What Painting Is: How to Think about Oil Painting ... - Victoria Vesna
What Painting Is: How to Think about Oil Painting ... - Victoria Vesna What Painting Is: How to Think about Oil Painting ... - Victoria Vesna
COAGULATING, COHOBATING, MACERATING, REVERBERATING 117 Normally there isn’t much that can be said about the exact ways in which paint changes, or what it “wants.” The “creative process” is vague, and so is the metaphor of metamorphosis. Once again, alchemy is the clearest path into these questions because alchemists nearly always understood that their art demanded a mixture of rational control and intuitive freedom. The alchemical substances could be partly understood, but they also changed in unexpected ways. Some literal-minded alchemists wrote exact formulas for their everyday elixirs and oils, but in most cases those recipes are either trivial or wellknown. The important recipes are always clouded or incomplete, and though there are many reasons for that (some alchemists were intentionally fraudulent, and others were hopelessly confused), the incompletion was necessary so that the substances could remain alluring and unpredictable. Alchemical metamorphosis is not so much pre-scientific as para-scientific: it works alongside science (from para-, meaning “beside”) by taking some laws from the rational world of experimental procedure, and fusing them to irrational methods designed to expose the unpredictable properties of half-known substances. The literature on painting is relatively mute about metamorphosis. If you go in search of it, you will find it is entirely taken over by largely uninteresting books on chemical composition, artist’s techniques, and restoration. There is not much to say about Nolde’s methods because there are so few words to describe what happens when one color struggles with another until they both weaken. The same is true of the older methods: there is no critical language to describe the greenish tempera painting, waiting for the red to cover and restore it. Those are important meanings and states of mind, and they need words. The principal alchemical terms for metamorphoses are names for changes that also happen in painting. For the alchemists as for the painters, they are partly reasonable procedures that can be taught and learned, and partly intuitive, mystical methods that describe something a rational analysis cannot grasp. CONGELATION To the alchemists, there were two fundamentally opposed states of matter: the fixed and the volatile. They were symbolized
118 WHAT PAINTING IS elegantly with two little pictures: for fixed and for volatile. The sign for fixed suggests a spot of matter, sitting in a crucible. The other suggests a dot of vapor, rising to the top of a closed vessel. Volatile is also written as if it were a puff of smoke, drifting and eddying in the air. All matter, the alchemists thought, is one or the other. Water is volatile, since it can be boiled out of a pot, leaving a white skin of dried minerals. Honey can be boiled, leaving ash. But gold is fixed: it is difficult to change gold, and it can seem that gold survives all mixtures intact. It can be melted, but it cannot be boiled away (or so the alchemists thought). It can be dissolved, but only with some difficulty, and if it is hidden in a mixture it will never form chemical combinations—the mixture can always be heated, and the gold will be there at the bottom (or so the alchemists thought). One of the aims of alchemy, and one of its most basic metamorphoses, is to make the volatile fixed: to cut the limbs from the lion, or clip the wings from the dragon, or shear the feathers from the phoenix. The alchemists thought of fixation as hobbling, chaining, and mutilation. Chop off a man’s feet, and he will not walk far. (In other texts, by typical alchemical paradox, amputations make more mobile, and so more volatile.) Alchemists also symbolized fixation as —that is, mercury shorn of its head. In one alchemical frontispiece a lion sits demurely beside its four paws, hacked off by the alchemist’s sword. The paws are in two neat piles. Fixation is certainly the primary metamorphosis of painting as well, since the liquid paints are siccative: they desiccate and become solid. Congelation is a name for the act of fixing or congealing, both in painting and in alchemy. Whatever else painting is, it is the patient supervision of oil as it dries, and that is why painters have always been so concerned about how different media dry: whether poppyseed oil dries better than linseed oil, whether pine oils or sunflower oils might be used instead. It can take an expert eye to judge the differences: I have been told hazelnut oil is the best for tempera paint, but so far I have failed to see its distinctive properties. The endless combinations of balsams and turpentines, soft resins such as mastic, dammar, shellac, and sandarac, hard resins such as copal and amber, waxes, tallows, oils (of cloves, lavender, rosemary, elemi, cajaput, camphor): they are all meant to fine-tune the manner in which the oil paint dries. Ideally it should not wrinkle,
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118 WHAT PAINTING IS<br />
elegantly with two little pictures: for fixed and for volatile.<br />
The sign for fixed suggests a spot of matter, sitting in a crucible.<br />
The other suggests a dot of vapor, rising <strong>to</strong> the <strong>to</strong>p of a closed<br />
vessel. Volatile is also written as if it were a puff of smoke,<br />
drifting and eddying in the air.<br />
All matter, the alchemists thought, is one or the other. Water is<br />
volatile, since it can be boiled out of a pot, leaving a white skin of<br />
dried minerals. Honey can be boiled, leaving ash. But gold is<br />
fixed: it is difficult <strong>to</strong> change gold, and it can seem that gold<br />
survives all mixtures intact. It can be melted, but it cannot be<br />
boiled away (or so the alchemists thought). It can be dissolved,<br />
but only with some difficulty, and if it is hidden in a mixture it<br />
will never form chemical combinations—the mixture can always<br />
be heated, and the gold will be there at the bot<strong>to</strong>m (or so the<br />
alchemists thought). One of the aims of alchemy, and one of its<br />
most basic metamorphoses, is <strong>to</strong> make the volatile fixed: <strong>to</strong> cut<br />
the limbs from the lion, or clip the wings from the dragon, or<br />
shear the feathers from the phoenix. The alchemists thought of<br />
fixation as hobbling, chaining, and mutilation. Chop off a man’s<br />
feet, and he will not walk far. (In other texts, by typical alchemical<br />
paradox, amputations make more mobile, and so more volatile.)<br />
Alchemists also symbolized fixation as —that is, mercury<br />
shorn of its head. In one alchemical frontispiece a lion sits<br />
demurely beside its four paws, hacked off by the alchemist’s<br />
sword. The paws are in two neat piles.<br />
Fixation is certainly the primary metamorphosis of painting as<br />
well, since the liquid paints are siccative: they desiccate and<br />
become solid. Congelation is a name for the act of fixing or<br />
congealing, both in painting and in alchemy. <strong>What</strong>ever else<br />
painting is, it is the patient supervision of oil as it dries, and that<br />
is why painters have always been so concerned <strong>about</strong> how<br />
different media dry: whether poppyseed oil dries better than<br />
linseed oil, whether pine oils or sunflower oils might be used<br />
instead. It can take an expert eye <strong>to</strong> judge the differences: I have<br />
been <strong>to</strong>ld hazelnut oil is the best for tempera paint, but so far I<br />
have failed <strong>to</strong> see its distinctive properties. The endless<br />
combinations of balsams and turpentines, soft resins such as<br />
mastic, dammar, shellac, and sandarac, hard resins such as copal<br />
and amber, waxes, tallows, oils (of cloves, lavender, rosemary,<br />
elemi, cajaput, camphor): they are all meant <strong>to</strong> fine-tune the<br />
manner in which the oil paint dries. Ideally it should not wrinkle,