impression que sa vie est plus factice que ses toiles, petites et discrètes qui, elles, semblent authentiques, paisibles et sereines. Il naît en 1929 à Czernowitz (Roumanie), et cest une scarlatine qui va l’empêcher d’aller suivre les cours des beaux-arts à Moscou… et de devenir un peintre réaliste-socialiste. Déporté dans un camp nazi à 12 ans, il en croque la vie quotidienne de façon quasiment documentaire. Ces dessins, qui à eux seuls auraient pu lui valoir la mort, finirent par le sauver quand intervint la Croix rouge. En Israël, il participe à la guerre d’Indépendance. Escortant un convoi parti ravitailler Jérusalem assiégée, il est blessé par des Arabes en embuscade et laissé pour mort à l’hôpital Hadassah. Dans les années cinquante, il se déplace fréquemment entre Jérusalem, Paris et Stockholm, enrichissant son art de graphiste et de dessinateur. A Jérusalem, il collabore aux éditions Tarshish fondées par le Dr Moshé Spitzer, qui exercèrent une influence notoire sur la conception du livre israélien et produisirent les plus beaux ouvrages illustrés de cette époque en Israël. A Stockholm, Arikha travaille aux lithographies pour Le Nain de Per Lagerkvist. A Paris, il illustre les Ames mortes de Gogol et les Nouvelles et textes pour rien de Beckett. Pour l’observateur à distance, l’existence d’Arikha à Paris se poursuit dans le sens de la fiction (ou de la quête). Il y devient l’un des piliers du milieu cosmopolite et évolue dans le cercle bourdonnant des célébrités artistes, écrivains, poètes, étudiants dont certaines deviennent ses amis, et dautres croisent son chemin, comme Alix de Rothschild, Balthus (Balthasar Klossowski), Paul Célan, Henri Cartier-Bresson, Simone Collinet (la première femme de Breton) et André Breton lui-même ( ce tyran idéologique ). Indubitablement, il a la chance de se trouver au bon endroit au bon moment, et cet heureux hasard va l’aider à préciser son regard et ses travaux. Entre 1958 et 1965, il peint des tableaux abstraits pleins de remous vide et apocalyptique qui, dans leur aspect énigmatique et leur représentation anxieuse de formes minérales pures en plein processus de désintégration en particulier la série Noire ont un contenu mystérieux et puissamment émotionnel. C’est pourtant durant cette période faste de l’art abstrait et de la peinture sans modèle, et malgré sa consécration de plus grand peintre israélien de sa génération, qu’Arikha commence à douter du rôle de l’avant-garde dans le Modernisme. Dès lors, il abandonne l’abstraction pour le figuratif. Lorsqu’on se souvient qu’un tel abandon est alors considéré à Paris comme pure trahison, cet acte est à l’évidence une manifestation de rébellion mentale et intellectuelle. Ceux qui restèrent ses amis durant cette période de transition Samuel Beckett et Alberto Giacometti ne sont pas par hasard des exemples d’aboutissement et d’intégrité dans leur oeuvre, mais également d’intenses chercheurs de la façon dont la réalité prend corps, se manifeste et se matérialise dans les divers médias. A compter du milieu des années cinquante, pris dans une sorte de processus de réapprentissage et d’une violente faim de l’oeil , Arikha s’acharne à réajuster ses outils, ses moyens et son regard. Il dessine et peint la vie, étudiant ses sujets, les passant au crible de son regard critique et méticuleux. Avec de petits bouts de papier, au pinceau sec et à l’encre de Chine, à la pointe d’argent ou d’or, à la mine, à l’eau forte et à l’aquatinte, il se représenta lui-même et sa famille, mais aussi son studio, des rochers, de l’herbe, des intérieurs, des natures mortes et des paysages parisiens, londoniens, hiérosolymitains et new-yorkais. Dans certains de ces travaux les plus anciens, les lignes sont si légères qu’on les dirait tracées par la plume d’un ange, ou aussi calligraphiques que les dessins des rouleaux de parchemin chinois. Mais leur qualité reste la même : ils sont aussi fragiles que l’apparition de l’image dans le bac où se développe la pellicule photo, intimistes, minimalistes, emprisonnés dans une lumière instable, fidèles à l’apparence factuelle de leur modèle. Durant cet exil volontaire de la couleur et de la peinture, Arikha ne révise pas seulement sa vision, mais aussi ses méthodes : la prise en compte du processus de représentation combien l’oeil peut-il voir, combien doit-il voir ? . 

Après huit années de crise , loin de tout fantasme romantique, d’émotions à grand spectacle ou d’exercices de nostalgie, Arikha se lance en 1973 dans la peinture sur chevalet. Comme dans ses dessins et gravures, il peint ce qui lui est accessible dans son entourage : sa femme Anne (assise, lisant, en nu à la façon d’Ingres, ou avec un chapeau) ; ses filles Alba et Noga, ses amis intimes, un modèle nu, lui-même (interrogateur, anxieux, haletant), son studio, ses outils, ses murs, son escalier, sa chambre à coucher, des natures mortes banales, des vues de ses fenêtres, sa bibliothèque, des paysages.

Si Ingres dénonce le peintre qui laisse sa marque dans ses coups de pinceau, le taxant d’abus dans l’exécution , la toile typique d’Arikha comporte des coups de pinceau décelant les traces du mouvement des poils. Ici les pigments sont entraînés par les poils dans l’acte de dessin , l’intensité du pinceau agit comme un détecteur de mensonge cherchant la vérité cachée sous le manteau des apparences. Ici, il ny a pas de superposition de textures, les pigments enregistrent directement le flux du mouvement naturel se formant dans l’espace du sujet, forgeant l’équilibre entre la transparence et l’opacité. En observant les meilleures natures mortes d’Arikha, on se surprend à tenter de sentir leur odeur, leur goût, à déceler le rapport et le rythme entre les formes, les silhouettes et les formats ; la façon dont la lumière, notamment, se répand sur la surface et s’y fige comme une peau transparente, dont ces contrastes subtils entre formes, matériaux et couleurs deviennent les véhicules de la découverte sensuelle et intensément émotionnelle d’une autre réalité. Selon Thomson, l’intensité des travaux d’Arikha s’explique par la méthode de l’artiste : la nécessité d’achever son oeuvre en une seule et longue séance de travail et la renonciation totale à la possibilité de terminer le lendemain. Car dans l’intervalle on aura trop perdu de cette intimité à couper le souffle qui a actionné l’oeil et la main.

De ce fait Arikha est un chroniqueur qui transforme les non événements de la vie quotidienne en une intense expérience temporelle. A la différence du photographe qui saisit son sujet en une fraction de seconde, l’acte de peinture d’Arikha étire le temps sur toute la durée de son exécution le temps et l’espace sont enfermés dans l’oeuvre comme dans une capsule ce qui apporte à ses sujets la profondeur et l’ampleur d’une vie réelle intensément observée. On a le sentiment que dans le monde arikhien les représentations sont des espaces protégés qui quelque fois semblent l’ultime tentative de préserver la raison et la civilisation dans un monde au bord du chaos. Arikha, comme cet autre peintre réaliste qu’est Lucian Freud, traite de la nudité des objets et des espaces ; il se concentre tout entier sur l’observation du modèle. Mais à la différence de Freud, il n’examine pas la chair humaine sous la lumière brute dune ampoule de studio. Bien plutôt, il travaille et retravaille sa réalité personnelle et sa surface comme une peinture . Ce qui crée, du moins dans les meilleures de ses oeuvres, une atmosphère et un espace séduisants, intimes et denses. Si par accident ou à dessein certains travaux d’Arikha révèlent une sorte d’allégorie mise en scène et l’ombre fantomatique de la Vanité, voire des références à d’autres maîtres, le plus souvent la pose est ordinaire, habituelle, dans le cadre dune pièce à vivre. Dans ce territoire, le trivial se mute en quelque chose de précieux et de délicat, en cristallisation d’un moment privilégié. Les traces de mélancolie sont contrebalancées par le plaisir simple des choses les plus primaires : lumière, textures, couleurs, et formes.

Il y a là un paradoxe : à force de contempler ce réalisme éclatant et d’inspecter en détail la dure réalité, on finit par ressentir que cette réalité porte en elle la densité et la qualité pesante dun songe. Comme le remarque justement Thomson, le moment peint par Arikha transforme l’ordinaire en extraordinaire . En un sens, avec sa touche légère et dense , Arikha est un exemple rare de réalisme minimaliste. Profondément conscient de l’équation entre les moyens, le médium et le domaine du possible, ce qui est observé guidera la décision sur le médium , il réduit sa palette au strict minimum. Comme le souligne Thomson, elle contient rarement plus de quatre à cinq couleurs à la fois. Ajoutez à cela la dimension réduite de la toile ou du papier, le sujet enfermé, et vous pouvez presque voir en lui un mutant issu de Morandi, de Robert Ryman (ainsi de la façon dont Arikha applique ses blancs sur le fond), de Vermeer et de Chardin.

Le Arikha de Duncan Thomson est une honnête tentative de repérage des sources artistiques dans la biographie du peintre. On pardonnera à Thomson quelques faiblesses d’écriture, compensées par un oeil sensible, qui sait voir et mesurer l’oeuvre avec bienveillance et respect.

La haute qualité des reproductions, le graphisme épuré qui laisse les images et les mots se dérouler librement et sans interférence, les travaux eux-mêmes, expriment admirablement certaines des idées contenues dans le texte. Les oeuvres d’Arikha étant généralement de petites dimensions, leur reproduction ne les rend pas minuscules, mais au contraire complètent l’original comme sil s’agissait de fac-similés. En progressant dans la lecture, on a l’impression de contempler une mini-rétrospective de l’oeuvre de lartiste. En tant que telle, cette monographie apporte la preuve que dans la veine moderniste-réaliste celle de Lucian Freud, de David Hockney, d’Antonio Lopez Garcia et de Philip Pearlstein, Arikha reste lun des plus éminents représentants.

Meir Agassi, critique dart et journaliste israélien qui vécut de longues années en Angleterre, a été tué dans un accident de voiture en février 1998.

Duncan Thomson : Arikha, Phaidon Press, Londres, 1994, 250 pages (anglais)

The last interview with Avigdor Arikha

Arikha in 2009: I have had a full, rich life and most of the time I rejoiced in it.

By Lisa Peretz , HAARETZ.com

A few minutes after the interview begins Avigdor Arikha asks me to turn off the tape recorder. Before I have a chance to ask him why he is making his way to the attic, he returns with an oil painting of a typical Israeli rocky field.

“It’s very important that you look at it well,” he tells me, placing it on the easel. “This is how you’ll understand me.”

At first glance it was clear why he insisted on showing me this painting, called “Judean Hills landscape,” as it combines, with an alchemist’s accuracy, the elements of his work – observation and reduction. And light of course. That natural light, he said, he emigrated to Paris for at the end of the 1950s.

But as we look at the painting together in silence, I understand what Arikha wanted to tell me in the first place: He will never be able to return to this place again. And as he said in the interview published in Gallery: “One does not miss something one does not see – there is no such thing. Seeing is an immediate thing. And even if I wanted to, I am no longer capable. This is it, this is the end.”

Again silence gripped us. Only one question could break it. “No, I am not afraid of death,” he replied, gazing at the painting. “I’ve met it several times in my life. I’ve had a full, rich life and most of the time I rejoiced in it. You know, a man loses himself in several stages toward death – first he loses his talent, then his body and finally his consciousness. And poof, he’s gone. Like a particle in space.”

Exactly a year ago I interviewed Arikha on the occasion of his 80th birthday. I traveled to Paris, where he had been living since the end of the 1950s, and stayed with him for two days.

He had not given a media interview for years. There were rumors that his health was frail due to a severe illness. That was the unwritten, unspoken condition we agreed on – I knew that the end was near, but I mustn’t write about it explicitly.

Perhaps my being a visitor from afar, after a long time of not inviting anyone into his spacious home, or speaking in Hebrew again, after so many years. But Arikha seemed filled with vitality. He spoke passionately about his days at the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design, about his close friendship with playwright and author Samuel Beckett and the exhibitions he mounted in Israel.

But from time to time a deep melancholy overtook him, perhaps the flood of painful memories – the horrific death of his father during the death march to the Luchinets concentration camp and the long hours he spent in the morgue, believed to be dead, after being severely wounded near the Kastel hill.

Shortly after the interview was published, I received a postcard. On one side was a drawing Arikha made in 1990, of a tiny silver teaspoon on white cloth. His close friend Samuel Beckett received it at birth. When Arikha’s daughter Alba was born, Beckett, her godfather, gave it to her. It took Arikha a year to come to terms with Beckett’s death and finally he immortalized him with this picture.

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Pour acheter / To buy : contact@zingergallery.com

Tirage : série limitée à 26 exemplaires numérotés, pour chacun des formats.

Technique : Lambda sur papier traditionnel ou, sur demande, sur toile.

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Elizabeth Peyton became well-known several years ago for her portraits of celebrities. Drawn from photos, life, and memory, the largely close-up shots are rendered personal through Peyton’s light painterly touch. Her paintings represent the immediate emotional intensity of our relationships with celebrities, both historical and current. Peyton has also begun to pursue the depiction of those who are likewise close to her physical life as well. Her paintings have been well-received both in the US and abroad. This fall, she will have her first retrospective at Deitchterhallen in Hamburg and a solo show of new work at Gavin Brown’s Enterprise here in New York. She will also publish Prince Eagle, a book of photos, drawings, and paintings of Tony Just. On June 26th, 2001, I visited Elizabeth Peyton at her 7th St. studio to talk about painting.

David Shapiro: Every time I begin an interview, it’s always hard to know what to ask…

Elizabeth Peyton: I find it’s much better when you don’t know the person you’re interviewing.

DS: Because, if I already knew you, I’d be feigning ignorance to ask about your new book…

EP: Well, it’s not really done yet… but it’s about Tony. It’s about one man, and it’s about love, first of all, and it’s about how one person can really change everything. It’s sort of like what my work’s always about – but this book, in particular, is about meeting this person — he reminded me so much of Napoleon when I first met him. Napoleon didn’t change the world just by being brutal – it’s also because he was really magnetic and really sexy – he’s a beautiful man and he had a big vision about life. When I met Tony, I had the same feeling – when he walked into a room, people would really change around him, and he wasn’t even trying. And I could just see it, especially more when I didn’t know him that well, because it was so different being around his air, and now I’m really used to it – so I wanted to make a book about that – just about one man. It’s also a kind of a story of me getting closer to him over the course of a year – the camera gets closer to him, and I’m less shy around him.

DS: The art becomes closer physically?

EP: Physically and also emotionally. The book is inspired by a Shakespeare poem – one of those sonnets. Shakespeare wrote to this young man and said that all the wars in the world can happen, everything can change, but I’m going to make art inspired by you, and you’ll live forever. That’s a beautiful idea.

DS: That’s the nice thing about art inspired by other people. People who’ve left your life stay with you.

EP: And people change every second. It’s not even about leaving you or dying or anything like that – people just change.

DS: Do you think that that’s a good reason to make paintings from photographs?

EP: It’s a good reason to paint. Period. Photographs, yeah, but you get that in drawing. The thing with the camera is that sometimes you get stuff that you don’t see, and you don’t want to reproduce that stuff exactly – like those weird facial movements. But between all three of them – memory, photos, and drawing from people – it’s a pretty great way to get a moment.

DS: So, you might work with all three for a single painting?

EP: Yeah. Inevitably when I’m painting, I’ll come back to something that I’ve been drawing. I really like to draw people from life – even if the drawings aren’t that good. I usually get really overwhelmed by drawing – just like “Oh my God – You’re so beautiful!” (laughs) You learn a different way of rendering them when they’re there.

DS: Did you study drawing and painting in school?

EP: Yeah.

DS: A lot of technical training?

EP: No. It’s really a problem – but maybe it’s also a good thing. I always drew when I was little. Then I went to SVA, which is very second-generation Abstract Expressionist, sort of like, “you don’t need technical training” and “be in the moment and feel it.” We could opt to take some technical courses, but there weren’t a lot. There some good drawing classes and I took them. Still, I feel like with painting and drawing, I’ve been really handicapped by not knowing how to paint – but it’s also good, because it leaves me very fresh – every day, having to sort of make it up. Intuitively, of course, I do know it, but not off the top of my head – so, I when I stop for a couple of months, it’s always like, “How do I do this? How do I want to see things? How do I want to make it?”

DS: So, what makes you stop for a couple of months?

EP: All kinds of things. Sometimes I’ll stop consciously if I feel like I’ve been painting a lot and I want a break, and I just want to draw. And sometimes, it’s times like now – I’m moving and have a lot of real-life stuff to do.

DS: And anyway, you can’t just paint. I’ve had times in which I’ve been under the misconception that if I just painted all of the time, I’d be alright. (EP laughs). If you just sleep and eat your meals and then paint all day…

EP: Some people are really good painters that way. And I’ve done it too – swimming, painting, eating, watching TV, waking up and doing the same thing – it can be really good. But I used to be more like that – paint all the time. But now, it’s been so long since I’ve had a regular thing, I’m beginning to think that I’ll go crazy if I don’t start painting every day.

DS: Do you think it’s important to paint every day?

EP: Not every day – but to have it in my life – having that relationship to people, where it’s not just knowing them, but it’s also keeping them, and having time away from them to think about them, which is what I do when I’m painting – and take time to do it with myself too.

DS: And painting’s about other people?

EP: It’s about finding yourself and thinking about other people.

DS: Was it a conscious choice to not paint abstractly?

EP: No, but after the fact, it becomes conscious. When I’m put to the question, I kind of believe in humanity. Everyone can understand it – but I guess everyone can understand abstract work as well – it’s more sensuous. People are so affected by other people in their life; they can’t help but to relate to paintings of people.

DS: Do you think one would be sadder if they made a life of painting other things besides people?

EP: No. Artists find how they look at the world. I know people who look at the world as more defined by space. I don’t think there is any better or worse.

DS: Your figures aren’t much in the way of space – they’re more in their own space.

EP: In my head, I like to know where they are. I’m not so interested in just heads. It’s their body and their face and their eyes, and I’m interested in the backs of people sometimes – their left shoulder or other things about them. A lot of the drawings have more space.

(EP and DS check out a few new drawings)

EP: I like to keep my own work.

DS: Rather than sell it?

EP: Yeah, when I can. Some things are especially important to me, and I really try to keep them. But most of the times when something’s really personal to you, it’s great to think of it being in some stranger’s bedroom.

DS: That’s somehow what it’s all about – in the end, being on someone else’s wall.

EP: It completes the cycle.

DS: Do you shoot the pictures for your paintings?

EP: When I was doing stuff with musicians, I wasn’t. But now, I’m mostly working with people I know, so I mostly use my own pictures.

DS: Do you consider your photography an art? Would you show it?

EP: Well yeah, but painting is very different. Photographs are more random – I do take them pretty seriously – show them sometimes, make books out of them, but, I don’t make a big deal out of them – I just stare at them.

DS: I wonder why photography has become such a dominant way of representing things. Take, for example, the very title of this year’s show “Committed to the Image: Contemporary Black Photographers.” I couldn’t imagine a show having been put together called “Committed to the Image: Contemporary Black Painters.”

EP: Why do you think it’s gone that way?

DS: I don’t know – but visually, our culture seems to be in some place in which the one thing people don’t want to do is paint people – unless it’s relegated to some other place.

EP: It’s a very hard thing to not make it very corny – painting people. But people always love paintings of people – in a way. Photos are really very sexy – they’re really easy. Sometimes I wish I could just be a photographer – as if that were enough for me — but it’s not — or maybe I’m not a good enough photographer for it to be enough. DS: So do you have any favorite painters?

EP: Favorite painters? Yeah, lots of them! I love Warhol. I love Sargent. I love Van DyckI love Goya and Velazquez, and Edouard Manet. And I love Karen Kilimnik.

DS: And David Hockney? (looking at the pictures of him taped to the wall)

EP: I love David Hockney! Staring at me in the face! He’s really inspirational.

DS: Is it more Hockney or more Hockney’s paintings?

EP: Both! Really both! I love that in the ’70s, in the time of high dry conceptualism, he was doing portraits, and he was really rendering them. And he believed in it too.

DS: Why did he believe in it?

EP: Because he believed in humanity, and humanism, and people — and he also looked fantastic. He was so aware of his image. He became a blonde pretty young and had more fun. He just had a lot of glamour to him. And he paints things he loves – like his dogs.

DS: Do you think people ever do paint against their love?

EP: I can’t say. But, there have been schools of people being cynical – or things like that. Most great painters don’t have to think about it – they know what they love. And there’ve been other times, when people do commissions of people that I’m sure they don’t love – but they learn to embrace them.

DS: Like Sargent?

EP: Yeah, he could see some kind of beauty in them – bring it out, or put there even if it couldn’t be brought out – a very positive move to try to put that in everyone.

David Shapiro is a recent graduate of Columbia University. He studied Art History and edited Museo, the university’s journal for contemporary art. He has worked as a painter for the past eight years and has exhibited his work widely.He lives in New York City, sells his paintings privately, and works freelance on writing, editing, and curatorial projects. dbs41@columbia.edu

One day last summer I got a text message from David Hockney. It read: “I’ll send you today’s dawn this afternoon, an absurd sentence I know, but you know what I mean.” Later on it duly arrived: pale pink, mauve and apricot clouds drifting over the Yorkshire coast in the first light of a summer’s day. It was as delicate as a Turner, luminous as stained glass and as hi-tech as any art being made in the world today. Hockney had drawn it on his iPhone.
He first started using that Apple gadget in late 2008. Since then he has produced hundreds of drawings on his iPhone and – beginning last spring – on his iPad, too. Some of these will go on show next week in an exhibition David Hockney: Fleurs Fraîches at the Fondation Pierre Bergé – Yves Saint Laurent, Paris (Oct 21 to Jan 30).

The title comes from one of Hockney’s favourite sayings from the first half of last year. “I draw flowers every day on my iPhone,” he told me then, “and send them to my friends, so they get fresh flowers every morning. And my flowers last. Not only can I draw them as if in a little sketchbook, I can also then send them to 15 or 20 people who then get them that morning when they wake up.”
The novelty of what he has been doing is two-fold. Firstly, this is a new medium with fresh possibilities, requiring unorthodox techniques. Hockney executed the drawings mainly with the edge of his thumb; you can’t use the thumbnail, he says, because the device is sensitive to heat, not just touch. The second innovation is in the method of distribution. He sends these techno-sketches out to friends, who may then pass them on, collect them or do whatever they want.
Each image as it appears on another iPhone or laptop is virtually identical to the original, although Hockney points out that even with a manufactured item such as this, there will probably be minute differences. Even so, the drawing on my phone not only looks like the one on his, digitally and in almost every respect it is the same. This is profoundly subversive of the art market as we know it, with its focus on the signed original work.

Hockney first discovered the iPhone during the winter of 2008. “I was fascinated by it, because I think it’s a stunning visual tool,” he says. “It took a while to master how to get thicker and thinner lines, transparency and soft edges. But then I realised that it had marvellous advantages.” He uses an app called Brushes. “People keep sending me new drawings apps to try out, but once you get used to one it’s sufficient.”
Flowers were a frequent subject, especially of Hockney’s iPhone drawings from 2009. His partner, John Fitzherbert, would buy a different bouquet every day – roses, lilies, lilacs – and often Hockney would sketch them. The real subject, however, was light. The other persistent motif was the sun – breaking through the shutters, sparkling on the glass of a vase, rising over the beach.
“The fact that the screen is illuminated makes you choose luminous subjects, or at least I did,” he says. “Dawn is about luminosity and so is the iPhone. People send me iPhone drawings which look OK, but you realise that they are not picking particularly luminous subjects – which this medium is rather good at [in ways that] another medium isn’t.”
A lot of these little works were done in the early hours of the morning, as Hockney explained. “I’ve got this lovely bedroom window, and the flowers are there and the light’s changing.” The location is the north-east coast of Britain. For much of the past seven years, Hockney has been living in the seaside town of Bridlington, after having spent the previous quarter of a century based in Los Angeles.
The big difference between the two places, as Hockney sees it, is climatic. In southern California, there is only a small degree of seasonal variation; in Northern Europe it’s massive. During the dark winter the day is short, in high summer it begins to get light in the early hours of the morning.
“If you’re in my kind of business you’d be a fool to sleep through that, especially if you live right on the east coast, where there are no mountains or buildings to block the sun. Artists can’t work office hours, can they?”
In high summer Hockney wakes sometimes at 3.30 or 4 in the morning. “I go to bed when the sun goes down and wake when it starts getting light, because I leave the curtains open,” he told me in June last year. “The little drawings of the dawn are done while I’m still in bed. That’s the window I see and the shutters. If there are some clouds about, you get drama – the red clouds, the light underneath.
This is not the first time that Hockney has turned new technology to the age-old purposes of art. “Anyone who likes drawing and mark-making,” he thinks, “will like to explore new media.”
In the mid-1980s he bought one of the first colour photocopying machines and used it to create a series of works entitled Hand-Made Prints. A few years later, he did the same with the fax. He sent whole exhibitions down the line to be printed out and assembled on arrival. The fax, he joked at the time, was a telephone for the deaf (he is himself increasingly handicapped by deafness).
In both these cases, and now with iPhone and iPad, Hockney worked with the strengths and limitations of the device. Approaching the fax, he recalls: “People said it was just a bad printing machine. But I think there is no such thing as a bad printing machine. It either prints or it doesn’t. Most people were asking it to reproduce things it has difficulty with.”

In the case of the iPhone, he thinks: “There are gains and losses with everything. You miss the resistance of paper a little, but you can get a marvellous flow. So much variety is possible. You can’t overwork this, because it’s not a real surface. In watercolour, for instance, about three layers are the maximum. Beyond that it starts to get muddy. Here you can put anything on anything. You can put a bright, bright blue on top of an intense yellow.”
A little after Easter this year, another text arrived. Hockney had got his first iPad and was immediately converted to using that instead. “I thought the iPhone was great, but this takes it to a new level – simply because it’s eight times the size of the iPhone, as big as a reasonably sized sketchbook.” On this, Hockney draws with all his fingers, rather than just his thumb. Hockney began carrying his iPad around in the internal pocket he always has inserted by his tailor in all his suits. Previously it would contain a book of drawing paper.
One discovery that came with the iPad was that the process of drawing could be re-run at the tap of a finger. The screen goes blank again, then lines and washes reappear one after another, apparently of their own accord. The result is, in effect, a performing drawing (some of these will be on show in Paris).
Hockney is tickled by the experience of watching himself at work. “Until I saw my drawings replayed on the iPad, I’d never seen myself draw. Someone watching me would be concentrating on the exact moment, but I’d always be thinking a little bit ahead. That’s especially so in a drawing where you are limiting yourself, a line drawing for example. When you are doing them you are very tense, because you have to reduce everything to such simple terms.”
Like many people, Hockney thinks that this technology will change the world of news media and television quickly and irreversibly. But drawings, like songs, Hockney believes will always be with us: it is only the means of making and delivering them that will change. This autumn, Hockney remains in love with his iPad, and almost every day new drawings he’s done on it arrive in my inbox. “Picasso would have gone mad with this,” he says. “So would Van Gogh. I don’t know an artist who wouldn’t, actually.”
David Hockney: Fleurs Fraîches is at the Fondation Pierre Bergé – Yves Saint Laurent, Paris (+33 (0) 1 44 31 64 31) from Thurs until Jan 30 2011

By Martin Gayford

Published: www.Telegraph.co.uk, 20 Oct 2010

Est-il prudent d’intituler une exposition “Fleurs fraîches” en 2010 ? Il faut David Hockney pour se le permettre. D’un autre, cela passerait pour sotte futilité. De lui qui, depuis un demi-siècle, pratique le contre-pied artistique, on se dit que la provocation peut cacher quelque chose de plus sérieux qu’un bouquet de fleurs, si charmant soit-il. Et c’est le cas.

Hockney, en effet, ne travaille plus à l’huile sur toile ou à la gouache sur papier. Il ne colle pas non plus, comme il y a vingt ans, des Polaroïd ni n’emploie une chambre claire pour dessiner comme Ingres. Tout cela appartient au passé éclectique de celui qui fut, vers 1960, l’un des fondateurs du pop art britannique, puis, à partir des années 1970, l’une des figures les plus paradoxales du postmodernisme international.

En 2008, Hockney s’est aperçu que son iPhone était doué d’applications qui lui permettaient de “peindre” sur l’écran. On laisse au lecteur le soin d’imaginer la justesse de geste que suppose cette technique, quand le millimètre devient l’unité de mesure. Aussi, pour agrandir le format, Hockney emploie-t-il aujourd’hui l’iPad.

Il a vite pris la mesure des possibilités de ces programmes et exécuté des centaines d’images, parmi lesquelles des fleurs qu’il s’est mis à envoyer comme autant de cadeaux aux amis dont il avait le numéro. Ces images sont donc strictement immatérielles, peuvent circuler et se multiplier à l’infini. Elles échappent au commerce. Il y a là sujet à réflexion sur la notion d’objet d’art et son destin, de la pièce unique et autographe d’autrefois à l’image numérique et innombrable d’aujourd’hui.

Dans l’exposition que lui consacre la Fondation Bergé-Saint-Laurent (Pierre Bergé est actionnaire du Monde), rien n’est imprimé : les machines sont aux murs, des dizaines d’écrans où brillent paysages et natures mortes à la façon de Renoir, Signac, Matisse ou Dufy.

L’un des plaisirs du jeu tient aux anachronismes et aux hybridations stylistiques que David Hockney cultive avec délectation. Sur son écran dernier modèle, il dessine du bout des doigts, comme un peintre de la préhistoire dans sa grotte, et dans un style et des couleurs qui étaient celles du postimpressionnisme et du fauvisme au début du XXe siècle. Les époques se mélangent et l’artiste prend plaisir à réussir ses cocktails de références savantes.

Dernier mérite de cette technique : le programme enregistre les étapes du travail. Il est possible de montrer soit le résultat ultime, soit le processus de création, des premiers traits aux dernières retouches. Dans ce cas, l’oeuvre se rapproche d’une vidéo, mais d’une vidéo picturale dont la vitesse peut être accélérée afin d’obtenir un film de quelques minutes.

Genèse d’un autoportrait

Hockney en profite pour montrer de quelle habileté et quelle précision il est capable ; comment il prépare la forme finale en ménageant des vides qu’il comble ensuite ; comment il rehausse le dessin ou lui donne du volume grâce à des stries – un procédé que les graveurs pratiquent depuis Dürer. Ils utilisaient une pointe, il utilise sans doute un ongle : le résultat est le même. La vidéo qui fait assister à la genèse d’un autoportrait est, à cet égard, remarquable.

En 1955, devant la caméra d’Henri-Georges Clouzot, Picasso s’était fait filmer en train de peindre sur un écran transparent ? Le Mystère Picasso offrait ainsi d’assister à la naissance mouvementée de plusieurs peintures. David Hockney, admirateur et imitateur de Picasso, a trouvé, grâce à son téléphone, un nouveau moyen de rivaliser avec lui. Au risque de la comparaison, qui ne manque pas de s’établir, entre un parfait virtuose et un véritable inventeur.

www.hockneypictures.com

——————————————————————————–
“David Hockney : Fleurs fraîches”. Fondation Pierre Bergé-Yves Saint Laurent, 3, rue Léonce-Reynaud, Paris 16e. Tél. : 0 1-44-31-64-31. Du mardi au dimanche, de 11 heures à 18 heures. Jusqu’au 30 janvier 2011. Entrée : 5 €.

Philippe Dagen

Article paru dans l’édition “Le Monde” du 05.11.10

Irit Batsry: Before we start this conversation could you please describe your Berlin, Copenhagen and Manhattan’s Lower East Side projects, as an introduction to some of the themes and concerns that inform your art practice?

Shimon Attie: In “Writing on the Wall”, 1992, I slide projected black and white historical photographs of Jewish street life from before the war onto the very same — or near by addresses in Berlin 60 years later. I then took photographs of the projection interacting with the architecture.

For “Portraits of Exile”, 1995, I created an underwater installation with 9 transparency images mounted on very large light boxes. These light boxes where submerged about 1 meter underwater in one of the central canals of Copenhagen, right in front of the Danish Parliament building. On each light box there was two collaged images together. One was a portrait and the second was some kind of background image to give context. I created a situation where historical human rights tales were coexisting with a present day human rights challenge. The historical story was the Danish rescue of their Jewish community on fishing boats in 1943.

In Manhattan’s Lower East Side I did a project sponsored by Creative Time called “Between Dreams and History”. I interviewed about 75 residents of the Lower East Side from all different age groups and from all the main ethnic immigrant groups (Latino, Chinese and older Jewish residents). I formulated a series of questions and asked members of this community to write down the answers in their native tongue. The questions were trying to tap into a collective imagination: “Have you ever had a sleeping dream about your neighborhood?” “Can you remember your favorite nursing rhyme from childhood?”. The hundreds of responses were edited to 28 texts and using computers an advanced laser technology, their hand written memories were written out as if a ghost was writing on the architecture of two city blocks.

Linienstrasse 137: Slide projection of police raid on former Jewish residents, 1920, Berlin, 1992, On-location Installation and 33″X40″ chromogenic photograph, from the project The Writing on the Wall, courtesy of Jack Shainman Gallery, New York City

IB: You came to fine art from psychology — could you talk about specific instances in which this background was important, helpful or harmful?

SA: Chronologically it is true, I committed myself to being an artist after being a psychologist, but I don’t think that I came to one from the other. I would rather say that it’s a similar part of temperament that led me to psychology and later to art. I don’t attribute very much the way I think or my way of being in the world to my training in psychology; I attribute it rather to my sensibility, which predates any specific professional involvement. I am somebody for whom memory is very important, on a personal level.

I remember when we lived in a tenement on the top floor in very bad condition. It was like a dream… Lasers Writing Out Elder Resident’s Memory, On-location Laser Projection Installation and 23 3/4″ X 65″ chromogenic photograph, from the project “Between Dreams and History”, presented by Creative Time, New York City, 1998

IB: Do you remember at what age that started to become so?

SA: When I was a child.

IB: When you became interested in your family history, or when you were trying to find stories about it?

SA: As a child I was told many stories about people that I never knew. About people that had died before I grew up. I remember having the feeling of having lost something that I never had. It was a very peculiar sensation.

IB: In a previous conversation you told me that your mother’s family came from Germany and Russia. Is it this the side of your family that disappeared in the holocaust?

SA: My direct family had come to America before the holocaust. My proximity to and knowledge of these stories was passed to me by my father and some of his friends who where survivors of the holocaust. But my work is more about memory than about any specific historical event. In certain contexts some distillations of the content come more to the forefront. Issues that come to the forefront in Europe, such as references to WWII are very different from those that come forth in America, which are often about how multicultural memories are interacting, commingling and dialoguing with each other.

Present day refugee with dormitory ship (“Flotel Europa”) used to house refugees in Copenhagen harbor, 1995, 2 X 1.75 meter “fuji-trans” photograph mounted on light box submerged 1 meter under water, Borsgraven Canal, Copenhagen, Denmark, courtesy of Jack Shainman Gallery, New York City

IB: Are you interested in the process of forgetting as well?

SA: Yes, the process of memory and the process of forgetting are inseparable. I’ve never felt like I’ve had to articulate the process of forgetting partly because I feel this process occurs by default. I think the best way to shine light on it is to intervene in situations where it is operating rather than to interrupt it. I am interested in trying to expand the layers of fabric through which we experience things. I am trying to fill up these layers and the richness of things. Simply because something is not visible it doesn’t mean that it is not there.

IB: It sounds like you are exposing layers, things that have always been there. Can you talk about the connection of your work to the documentary?

SA: Curiously, yesterday I was talking to some students about how my work lives in an arena between “the document” on the one hand and the “fine art object” on the other hand. This is more in relationship to the medium of photography though. My work blends these two opposites; I use documentary type images from archives, for example, and I reconfigure and introduce them into a different visual and contextual field. I use images as signifiers that point to layers of history, lost communities or a latent collective whispering within a certain context. What I find most interesting about this question is the next level to it, which is the issue of the treatment of historical facts. I am not a historian, I am not a politician, I am not a pedagogue and I am not a sociologist. I try to use a visual language in my work that allows people to have a different kind of visceral, intellectual and aesthetic experience that would be different from a direct frontal confrontation with the historical facts. My early projects had an element of very tight site specificity. They referenced true historical events. Over the years my work has become much about literature, fiction or visual poetry. I am trying to create an experience.

IB: Is that attempt to create an experience what has led you to make projects that rely on complex technology?

SA: I am completely not interested in technology but in order to create a certain kind of ethereal aesthetic, which I feel it’s appropriate to the concept of many of my pieces- in order to do that effectively- I’ve had to use fairly sophisticated technology.

At Temple of Fortuna, On-location slide projection and 50″X60″ lambda photograph, Rome, Italy, 2003 from the series The History of Another, courtesy of Jack Shainman Gallery, New York City

IB: Does working with these technologies alter your creative process?

SA: Yes, it does. It slows down the lag time between conception and realization.

IB: Would you be interested in making work about the future?

SA: I am doing a project for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) in Washington. They are building a new space satellite control center where many of the images of planet earth will be downloaded from NOAA’s satellites. I was invited to create the artwork for this building. This work is about the future in the sense that it will be permanent work. Some aspects to the content are oriented in that direction. I am going to ask certain people to imagine a possible future for the planet earth, the mission of this building, the monitoring of earth, etc…

IB: What is the difference for you between working in outdoor public spaces using historical material and working in a project, which will be a completely artificially constructed space indoors?

SA: There’s much greater control indoors over serendipitous events. When you create a completely artificial environment it lends itself to a more phantasmic journey.

IB: Can you talk about the public’s reactions to your works “The Writing on the Wall” done in Berlin and “Between Dreams and History” done in the Lower East Side of New York City? In which way do you think these works transformed the relationship of the viewers to these places?

SA: I left Berlin almost 10 years ago. When I return in the present time I find people that remember the projections and tell me that these images come to their minds every time they walk by the specific places. I find it interesting in that it points to the power of a temporary intervention, as opposed to a static permanent one.

Design Rendering (view looking back; laser write-out “complete”), Permanent new media art Installation (near-live full-earth satellite feed, 3-dimensional volumetric projection, animated laser projection, back-lighting and audio sited within translucent spherical chamber constructed from resin), new Space Satellite Control Center, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), Washington, DC, 2005, realized in collaboration with Norman Ballard

IB: Did you ever feel that you shouldn’t have done some of your projects because they stirred memories that, perhaps, weren’t ready to be stirred?

SA: Only in Germany. I was even assaulted. I never felt I was trying to provoke people. I am neither a propagandist nor a pedagogue. I am not trying to teach a lesson, I am trying to create opportunities for reflection. I understand that within the German context the kind of work I presented is very charged and loaded. The New York project was in a sense sweet and also more poetic.

IB: In “Portraits of Exile”, the work you did in Copenhagen in 1995, you had light boxes with portraits submerged under the water of the Borsgraven Canal. Can you speak about the relationship between the element of water and memory?

SA: Water is a medium of memory. Water is a perfect mirror for how memory operates: it’s clear, then it is cloudy, murky, deep, calm, turbulent, it floats away? Water is also a medium for projection. The relationship between projection and memory is a curious and complicated one.

IB: Can you speak about the relationship between text and images in your work?

SA: Earlier when I spoke about my sense of time and memory I could have said that my boundaries between past, present and future are perhaps more porous than other people’s. I think the same is true about text and image. Text is an image for me; when I use it visually I insist on it having the right quality. Words are images.

IB: What can text do that an image can’t?

SA: I never project text. I am interested in having the text written out by an unseen hand. That animates the text for me. What this does that an image can’t is that it creates the perception of an unseen hand, an unseen author. The words are alive and they are written out now.

IB: Usually one associates a written thing with something that has been already said.

SA: This loosely parallels what I do with documentary images. It is a frozen moment in time that I am reintroducing as a layer within a contemporary situation.

IB: If you were to invent a parallel artist, one that would do work completely different than the one you are known for, what would this artist do?

SA: I know exactly what that other artist does. What he does is close to what I do. He does video installations that have a sculptural element to it. I am very interested in how projected images interact with surfaces, and how both the surface and the image change as a result.

All images courtesy of the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery, New York

© Irit Batsry- Shimon Attie 2004

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