|
|
| TIME HAS NO MEANING. Ivars Poikāns Daiga Rudzāte | |
|
An art critic wrote in 2002: "For twenty years now, the works of Ivars Poikāns, when they appear in an exhibition, have kept society from wallowing in self-satisfaction." And in what followed, she did not begin to analyse the composition or the emotive layers, perceive vibrations of the soul or decipher the artist's conceptual thinking. She simply described the subjects of the paintings, and, believe me, people read this account with unconcealed curiosity, since it was a great opportunity to find out why "Leiškalns looks crafty as a fox" and why Kokins is wearing a pioneer's neckerchief.
The presence of Poikāns' paintings at exhibitions is noticed and remarked on by virtually all. And analysis seems somehow unnecessary and superfluous, since the subject matter is always very colourful and expressive. Poikāns is like a jester, whose pranks are talked about, raise a laugh or bring a tear, but whose portraits tend not to be studied from an artistic perspective. I would say he has an unusual status in Latvian art. However, behind the subject matter, behind all this everyday rumpus (Poikāns' own expression) there also hides talented and expressive painting. Ivars Poikāns: Only one painting has remained my own property - a self-portrait. It was painted in the early 80s, when I still had long hair. At the time, there was an exhibition of artists' self-portraits at the museum on Gorky Street. I submitted the picture, and got it back with the comment that it hadn't been accepted because I look like Jesus. Strange criteria, I thought - not because of the way it had been painted, but because of what it resembles. I decided that next time I'd bring one where I look like Judas. But that's the way it stayed. I've sold all my works. Perhaps not always for an appropriate price, but it's the way I earn my crust. What can I do - I can't afford to put them in a museum of my own, like Dali or Picasso. Now you paint mostly portraits of others. Perhaps somewhat different from the classical standards of portrait painting... I was surprised to find out that the subjects of your painting are also the ones who commission the works. I.P.: Not all of those you see in the works are the ones who've commissioned them. There are one or two such cases among them. But, of course, they want to see others pictured as well. It's a pity I haven't taken down word for word and don't precisely remember the conversations that take place when they commission works. It may seem to the average citizen that politicians are strait-laced. In truth, as I perceive it, they're completely childlike - in a positive sense. To paint what they want, I'd have to outdo myself quite a bit. Back when I started painting works in this style, I decided there's no point making flourishes in the air with my brush and trying to manage something painterly. I decided that it has to be painted in the style we see in ABC's from the Khrushchev era. This is appropriate to the essence of the story. Since, what sort of approaches to painting could I reveal here - it's the subject that's important. In fact it's an illustration in oils. Do you paint from photographs? I.P.: Of course. I'm not such an accomplished artist to paint only from memory. Naturally I have a whole file of pictures of all sorts of prominent individuals. I work like a professional assassin. I get a call from the paper asking me to draw "that one", I leaf through my cuttings and there he is. You share this method with Miervaldis Polis... I.P.: To a certain degree. But already at the beginning of the 20th century Roze was colouring photographs. So it's not something original or unusual. Do those who commission works exhibit them in publicly accessible places? I.P.: "The Deputy in the Loo" is on view in the parliament building. Gailis presented it to them. Once I went to see for myself - it's hanging in the foyer behind a corner. If you know it's there, you can find it. Of course, they'd hate to display it in a visible place, but neither could they quite hand it back. Does this country offer fertile ground for you to express yourself? I.P.: I think any country does. There's nothing specifically Latvian in it. I think there are local nuances, but the principle and the scheme are universal. Neither human relationships, nor the milieu differ so cardinally from any other country. In the late 80s I purchased an etching of yours with a dancing skeleton. I gave it to a friend, and from her reaction I understood that I had disconcerted her... I.P.: In school I got good grades in history. Another theme that has always interested me and is in vogue now is Egypt. The work is entitled "The Dancing Pharaoh", and is in truth a naturalistic depiction of a dream I had. In the late 70s I dreamt I was underground, in some sort of catacomb or tomb. The walls were painted, it was all shrouded in gloom (in other words, it was all very painterly), and there was a strange smell in the air, like the greengrocer's shop in Soviet times - a smell of slightly rotten carrots. And there was a pharaoh lying in a sarcophagus on a pedestal (which I've painted). Then he rose up, assuming a posture like that of the figure in the Rainis Monument at the cemetery, and said to me that he'd been sleeping here for thousands of years, that he was exceptionally bored and would like a spot of entertainment. Could I get some smart clothes for him to dance in? I remember in my dream running around the tomb, clutching my head in desperation and trying to think where to get the clothes. Then there's a fragment missing and the action continues outside: a desert with wind-eroded cliffs as in the paintings of Dali. The pharaoh danced, and I'd obtained for him a purple cloak and hat with gold braid. Not exactly like the Pope's, but very ornate, with gemstones. It all shone in the sun and looked quite splendid. The yellow bones of the mummy, wrapped in the fine dress, created a fantastically painterly scene. I painted this dream several times afterwards, but I still could not show how it really looked. The whole hullabaloo ended with the pharaoh dancing his dance and telling met that in appreciation for my help, he would tell me that time has no meaning. And that was the end of the dream. But haven't you too changed over time? If we compare your graphic art from the 80s and your oil paintings at the present day? I.P.: In terms of my approach and way of thinking I don't think there's been any change. The technique has changed, of course. There are things that are retained. The foundation, so to say. And then there are things that change and are superimposed. There's a certain layer or stratum I can perceive and feel already from about the age of five. And I can't even say what it is that hasn't changed in me during my whole life. But what is it - an attitude to the world? I.P.: Well... it's the way it "strikes you". But I found out that I'm not the only one who's had this experience. I read an article about... It says that at the age of five he was sitting in a sunny yard, with peace and quiet all around and nobody about, and then something happened to him. In clever books I read that some call it initiation, the second coming of the soul. Well, maybe. Somehow I don't want to get so pompous - which is so fashionable now. But make these feelings slightly more tangible... I.P.: I wish I knew how. Maybe it's a feeling... as if someone had adopted me. Maybe I've ended up somewhere... Well, I don't want to call it a system. It's a kind of feeling of peace and joy. But your creative expressions have changed. In the 80s you produced graphic art, now you work in oils. At that time you sought to express yourself more through still lifes, but now it's through portraits? I.P.: But the essence hasn't changed. At one point, in creating my still lifes, I found that small works can express more in thematic terms than one large figural painting. What was I depicting? Urine-stained walls, rotten fruit. In truth I was trying to depict what the still life arrangement would look like fifty or a hundred years later. You could say it was delving into matter, something close to meditation. Apart from this, the still lifes already had a political flavour. It was a sort of counterweight to the ruling bogus optimism and window-dressing. I wasn't creating anti-Soviet pictures - that would be too direct. I tried to show reality in a roundabout way. Vodka bottles, broken carnations... A sort of parody of Petrov-Vodkin. Once when I was called out to the institution well known to us all, some official said to me: "Listen, why don't you paint nice, well-painted houses, but rotten and urine-stained walls instead?" They were alarmed by the rotten and soured reality of my still lifes. But I've never regarded myself as a normal graphic artist, although for a year I was even the head of the graphic art section. For about twelve years my works were not accepted for exhibitions, but I found that with graphic art I could get through. There was a different atmosphere in this company. Nikitin, Grishin - I don't know how they were able to create that atmosphere, but it was completely different to all that surrounded us. I didn't see any difference as to whether I was painting or making prints... At one time, I have to say honestly that I was in agony. I felt I wanted to paint in a painterly manner and so graphic art seemed to be wholly inappropriate. But Nikitin said: "Why are you putting yourself through this agony, if you're a painter. Do coloured graphic art." I was already creating "smeared" etchings. It's a run of prints, but each is different. You could call it a transitional phase between painting and graphic art. At the time, the famous chickens of the Soviet era also seemed painterly to you... I.P.: There was a still life with a chicken - sort of half-rotten, the sort that you could get in Soviet shops. In all possible colour tones - bluish violet yellowish. My wife had brought it home, complaining and terribly upset. I jumped when I saw the chicken, and made a drawing. In the background was a half-broken record, wilted roses, a shabby wall, a naked light bulb. In the so-called "God's Ear" there was an exhibition under the slogan "Literary Figures in Graphic Art". (Everything had slogans in those days.) I sat and thought what to write under my chicken, and in the end I wrote "Into the Sunlit Distance". Literature teachers had come to the exhibition, they were dreadfully upset and ran to complain to Džemma (Skulme - D. R.). You're very direct and provocative towards your viewers. Does their reaction interest you? I.P.: In principle, I do like it. This could be approximately the same formula as in childhood. Throwing a brick through a window and then watching from behind a corner what happens. I'd be lying if I said I don't care about the reaction to my works. It's not as if the viewer's attitude plays the deciding role or that it guides me, but I do like to see how people react. Because, after all, I've created the works in order to address them. Am I supposed to address myself? I'm also interested in the reply. It has been very interesting. Occasionally they do attack me. When a few years ago I had an exhibition at Gai¬ezers Hospital, a nurse actually scratched me. The works reduced her to hysteria. I've also received very sickly compliments. In principle, I try to analyse critically all of this hullabaloo, but it's rarely possible. Nevertheless, it's interesting - how thoughts are perceived and deformed, and what misunderstandings arise... To some degree it is a provocative pose I've adopted. Haven't you become something of a jester who entertains the court by caricaturing it? I.P.: Maybe. If only there were such a court. But in principle‑- yes. I wouldn't mind if someone else were to do it too, but for some reason no one is taking it up. But isn't this "court" trying attest it's worth through you? I.P.: Well, of course. After all, every normal man has ambitions - greater or smaller. And there's nothing wrong with that. Maybe it's also a demonstration of courage on their part. And I haven't caricatured anyone mercilessly. You mentioned men. So, presumably, women don't commission works from you? I.P.: Women have commissioned some vases with flowers. So far, they're not among the courageous, but I hope that with time... I'd have nothing against it. Perhaps they're worried that I turn princesses into frogs. But it's not so tragic. I can also draw a beautiful woman. Or render her more beautiful, if necessary. My first state commission, as I call it, was a painting of Leiškalns and Kokins carrying Vaira Vī˚e-Freiberga to the castle on their arms. Those guys told me: "Paint her beautiful as a princess." Certainly, I've come to understand that one thing is very important - be benign in your work. If you try to do it with bile and aggression, the work will get bogged down. And I'm not moralising - it simply doesn't work. How do you see attempts to analyse your work in terms of caricature, satire? I.P.: For a time I was very doubtful. Caricature seemed an offensive description. But maybe this is just my reflex from the Soviet era, from the time of Dadzis, where in my view the caricatures were of a very low standard. Somehow, I disliked the description "caricaturist". When I heard this, it seemed I was being relegated to a lower league. In essence, nobody says that Bosch, Daumier or Goya are caricaturists. Then you have to look in an encyclopaedia to see what is caricature. Neither would I describe as caricatures the works I create for the paper Neatkarīgā Rīta Avīze. In truth, these are sketches for my paintings, which can be developed and continued afterwards. But it's hard to maintain the same standard all the time - to maintain the quality of the works. Commonplace and caricaturistic elements creep in. The range of themes is very limited, and sometimes it seems I've had enough of it - how long can I carry on with one and the same. At the same time, it becomes a challenge: how many variations can I produce on the same theme. In essence, the boundaries overlap, and in the end it's hard to say whether it is or isn't caricature. Art critics somehow avoid analysing your works... I.P.: There's been very little serious analysis, if indeed there is anything to analyse. The same with light-hearted analysis, which I'd be happy to hear. Are you not afraid that you won't leave anything to posterity? I.P.: I read a book published in the 30s, translated by Konstantīns Raudive... There's a very interesting discussion of this desperate human desire for immortality. Also about how this desire is expressed: one leaves behind busts in bronze, while another slaughters millions in order to be remembered. Still another leaves at least a little photo album for the children. It's a fear of non-existence. I don't want to sound overly clever, but I do think that apart from eternity itself and that we possess a soul, which is eternal, there is nothing else eternal. That's the reason why I paint such half-rotten still lifes - to see how this materialistic, objective world looks over time. The British had a documentary film showing how an apple falls in autumn. And then the process was shown speeded up. In 2000, at the White Cube Gallery in London there was a work in a solo exhibition by Sam Taylor-Wood depicting this same process speeded up... I.P.: I sensed that this idea was fascinating to others as well. It seems people have been thinking about this for thousands of years and will continue to ponder on it a thousand years hence. If we set aside the subject matter, which is the most noticeable and striking aspect of your art, what is it that you try to put into your paintings? After all, you said yourself that there are a great number of strata. I.P.: I don't want to sound infantile, but I can paint still lifes, flowers and figures equally well... It has all merged in me, and I don't try to distinguish and analyse it. Although that which I'd really be interested in, and which I try to include in my works (but I rarely succeed, if I do at all), is the problem of time and light. I've come to understand that light says a great deal, so long as you know how to use it. I could start to philosophise about light as energy etc. But light is atmosphere. For example, I very much like the paintings of Canaletto - those evening moods, that light. Looking at them for a long time, I feel like I'm going crazy. A sort of nostalgia engulfs me. The subject matter of my paintings is the everyday rumpus. A vulgar matter, in truth. I try to work with it, retaining it and at the same time trying to say... Well, some call it the main task. If I'm fortunate, I can show through my painting something more than just the subject. But aren't you overcome by the wish to relinquish the banal subject matter for once and paint a "normal picture"? To paint not Birkavs taking his father to die in the forest, but nudes instead, for example? To approach these same tasks in a different way? Or do you get satisfaction out of the attempt to bring together painting with what are after all... satires. I.P.: In principle, I have nothing against such an idea. For one thing, I can imagine people gazing desperately at my work, trying to perceive where the ugliness has been so cleverly hidden. I've had the experience of painting poppies, and afterwards people try to see something offensive among the flowers. But, in all earnestness, I can say: at one point I had the idea that this desperate resistance and defiance and the wish to show everything from a different viewpoint is like a diagnosis of illness. There's a great risk. And it has happened to me: I simply get tired of myself. It might still be interesting for others, but I myself at some point get tired of messing with all this. Along the same track all the time. At some point you want to get out. I like the paintings of Purvītis; I like the well-painted post-war paintings of raftmen, and the light in them. What is your relationship with the Latvian state? I.P.: It's hard to formulate. Perhaps I'll show things as I'd wish them to be: I'd say, it's tolerantly neutral. I try not to impede the state. | |
| go back | |
