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 139 and lay eggs. At that point, the alchemist is to remove the cocks and put in toads to keep the eggs warm. (The assumption is that male chickens can’t roost, but toads can.) When the eggs hatch, they look at first like normal chickens, but in a few days they grow serpents’ tails. If the house weren’t stone, Theophilus says, they would tunnel into the earth and escape. They are to be put in brass vessels with copper doors, and the vessels are to be buried for six months. The monsters inside are basilisks, and they spend that time eating the “fine earth” that filters in through the copper covers. After half a year has passed, the alchemist is to dig up the vessels and burn them with the basilisks inside. When they are cool they are pulverized, and the alchemist adds the dried blood of a red-haired man, hominis rufi, and mixes the powders with sharp vinegar. If the resulting paste is painted onto copper plates, it will soak in and the plates will become gold. Theophilus’s recipe is only outlandish if it is judged against the standards of science. To painters, unexpected and inexplicable metamorphoses are the stock in trade of everyday work. No one knows what paint does, and when an artist is fooled into thinking paint can be entirely understood, then the studio becomes an annoying tedium where paint has to be pushed into place to make images. There have been painters who thought in those terms, but painting can be far more interesting and dangerous.
6 The studio as a kind of psychosis IT IS IMPORTANT never to forget how crazy painting is. People who buy paintings, or who write about them, tend to think painting begins in the cosmopolitan world of museums and art galleries, and that its meanings are explored in departments of art history. But painting is born in a smelly studio, where the painter works in isolation, for hours and even years on end. In order to produce the beautiful framed picture, the artist had to spend time shut up with oils and solvents, staring at glass or wooden surfaces smeared with pigments, trying to smear them onto other surfaces in turn. Painting is peculiar in that respect. Writers and composers are much closer to the finished product: their words or notes appear instantly and cleanly on the page— there is no struggle forming the letters A, B, C, or writing – but painters have to work in a morass of stubborn substances. For those reasons, the act of painting is a kind of insanity. It may seem unfashionable to say so, because postmodern doctrine has given up on the old notion that artists are melancholic geniuses prone to manic depression and beyond the reach of ordinary common sense. But even the most commercially minded artist has to wrestle with raw materials, and get filthy in the process. Except for a few nineteenth-century painters who worked in impeccable threepiece suits complete with watch chains and boutonnieres, painters have usually managed to coat themselves in spots and smears, and so to bring their work home with them like the smell on a fisherman. In an art school or a studio it is always possible to tell which artist spends the most time working, because the paint gradually finds its way onto every surface and every possession. Françoise Gilot tells the story of visiting Alberto Giacometti’s atelier. He was working in clay, and his studio resembled his work:
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COAGULATING, COHOBATING, MACERATING, REVERBERATING 139<br />
and lay eggs. At that point, the alchemist is <strong>to</strong> remove the cocks<br />
and put in <strong>to</strong>ads <strong>to</strong> keep the eggs warm. (The assumption is that<br />
male chickens can’t roost, but <strong>to</strong>ads can.) When the eggs hatch,<br />
they look at first like normal chickens, but in a few days they<br />
grow serpents’ tails. If the house weren’t s<strong>to</strong>ne, Theophilus says,<br />
they would tunnel in<strong>to</strong> the earth and escape. They are <strong>to</strong> be put<br />
in brass vessels with copper doors, and the vessels are <strong>to</strong> be<br />
buried for six months. The monsters inside are basilisks, and they<br />
spend that time eating the “fine earth” that filters in through the<br />
copper covers. After half a year has passed, the alchemist is <strong>to</strong> dig<br />
up the vessels and burn them with the basilisks inside. When<br />
they are cool they are pulverized, and the alchemist adds the<br />
dried blood of a red-haired man, hominis rufi, and mixes the<br />
powders with sharp vinegar. If the resulting paste is painted on<strong>to</strong><br />
copper plates, it will soak in and the plates will become gold.<br />
Theophilus’s recipe is only outlandish if it is judged against the<br />
standards of science. To painters, unexpected and inexplicable<br />
metamorphoses are the s<strong>to</strong>ck in trade of everyday work. No one<br />
knows what paint does, and when an artist is fooled in<strong>to</strong><br />
thinking paint can be entirely unders<strong>to</strong>od, then the studio<br />
becomes an annoying tedium where paint has <strong>to</strong> be pushed in<strong>to</strong><br />
place <strong>to</strong> make images. There have been painters who thought in<br />
those terms, but painting can be far more interesting and<br />
dangerous.