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| A Little Materiality and a Good Deal More Light, or Art as a Gesture. Jānis Avotiņš Laima Slava Jānis Avotiņš is a young artist whose work I've been following for some time, noting in particular his seriousness in setting out his aims in painting, waiting with interest for his individual style to stabilise, and wishing to see how far and how deep he would go. Since it is clear that this painter combines a material sense of painting with a quest for the supreme truths in art. This, of course, is no guarantee, and only time will tell what values emerge along the way. Most importantly, we have here someone who gives us expectations. Jānis Avotiņš' name was heard last winter, at the time of his solo exhibition. At that time, the question arose as to gallery curators who might be able to open the way for the artist outside of Latvia. And this summer, works by Jānis Avotiņš have set out on a marathon showing at galleries in Munich, Cologne and London, and at the Prague Biennial. His works have already been bought by such people as Hamburger Bahnhof collector Heiner Bastian, "White Cube" owner Jay Jopling, Hauser & Wirth, the Cranford Collection in London, and now also by the private Rubell family museum in Miami, Florida, which already has works by Marlene Dumas, and the works of Jānis Avotiņš will be shown there once again in the frame of the ArtBasel Miami Beach event. | |
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Laima Slava: I understand you've begun to collaborate successfully with gallerist Vita Zaman Cookson of Ibid Projects.
Jānis Avotiņš: She's very sceptical all the time, and never says anything that might give me a boost, so to speak. Initially, this scared me. IBID Projects have another successful artist - Christopher Orr. A fancy surname, with an O and two R's. He's Scottish, graduated from the Royal Academy. Which gives him a kind of ideal background. And he got off to a fine start. Of course, he had good works, too - you can't do without the work itself. But she told me that with a surname like mine and an education like mine it would never come to anything! Because there are so many young artists around. L. S.: Why exactly is your education considered dubious? J. A.: Nothing specific: they're just not really aware of what's been going on here. It's simply the case that there's respect for a good school with a tradition. Where they know what teachers have taught there and who's studied there. That's important. Even in Germany, many of them don't actually know we speak Latvian here. Even your intelligent German gallerist, who's been in the business since the late sixties, has the idea that we speak Russian over here. The Soviet system was very good at ensuring that we remained in many ways unknown. And there's no denying that there was that empty period. Take Wilhelm Sasnal, the Polish superstar in painting, influenced by Luc Tuymans - he's a student of the not so well known Polish underground group from the sixties. Their influence was behind the development of the present set of young Polish artists, so well known in the world. It's intellectual art, interesting, with appropriate references to contemporary Polish culture and history. It's all happening. But it's the result of a tradition stretching back to the sixties. I don't see how this might apply to Latvia: what strong traditions have there been in Latvia anyway, apart from certain successful adepts? L. S.: Just now, there's a great deal of talk about painting. How do you, as an artist seeking to enter the world scene, view the phenomenon of painting at the present day? J. A.: At the moment there are various perceptions of what painting is, and this should be the starting point. If we say that painting is what's created with paint on a surface, then you could say we're seeing a triumph of painting. But in my view there are many artists around whom I'd prefer to call draughtsmen. Talking, too - the "story" - continues to play a major role. The story comes first or separately, and painting comes second. Many artists work that way now. There's very little painting of the kind produced by Bacon or Freud. I think it'll be coming back. It will become very interesting. There'll be more of what you really might call painting. Tuymans himself - you can see there's a definite aim behind his use of colour. Painting as such tends to be an end in itself. The important thing is what wonders you can accomplish through this particular technique. A great proportion of what's called the triumph of painting pays no regard to this - tonality, fine relationships, the perfect painting of light by Tuymans. The object he paints seems to shine. But in most cases, space and form are developed by primitively copying a photograph or printout. John Currin, for example, who's a superstar in America, paints in the manner of Cranach. His work shows he doesn't know about painting, but it does have the appearance of painting. L. S.: Why do you consider that you know what does look like painting and what doesn't? J. A.: Well, you want to look at the work... Draughtsmen are concerned more with visual codes - achieving a maximum effect with minimal means. Their interest doesn't extend any further. Painting stands apart because it's an end in itself: tonal relationships are used to create something new, something completely different. I often try to formulate it for myself, but it's very hard... It often seems to me that I'm not a painter, that I'm an artist. Because a painter is something different. Andris Eglītis seems to be a painter. He's interested precisely in the wonder of painting. No other technique can achieve that which is possible in painting. But I'm not so concerned with this issue. Yes, I do have to understand why I'm doing this or that. But I work not only in painting. My videos are also being shown in Munich. I'm also very interested in entirely different kinds of media. And there's so much in it that I like. But I haven't come to understand it for myself yet, so I don't use it. As soon as I come to comprehend it - for example, the contemporary understanding of sculpture... The progression to my first videos was gradual and logical. It was very slow. You wait and then it simply comes. It's not as if you simply have an idea and then the formal approaches follow. It's not simply a matter of painting, making videos or creating an inflatable house. You perceive that every medium has its own message. It's clear that video cannot encompass some of the things that painting deals with. It's simply impossible. True painting seems a great mystery to me. The most wonderful form of art. The best works in world painting really deserve to be placed behind five inches of glass and marvelled at. L. S.: So, which are the works you marvel at? J. A.: No, I myself don't have any such icon, although I do sense the wonder of it. Recently, I haven't been capable of marvelling at works of art, of going into raptures about them, because I'm more interested in art that's tense, that seems incomplete, that has this great tension and at the same time great peace. As in the work of Jeff Wall or perhaps Tuymans. L. S.: But it's always seemed to me that you in particular are a painter. What is changing in you, what's making you change? J. A.: I'm not changing, I'm adding! Now I have the good fortune that I can be an artist every day. There's no doubt this opens up wider possibilities, also of working in other media. Earlier on, I used to write electronic music, and I still do. I've always wanted to work in such a way that I myself would understand my intentions. The simple image, the photographic image - this is the basic, minimal possibility in all art forms. And at the same time, it's the most difficult. It's helped me understand a great deal about other kinds of expression, other media. Something that's flat. And why it has to become three-dimensional, why it has to inhabit a space. What needs continuation and what requires a different approach to time. While photography seemed to me a simple beginning, video seems a very complex means of expression. There are many questions, and right from the first seconds, it includes a host of different means of expression, quite apart from sound. There's time. There's movement. And for me, that's a lot already. So much can be put into a single image! Precisely for this reason it's interesting to see how it'll develop. In my videos, it seems there's nothing happening. But actually there's a great deal going on. It's about changes. Fragments of changing landscapes. A view of a rock face, with a minute-long shot filmed once an hour. Many contemporary videos are hard for me to watch: time is used very expressively in them. You come to understand that it manipulates with your own speed. It seems that each person has their own speed at which they perceive something, i.e. their own time. And in these works, time in particular is a very powerful means of expression. That's all very, very interesting. There are many questions I'm gradually searching out and examining. How perception has changed. How plots are put together: few shots last more than a second, the iconic quality of the image has disappeared. Many things can be studied in this way: I want to understand as much as I can. It's important for me to be honest, to do that which I understand. Otherwise you can go astray. I've come to understand that if you free yourself from coming to view something synthetically, seemingly taking into consideration the surrounding cultural codes and their history, and instead concentrate on yourself, on the way you sense the world, then you can discover amazing things. L. S.: What do you, as an artist, need right now? J. A.: I don't need anything, I'm doing fine! L. S.: Why are you doing fine? J. A.: Because I've been lucky. I'm starting to feel increasingly that so much depends on luck. And on various coincidences. And on what use you make of good fortune. Whether you actually appreciate that it's good fortune. It's not so simple. I still have to think all the time. There are small strokes of luck all the time, but... It seems to me that I've been going at it very purposefully. I've left some three agencies precisely for the sake of art, and I left music school and professional sport for the sake of art: in my childhood it was swimming, and then the accordion. Then I was an average student with no money but with a knowledge of how to working on a computer, and so I could get various jobs in advertising agencies. But this offered no possibility of development. I even became an apprentice in Stendzenieks' agency for six months. This was one of my greatest strokes of luck, since I came to understand that advertising is not the place for me. It was very valuable experience. It was a very hard time, I had to think a lot, but I can't stand stress: they have many restless nights, those advertising people. L. S.: But leaving this line of work is not an easy choice, because, after all, it's the only one that pays quite well... J. A.: If we're talking about Riga, then it really may seem foolish... Well, I'm like that - an idealist - though I'm not sure it's the right word to use... I simply came to feel that there's so much speculation there, that it really doesn't represent such a wholesome intellectual affair as they themselves might imagine. L. S.: But that's the nature and essence of advertising! J. A.: Yes, to that extent it's fine. But I'm interested in going further. I'm interested in what goes beyond the very best advertising. It's intellectual art, which cannot be unintelligible to people who seek, to people for whom cultivating the soul is important. Good advertising is enjoyed by everyone and to a greater or lesser degree it deals with the things common to everyone. L. S.: Why do you call it intellectual? This would seem to suggest it's more mentally constructed? But it actually seems to me that your works contain a great deal of emotion instead. J. A.: I'd say that in this case the mind serves to control the emotions. And it controls them very precisely. But art cannot exist at all without emotions! This is the case with Jeff Wall's very simple image of a road and a forest. It involves a very precise selection of the emotions to include. L. S.: But you didn't actually say how you came to have your stroke of luck. Was it a gallery that discovered you? J. A.: Well, it was this Lithuanian lady, she was searching for artists in the Baltic States in quite a schematic way. She knew some people in Latvia, obtained a list of artists, came to Riga with her little camera and went round the studios taking pictures. I wasn't actually in Riga, so I arranged with my sister, who speaks English well, that she'd show my works. They weren't even my best works, they were the ones from the first solo exhibition. She liked them. I sent over one work, which found favour at Miami ArtBasel. That was sold. Six months passed, and then in the autumn she offered me the chance to hold a solo exhibition. When she came to Riga, I hadn't done anything, and she was harshly critical. She said I hadn't yet produced anything that would merit a solo exhibition. She included me along with Kristīne Kursiša in a group exhibition at the "Esoterica IBID Projects" gallery in London. I travelled to Paris, to the Latvian studio, did a lot of work and thought a lot. I painted about six works, took them to London straight away, and then it somehow took off. Important people bought them, people who don't buy just any old thing. Heiner Bastian, one of the creators of the Hamburger Bahnhof, saw them. He's now building up a new collection and a museum, which will probably include my work too, because he already has about ten. After Paris, I asked my gallerist what I should do next? Go back to the agency where I'd asked for three months leave? She said that now I really had to go for it. The same as she'd said before! And this time I really did leave. I rented a studio at VEF, which was great, I had a chance to do a lot of work in the summer, and then there was the Berlin Artforum, where I had a very successful solo exhibition. L. S.: What's the main thing you've gained from this free year? J. A.: Now I understand how important it is to be an artist all the time - even if it's only for a year. Even for six months or three months, such as when I was in Britain. When you can devote yourself to it completely. Gradually, I came to sense who I am and what kind of art would be mine. My own. It's only the very beginning, but I'd never have been able to perceive this, had I continued working at the agency. People my age simply don't have the opportunity of working in Latvia for a year as artists. Take Kristīne Kursiša or F5 - they work when they have a project. But you need the living process. I follow everything very closely. It seems I have this kind of idealistic strain in me. There's no process in art life over here that I can watch without agitation. I've thought a great deal about institutions, about how it all works as a system. What, for example, is the Artists' Union? What is it? Couldn't a normal trade union be created, with accountants and suitably trained people who might stand up for the rights of artists? Really stand up for them. To work for low tax rates, and so on. It's clear that there's no such system, no hierarchy, no possibility of natural growth. And that's the first reason why such things deserve serious consideration. I'm not saying we have to follow the West in everything. We have our own, very Latvian arrangements, but, for example, over there the course of development is so natural: you finish college, you're noticed by some gallery, then you're seen in some other gallery, and finally you get noticed by a curator - even someone from a museum. But the starting point is the gallery, and the very beginning is the scholarship. We're missing the gallery phase - we have salon galleries instead. It's the same with the Culture Capital Foundation - why couldn't it be restructured? In Britain, they have 6000 artists. When they finish their studies, they get a scholarship, and then for a year the artist can do whatever he or she wants. And they produce all kinds of rubbish. And they travel around, displaying their silly projections. But this system gives rise to cultural density, which makes things possible, permits things to happen, to come about. Now I'm renting my second studio, and I know what the expenses are of being an artist. It's no astronomic sum. If you compare it with the projects supported by the Culture Capital Foundation, then you see that the money for a project is enough to cover the rent of a studio. And with a little more, it'd give you enough to eat, and with just a little more on top of that you could create works of art. L. S.: But we do have scholarships - perhaps not as generous as ones given in Estonia, which last a year, but still... J. A.: Yes, but I know very well - it's an open secret in fact - that the people who get them simply rub their hands with glee, thinking: it'll give me some additional income for a year, I'll be better off. But that has nothing to do with personal development. Of course, the system for evaluating who should get the money also has to be different. For example, Miks and Kristīne are definitely worth investing in. In my view, the way the money's distributed for projects at the moment is not serious. Everyone should have to defend their project personally. That'd completely change the way the projects are written and how many are written. The applicants should have to come along, tell about their work and show who you are. L. S.: Are you currently living off the sale of your works, or do you have a scholarship? Is the gallery involved in this now? J. A.: Yes, and it's a much more profound process than it is here in Riga. This surprises me again and again - the art scene over there is based on exceptional tolerance and honesty. My best works are never simply sold to anyone who comes along: they only go to collectors, known people with known tastes, on account of which they might favour my works. Such as Bastian. He already has a renowned collection. Selling works is not the most important thing. I get the feeling that what's happening now is more a kind of investment in the artist (me) than the collection of works of genius. Of course, the works probably are good. In the end, I'm not actually very clued up on the processes behind it. For example, the Rüdiger Sch_ttle gallery, and the Johnen gallery, which collaborate and which are known as Johnen and Sch_ttle. These two gallerists have joined forces and have galleries in Munich, Cologne and Berlin. They're galleries with immense experience and traditions, and, for example, they exhibit Jeff Wall, Wilhelm Sasnal, Liam Gillick, Wolfgang Tillmans, Candida Höfer, Andreas Gursky and others. Each gallery has an image of its own. A gallery that sells Bacon will never sell Yoshitomo Nara. [Author's note: a Japanese artist working under the strong influence of Japanese pop-punk culture.] It's interesting that the circle of people to whom works are sold is kept as small as possible. The collectors themselves also want it that way: they want to know who else has works by this artist. L. S.: It appears that the main processes take place in London... J. A.: I don't know. I can't really sense this yet... Maybe because I haven't had my solo exhibition there yet - it'll be in mid-October. Just now, I have the feeling I'm working only with Germany. There've been exhibitions in Cologne, Berlin and Munich. At the Rüdiger Sch_ttle gallery, there was a group exhibition first, where I had a whole room, and now there's a solo exhibition. I haven't really gotten round to London yet. L. S.: But your activities have become involved in a kind of commercialisation process. Where do you see the potential for growth? J. A.: In the fact that I don't have to think about making money. It's a trial, I walk around glum-faced and it is hard - for the most part it is hard. But it is beautiful. I like the development, the way you change; you work a lot, discovering one thing and then another. One day it seems I'm not an artist, and then it seems I might be after all. Real emotions! When something doesn't work technically you start thinking that you're never going to try that again, but... You need great conviction in your ideas, because it's very hard to distinguish whether what you're doing relates to what you had when you were closest to what you were seeking. Whether it's important to continue, starting where you left off. Or whether you should begin something else. Or whether the question you're posing in the work is actually worth posing. There are so many questions! My works so far have been so comparatively diverse! It's not as if I just find a certain approach and then just reproduce it. This new idea called "The stop" differs in formal terms from all that went before. Even more realistic are the small works with people standing. Usually it's one person. The idea seemed so powerful that I simply took it up. Pure intuition. I'm certainly no conceptualist. Instead, I try to analyse what I can actually see. Art for me is a gesture, and I don't want to put any cleverness into it. I very much trust in myself. L. S.: Does loneliness have any special value for you? J. A.: A person is alone anyway, taking decisions alone. Many things are entirely your own, things that you alone know or don't know. L. S.: Previously, the figure appeared more as an element in the landscape, the vision, but in the works belonging to "The stop", the figure has become more of an individual type. Why is this? J. A.: Previously, it was more a matter of place and time, not so much about the people themselves. It seems that it comes to the same thing, only expressed in a different way. Previously, it was more the place, now it's the types. A place is also a type. L. S.: You mentioned Velasquez. As a standard in painting. J. A.: As a perfect example of craftsmanship. When the great revolution in art took place, the idea was born that an artist cannot be a good craftsman, that he or she can only have good ideas. The perfect craftsmanship of Jeff Coons' works is done by others, as is the case with Olafur Eliasson - he works with a team of scientists. It seems to me that what's important is how I can paint with my own hand, how I can catch that special something - that's crucial! It's not just about ideas. There are no new ideas, and so few that are interesting. Painting is unique in that it has this living element, my hand. The material's resistance is not as great as it is in sculpture, for example. In painting, your whole character emerges. One can sense the way of using the brush, and so on... the way that only Bērziņš or Tuymans can do it. It also shows all your strengths and weakness. I just saw that an exhibition of works by the conceptualist Rodney Graham now also includes paintings - small modernist paintings. Landscapes were also exhibited in the gallery - just the kind of studies we painted at the academy. Something very interesting is reappearing. Painting such as that of Velasquez will return, at the same level, but with different content. L. S.: Do you feel you've derived the craftsmanship aspect of it from the school? J. A.: I became accustomed to not using it, but now I do make us of it. But it can lead to making a big mistake. If you start making ideal copies of nature. Velasquez also developed a whole science. Those black tones of his aren't really black: it's awesome to look at! I think it's worth approaching a sense of materiality. Bet that's difficult, and I like works to have a sense of lightness. With a little materiality and a good deal more light. The main thing is light. I can't offer any theories, I can only relate the process I'm in the middle of. And the process is like an invalid - hobbling on one foot, and then on the other... L. S.: Do you need conversation with likeminded artists? J. A.: Of course, I miss this very much. In truth, Riga doesn't have any real art community. That's why I take part in all sorts of forums, and it's why I talk so much when I do meet someone. In Riga, there's virtually no-one at all for whom it's a true obsession. There's either snobbism, or... But real dedication... West of our country, there are art communities, where everything happens naturally: they come together, relax, have a drink and engage in discussion, like normal people. But in the end, I don't really need anyone. I like being alone. All the same, there are times when I do feel a need... L. S.: But, for example, you're not going to the opening of your exhibition in Munich. There you'd certainly meet people. J. A.: Those exhibition openings are not a real milieu for artists. Collectors come along, various oddballs come, and curators come. That's a different matter. You go there, you're alone, it's all so formal, there are a dozen dinners and all the rest of it. In the winter, I travelled five or six times when I had to, because they paid for my ticket, but in truth it's dreary. The majority of artists loath art fairs and exhibition openings. Artists have their own community. L. S.: Have you succeeded in finding a community of artists that's interesting for you? J. A.: No. But if I were to move to Munich or Berlin, it'd happen automatically. For example, in Munich there's a centre for contemporary art with very conceptual projects. I went there with gallerist Magnus. They invite you straight away to a party that same evening, and so you wouldn't be able to stay away, even if you wanted to. L. S.: Do you have company in Riga? J. A.: Well, yes, on the odd occasions when I meet my friends, we can have a good talk. However.. I'm completely wrapped up in it, and that's a different situation altogether. I'm so eager to talk about it, whenever anyone takes the slightest interest. It seems that few people can really be interested in it from the inside... | |
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