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| ... It simply works out the way it does Laima Slava The solo exhibition by Ģirts Muižnieks in the White Hall of the National Museum of Art was certainly one of last year's most vivid events in Latvian art. | |
| Ģirts Muižnieks has long been recognised as a superb painter, but the concentration of dramatic force seen in his latest works, created in 2006, came as a real surprise. Large formats, powerful contrasts and, when seen close-up, rich, subtle painting as well. The playful virtuosity of the brushwork has not been lost, while the visionary message invites you to peel off layer after layer, seeking what lies deep underneath. Great painting of rarely-encountered quality, wide-ranging and very rich, balancing amazingly between playful form and dramatic content. No, no, this does not mean scenes with dangers or problems - that's something Girts' perfect sense of style and taste would not permit him to bring into the world. But, although Muižnieks regularly holds exhibitions, the idea of personal strength as the key to triumph is appearing more clearly than ever before.
At least three distinct characteristics are noticeable in his latest work: the dense, painterly background glazes in place of the earlier clear backgrounds ("Meteorite", "View from my window"); large areas of local colour in the backgrounds (a technique only seen before in one work, featuring the white horse, and now we have this in blue in "At the beach", in black in "Flies on a black piano" and in pink in "Taxi"). But I was particularly surprised by the great black heads contrasting with a cheerful, colourful setting ("Aboriginal", "Mask", etc.). Does this signify some conflicts of the soul previously unseen? There's no doubt about the monolithic character of the general impression and at the same time its ambivalent richness. Stability full of strength: a central point has been located in a world full of colour and play, but a world perhaps not always so benevolent. One has to know how to exist within it. These works also make me think about the question of balancing the world you wish to see with that which is in you, a world that perhaps does not seem so positive at that particular moment. There's no shortage of artists who loudly proclaim their negative feelings to the world, and the viewer suffers along with them. No doubt Ģirts Muižnieks, this champion of the hedonistic spirit, the master of works that have so far been almost exclusively positive, also has his "black hours". However, the creations of his brush can serve as a non-didactic, but instructive pointer to the innate value of the world's undying beauty, which collects the possible inner dramas and encapsulates them in a monolithic unit, one that can also be thrown off like a mask. That is, of course, if you have enough strength. And it seems that Ģirts Muižnieks currently has an abundance of strength. Moreover, it's possible to talk to Ģirts specifically about painting, which has now become quite a clearly defined élite activity. Of the so-called "Gentle Fluctuations" generation, only he, Ieva Iltnere and Aija Zariņa have consistently followed their own route of unforced, natural development of ideas in painting, without seeking alternatives for self-expression. Ģirts has retained an unaltered relationship with the language of colour as the fulfilment of the meaning of life. L.S.: How have you succeeded in remaining faithful to painting at a time when there have been so many other enticements around? Compared with the time up to the end of the 20th century, when painting had an accustomed role among the Latvians as the chosen art, the conditions for this particular art form at the time when you started out were not longer so favourable. It was in your generation that installations, events, etc., came to the fore, while the state changed the status of art and the economic system... Ģ.M.: It was a period that rendered the artist superfluous. There were no exhibitions, no buyers, no commissions. At that time, none of the arts had an easy time of it, since all the funding available in the early 90s (including the Soros Foundation) was not such that we might say that any particular form of was flourishing. The occasions when I turned to installations or events simply seemed to me less interesting forms of spending the time than painting. Working with paint makes me feel better, more organic - I simply enjoy it more than when I'm thinking up or designing something. L.S.: What gives you a good feeling when you're painting? You're not the kind of person who thinks something up and then puts it into practice? Ģ.M.: I do think things up and put them into practice, but it turns out completely different. However, I get satisfaction from the way that sometimes I end up with something that I myself like. Sometimes I no longer like it the next morning, but something has come of it. When you're painting a picture, you think into it that which you'd like to see. In your mind, you have an idea as to how it could develop, and so you don't see what's there already. Later, you see that the painting is developing in a completely different way. A fast result is important to me. And I can achieve that through painting. I can overpaint straight away, making radical changes. Perhaps this is why I don't paint figural works, since that means taking longer over it, gradually, holding onto the idea longer. Often, I alter my works quickly - white to black and back again. I'm impatient when I'm working. The process of creating installations is quite a lengthy one. At the academy, I originally intended to study at the Textile Art Department - that would've been crazy! I'd probably have started painting over everything! That's essential for me: I like pouring paint from the tin onto the surface, so that it flows out, leaving a blot, giving the effect of a form - there's something there already. Instantly. And if I don't like it, I can wipe it off and change it. L.S.: Do you yourself sense how you're changing over time? Ģ.M.: That's not significant: I have no particular desire to change. It's best when I'm painting the way I'm painting, and it simply works out the way it does. After all, nothing's really changed: I work as I've always done. Perhaps some of my formats have changed. The museum exhibition room is completely different to other venues - vast and colonnaded. I was surprised that the large work "Aboriginal", which I'd deliberately made quite brutal, so that it would represent a blot, a brutal painting, looked almost like a salon work here! This great room at the museum reduces the details and brings out the overall impression. There's nothing good or bad about that - it's simply that each room has its own rules, and changes the appearance of a picture. Those works that had been painted in layers, with several strata, remained invisible in this room. L.S.: But how is it when you change from one work to another? Do you have an irresistible idea that you act on, or is it the process itself that presents you with a challenge? Ģ.M.: In terms of materialisation, the process itself is what brings it all about for me. In preparing this exhibition, the time when the ideas accumulated was in summer. Time was passing and it seemed I should make a start, but I couldn't really get down to work. And at the same time, I was thinking more and more, relentlessly, about ideas for these paintings. Really great ideas sometimes come upon you - ten pictures pass through your head in an instant. I hear a single word, in French, so melodious! And it's visualised, a composition emerges in my head. These are ideas that should be realised very purposefully. I mean in terms of imagery, not in terms of form. And that's something unrepeatable. But once I start on a particular canvas, everything changes. Something comes about all of itself, something I hadn't envisaged, and then there are a hundred possibilities, and the idea is born which materialises in the finished work. Which, in turn, is the starting point for the next one. A successful element, a good part of the work, some particular technique - such are the ideas that come about in the process of materialisation. L.S.: I've heard that there's a technique of painting over that good spot in particular... Ģ.M.: Iltners said that! Otherwise you can't "bring up" the rest of the picture in line with that good spot. That spot itself hinders you. I always remember that, but it's the good part I leave, sometimes painting over all the rest! There are many ways of taking the good stuff. L.S.: In your old works, the backgrounds are clear, but at this exhibition they're quite varied - both glazes and monocolour backgrounds. Ģ.M.: In this particular case, for this exhibition, I wanted to create large paintings in different colours - for the needs of the exhibition. A large picture with a large area of colour is in itself more eloquent than a small picture. Yes, I'd like to work with large formats, but these are slightly too big - they're not convenient for work. Even when they're divided into four sections (as with "At the beach"), they're not convenient to put together. And if it's all done as one piece, then you can't reach the middle. I work on the floor, because I use quite fluid paint. On the floor, you can walk around, look at it from various angles - it permits you to work more freely. An easel restricts you quite stiffly. I don't use a palette. I don't have a palette at all. If there's a need to mix colours, then I do the mixing on the picture itself. I press out the paint, mix it and paint. But I don't mix, I just lay down the colours one over the other, which gives clearer colour. The exception is sometimes mixing colours with white, to make them lighter. I paint it in one colour, then create a glaze of a second colour over the top and obtain a different colour. L.S.: What materials do you prefer to work with? Ģ.M.: Turpentine-based paints - enamels and oil paints. I don't like acrylic: it's hard and lifeless. I paint on canvas, hardboard (very little) and metal. I like the way that each material behaves differently. Aluminium does not absorb at all, which means that every single touch is very effective. Drops of paint come to life immediately, as does light colour laid on transparently, or even just varnish - that alone gives an effect. Canvas absorbs everything, reducing contrasts. L.S.: How do you choose what to paint? Ģ.M.: I try to see what'll come of it. Then I add something. Often, something else emerges after I've started painting, and then I start to develop that which has come about all of itself. It's also the case that sometimes, when you finish a picture, it seems somehow pointless. It doesn't contain that which should've been there. And sometimes, even before the work's finished, it's already looking great. And if it doesn't work out, then it doesn't work out. One picture I photographed out of interest, progressively tracing the way I was painting it. If I were to ruin it, then I'd be able to see what it had been like. And when it was almost ready, it turned out to be quite a nondescript, pointless work. But a lady who was out to purchase something wanted precisely that which was underneath. L.S.: Where did the flies appear from? Ģ.M.: They came from drawings on paper. I sometimes like to smear what I've painted (I'm rather worried that this discovery could turn into a routine) and then trickle a line over it. I also found a technical approach for this: an outline can be smeared, rather than sharp. For a while, I didn't use it, so as to avoid repetition. But why shouldn't I do it if I like it. It's so simple, and it's the simplicity of this technique that I like. It gives movement, rhythm effect and vibration. And it's a technique that's come about organically and can be further utilised and developed. This is how ideas for other works emerge. L.S.: The black masks. It seems as if they're accompanied by a kind of eerie feeling... Ģ.M.: In my view, the pictures are not eerie at all! They're playful, light... Well, yes, when I see myself on TV, then it really does look terrifying. When I paint, then something of myself also appears in the work, something of the way I am. To some degree, it's a kind of self-portrait of the soul. Particularly since I don't paint from nature. In essence, I'm painting my thoughts: what I think, what I like and how I like things, and thus I suppose it comes to show what I myself am. What I paint is better than my own visual appearance, but perhaps it's a self-portrait and isn't so eerie after all. That black head is actually more a kind of doll... But by placing that black head in the painting, I wanted to include strength. A rich painting, with major contrasts... L.S.: What do you need strength for? Ģ.M.: I want the painting to stand out in some way! To have some kind of energy. I've also worked delicately, but I don't like that. I don't find that interesting. L.S.: You said that you paint what you like... Ģ.M.: What I paint is quite unclear. But I've never liked pure abstract art, since I find it boring, unless it's by a genius, such as Pollock, for example, who carries you away with force and decorativeness. For example, "Cobra" seems boring to me. There's that general mass, which tends to follow current developments and fashions, using recognised approaches, keeping to the general trend... At the major exhibitions, too, such as the Venice Biennale and others, the general trend exhibited by the mass of art is boring. And against this backdrop, certain gems, certain works stand out. But if I like something, then it's a matter of how it's been achieved. Form, not content. L.S.: Is there any artist who's surprised you recently? Ģ.M.: Marlene Dumas. Simple and impressive. I like works where you can't tell why they're good. It seems clear, but at the same time it's not - it's impossible to formulate in words what's so attractive about it. In fact, that's a general problem in the art world: you can't measure or explain it. That's the magic of it. L.S.: What, in your view, is interesting art? Ģ.M.: We were taught at school what's good art and what's poor art. What makes a professionally trained artist. We know you can't learn to become an artist - if you have talent, you can develop it, but you can't take a person and teach them to think creatively. You can only teach that which the teacher knows - a particular technique. A student of Rembrandt is not Rembrandt, etc. In my view, the interest lies in that which rises above the general level, above that which we know is good. It might be illogical, outside the limits of stable, accepted artistic values, but it carries you away - by the comparisons, by its force. Basquiat, for example. I don't think it's just a case of marketing, where one particular graffiti artist has been brought to the fore. Rather, he has force, he's unusual and interesting. L.S.: Do you have a circle of people who understand you, and is it changing? Ģ.M.: As the economic situation improves, this circle is growing. More collectors are appearing, who buy works. A wider circle of people with an interest. But I can't say it's a wider circle of people with an interest in art. Rather, they're interested in it as an element of interior decoration. In this regard, it's important that in this circle people there are people who like it and are authorities for me. Sīlis, for example: he said that he's completely in love with that pink picture. Well, that's really flattering. At the same time, his colleague Zābers doesn't like my work. Those people work in the same firm, but one of them does like it and the other doesn't. What gladdens me most is when artists who know what's what like my paintings. Twice I've been told in no uncertain terms what the faults are in my pictures. And this helps a great deal. For example, Anda Treija said a long time ago that my pictures have a little too much of everything. Somehow, I hadn't thought of that: I just painted them the way I painted them. But it's true: it is possible to simplify them. L.S.: For a time, you worked as a lecturer in France. Ģ.M.: That was at Lorjāna Art College, in a programme with guest lecturers from the whole world, to provide a change for the students. In technical terms, it's a very well-provided school. For me it was a chance to get to know France. I set the students exercises in painting that relate to colour. They come along, with no paper, and use the backs of some sort of posters (saying that paper's expensive and they can't afford it). A very free and easy approach. When it was all painted over, they considered it finished. They're accustomed to the idea that if you declare that it's art, then it is. If they themselves consider it good enough, then nobody can say otherwise. The school is aimed more at thinking, rather than the mastery of practical skills such as drawing or painting. L.S.: If we consider your early works, then we see that your interests are connected with French culture in particular... Ģ.M.: I don't think they relate to French culture. I'm more partial to the Spaniards - Goya and Picasso... When I first walked through the Louvre, I was somewhat surprised: whoever came upon the idea that those Frenchmen are painters at all? And it's like that right up to our century. Delacroix, too, seemed most unpainterly to me. Terrible colours, heavy - absolutely no lightness! French cities are medieval cities (for the most part), and countless heads have been cut off there! And it's all there. In Paris too. The scale is a grand one: everything's planned and built on an imperial scale, giving a feeling that to me even seems oppressive! There's no lightness. But in parallel with this, in design, in relationships, in song, there's a lightness, there's that which we call French culture! But as regards early 20th century painting in France, the French themselves make up no more than half of it! And the ones I like best are not French at all. For example, the Cubist works. There are people who prefer Braque, but I like Picasso. Braque is stiff, while Picasso is more dynamic, with great force within. At that time, it was not only art that flourished there: Lenin and Trotsky, too, sat in the café Le Dome forging their plans. And they weren't French either. The whole school of our academy is based on French influences. Beginning with Grosvalds. They all looked to Paris. We, too, were shown Tone, Grosvalds and Kazaks at the academy - with the idea that this is real painting, this is what you must strive after, that there's nothing greater. And in those days, there was no possibility of travelling the world. Such is the isolation of my generation from the students in France - were they to be shown Tone or Grosvalds and told that this is what painting must be like, they'd find it dreadfully boring. I'd rather see Western European culture as my influence. L.S.: But when did you have the chance to consciously grasp it? After all, it's only in recent years that you've travelled around. Ģ.M.: My father had a book of Picasso's work. It was something I liked. But it seems important to me not to follow something. L.S.: But you can't avoid the sense of discovery, the idea that here's an artist with whom I have things to discuss... Ģ.M.: Contemporary art is very cosmopolitan. It's similar everywhere. The curators object that Eastern Europe has the same art as Western Europe. And you can't expect anything different, since the age is the same everywhere - the same kind of life and problems. The roots of the culture are the same in Eastern and Western Europe. After all, we don't have Allah. L.S.: In discussion about you as an artist, considerable emphasis is placed on the "Gentle Fluctuations" phenomenon. Has the connection with this concept been important for you as an artist? Ģ.M.: "Gentle Fluctuations" represents the closing period of activity of the group. After that, nothing more happened in the group. Important for me as an artist was the activity of our group as such. A group has greater strength. In our student years, it was important for us to become successful and recognised. We really were an organic group, spending a lot of time together. Almost every day. We had a very similar way of life, a similar way of thinking, similar language and conversation. As in any small group, we developed our own jargon. We had that sense of feeling good among your own group and having a dislike for people coming in from outside. The group formed when Vērpe, Rubulis and I were sitting once in the corridor of the academy and having a drink. The Days of Art were being held at that time, and we weren't taking part. We were annoyed, and we decided we had to establish a group. It's much easier for a group to become noticed than it is for an unknown young artist. It's also easier for the critics to operate with this kind of group concept, which is why it's always mentioned in written accounts - it's a useful aspect to play on. That was back in the Soviet time and our student years. Everyone was in a very similar situation. We befriended artists in Moscow. (They have capable artists such as Natasha Nesterova, with whom we went on a plein air painting trip to Georgia, and became very good friends.) We were sitting one evening with the Russian avant-garde, which is famed for the "bulldozer exhibition". They're very communicative and took us to see other people. Nowadays, most of them are successfully established in New York. The whole world watches Moscow with great interest. It's only worth being influenced if the influences are strong. If the artists virtually live together, or at least in the same city. That's how centres of art develop, centres that the whole world later looks to. It's important how much time they spend together. Then you have interaction. Every influence is valuable only if it's mutual. Otherwise it's just a matter of one borrowing from the other - a kind of exploitation. But now we're in an age of individualism. Humans have limited capabilities. There's exhilaration, beauty (and beauty is generally a bad word with respect to painting, so we tend not to use it), but will humanity develop so far as to be able to adopt some divine, superhuman beauty or superhuman art or artistic consciousness? What would it be like to make, for once, something going beyond the bounds of what's humanly possible? Where's the boundary: is it possible to paint a picture that would literally cause the viewer to pass out? | |
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