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 119 shrink, or discolor, and it should remain viscid long enough to be worked but not so long that the painting cannot be packaged and sold. Acrylics could only be successful in the twentieth century, when painters are more likely to be impatient. In past centuries, acrylic would have seemed to dry far too quickly. And alchemists were right to imagine fixation as a violent process. Imagination is fluid, or it wants to be, and the very act of painting is an act of violence against the liquidity of our thoughts. A painting is frozen, and its permanence is very much unlike our evanescent ideas. That is one of painting’s powers, since the stillness of a painting can set the mind free in a remarkable way— paintings give us license to reflect in ways that volatile arts, such as movies and plays, cannot. A film bombards the senses with new configurations, while a painting remains still, waiting for us to dream the changes it might possess. But for the painter, the continuous partial freezing of each day’s work is also something unpleasant, like a necrosis creeping through healthy tissue. A fixed element in a work, such as a dried passage where the painting is effectively finished, can be a cornerstone around which the work is constructed. It is necessary, but it also hurts. It is often possible to look at a painting and guess which passage was fixed early in the process. It may be a face, or a beautiful passage of drapery, or a brilliant gestural mark: usually it is whatever is so obviously successful that the painter could not bear to efface it even when the whole painting changed around it until its very existence became a luxury. At first the perfect place in the image is a happy discovery, what in French is called a trouvaille, and then as the painting gathers around it, it wears out its welcome and becomes an annoyance. Often, too, it is possible to see paintings where the perfect place, prematurely fixed, has outlived its value and continues to exist only as a fossil of some earlier notion of what the picture might have been. Paintings tell the story of their creation that way. The paint gathers around the one fixed spot like the nacre of a pearl around a piece of grit. Anything permanent in the imagination is also an obstruction, an ossification of the freedom of thought. Like a bursa in a shoulder joint or a sand grain in a clam, it attracts accretions that try to smooth it out and make it less painful. The painting swirls around the fixed spot, protecting and enclosing it like a bandage. But thoughts rub against it, and it aches.
120 WHAT PAINTING IS DISTILLATION The second most important metamorphosis is distillation, where substances rise as vapors into the tops of vessels, and then condense as dewy sweat and run down the sides of a tube into a cool glass. The symbols for distillation express the beautiful simplicity of the idea. In one symbol, , derived from an astrological sign, the fluid boils in an egglike flask and the vapor rises up into a curved tube and trickles down the tail toward a collecting vessel. In alchemy, distillation is when the substance gives up its mundane body and becomes spirit, and in painting, it is when the paint ceases to be paint and turns into colored light. Although the Christian metaphors run deep and thick here, the fundamental concept is religious in a more general sense. On an empty canvas, a blob of yellow paint is a wet sculpture, a hanging adhesion on the linen threads, coated in a slowly thickening elastic skin. But if I step back far enough, it may become a yellow sun, shining in a white sky. In that moment the paint distills into light: it moves without my noticing from its base oily self into an ethereal abstraction. Every painting distills and condenses over and over as I look at it: I see first the dirty threads and yellow stains, and then the open sky and sun. Even the most stubbornly postmodern paintings rely on that idea— even Sherrie Levine’s copies of Piet Mondrian’s paintings are faint reminders of the old transcendence— and it is not much of an exaggeration to say the entire history of Western art is a set of variations on this underlying theme. Distillation, as I am calling it, is what made medieval religious painting possible by allowing worshippers to see through the thinly painted panels to the heavenly sphere beyond. Distillation is what made romantic painting so effective as a servant of the sublime, and it is the dying idea that keeps the play of postmodernism going. But this book has nothing to do with all that, since I want to keep to the paint itself, up to the moment when it changes from blob into sun, and not beyond. In alchemy, distillation is transparently a metaphor for resurrection. It means cleansing, purification, and renewal. Alchemists lavished their attention on the transcendent meanings of their craft, but they never lost sight of the necessity of working in the dark stench of the laboratory. Art history does not have as
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120 WHAT PAINTING IS<br />
DISTILLATION<br />
The second most important metamorphosis is distillation, where<br />
substances rise as vapors in<strong>to</strong> the <strong>to</strong>ps of vessels, and then<br />
condense as dewy sweat and run down the sides of a tube in<strong>to</strong> a<br />
cool glass. The symbols for distillation express the beautiful<br />
simplicity of the idea. In one symbol, , derived from an<br />
astrological sign, the fluid boils in an egglike flask and the vapor<br />
rises up in<strong>to</strong> a curved tube and trickles down the tail <strong>to</strong>ward a<br />
collecting vessel.<br />
In alchemy, distillation is when the substance gives up its<br />
mundane body and becomes spirit, and in painting, it is when<br />
the paint ceases <strong>to</strong> be paint and turns in<strong>to</strong> colored light. Although<br />
the Christian metaphors run deep and thick here, the<br />
fundamental concept is religious in a more general sense. On an<br />
empty canvas, a blob of yellow paint is a wet sculpture, a<br />
hanging adhesion on the linen threads, coated in a slowly<br />
thickening elastic skin. But if I step back far enough, it may<br />
become a yellow sun, shining in a white sky. In that moment the<br />
paint distills in<strong>to</strong> light: it moves without my noticing from its<br />
base oily self in<strong>to</strong> an ethereal abstraction. Every painting distills<br />
and condenses over and over as I look at it: I see first the dirty<br />
threads and yellow stains, and then the open sky and sun. Even<br />
the most stubbornly postmodern paintings rely on that idea—<br />
even Sherrie Levine’s copies of Piet Mondrian’s paintings are<br />
faint reminders of the old transcendence— and it is not much of<br />
an exaggeration <strong>to</strong> say the entire his<strong>to</strong>ry of Western art is a set of<br />
variations on this underlying theme. Distillation, as I am calling<br />
it, is what made medieval religious painting possible by allowing<br />
worshippers <strong>to</strong> see through the thinly painted panels <strong>to</strong> the<br />
heavenly sphere beyond. Distillation is what made romantic<br />
painting so effective as a servant of the sublime, and it is the<br />
dying idea that keeps the play of postmodernism going. But this<br />
book has nothing <strong>to</strong> do with all that, since I want <strong>to</strong> keep <strong>to</strong> the<br />
paint itself, up <strong>to</strong> the moment when it changes from blob in<strong>to</strong><br />
sun, and not beyond.<br />
In alchemy, distillation is transparently a metaphor for<br />
resurrection. It means cleansing, purification, and renewal.<br />
Alchemists lavished their attention on the transcendent meanings<br />
of their craft, but they never lost sight of the necessity of working<br />
in the dark stench of the labora<strong>to</strong>ry. Art his<strong>to</strong>ry does not have as