Wednesday, August 09, 2006
So with some time off this week I have managed to get back to the paint. It's been a good few days and I'm starting to get that edge back, the sense and focus that only comes from daily practice. It hasn't been easy with all the international calamity that continues to creep and seep into every crevice - and the movie being filmed on my block only adds to the cacophony - but some brights spots have emerged such as the Ned LaMont victory and well being able to paint regularly. With 10 hour days in studio you get to shuffle through yer shit - figuratively and literally - always coming upon some arcane part of your history.
The image above has been with me in my studio for roughly 12 years, pinned onto and under various competing pictures and ephemera for the purpose of clueing me into something when I get stumped. I haven't noticed it much lately but today it jumped forth as it has many many times before.
The painting is titled, La Cena and is by the Spanish realist, Antonio Lopez Garcia. I've never seen it in person though I have seen a dozen or so paintings of his in the flesh. Doesn't seem to matter though because it always feels real even as a color copy - something I'd argue to be fascinating in itself.
At the time of this reproduction the work was unfinisihed, and I personally hope it is still just as unfinished/finished as it appears here. It's a masterpiece. That being said, I could see it continuing on its journey forever, changing each season for the entire duration of the artist's life. Always holding some new light, a variation here and there, cradling a new edge of investigation. The same scene forever still but always moving in place. The phenoma themselves fully seen and continually reassesed, painstakingly. It is such an anti-media piece, this is the no-frills Spanish painting tradition.
There is generosity in this picture, the slightest detail is given great egalatarian regard. Everything matters here, the tiny flourishes and modulated pigments are graces in themselves- interlocking, never shouting, always becoming the everyday, always inconclusive. Which is to say the real event.