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 At the Altar Pēteris Bankovskis, Art Critic Imants Lancmanis. Exhibition The Fifth Commandment. Revolution and War 04.04.-31.08.2009. Latvian War Museum | |
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Imants Lancmanis has drawn a bold line under the relationship that has over the last hundred, or maybe hundred and fifty years formed between groups of people or individuals who have something to do with what they consider to be art on the one side, and the subjects of their views on the other. The Fifth Commandment. A Series of Paintings: Revolution and War which will run at the Latvian War Museum until the end of summer is an exhibition that leaves no room for manoeuvre or leeway to any so-called art aficionado or living being who feels professionally involved in "artistic life". In any society and in any age there are people who are more visible and those who are noticed less, let's say, the 18th century with nowadays, which seems to be thoroughly pervaded by the electronic media. Not many people ever achieve notability through lasting works that are in some way important to a large enough proportion of society; for an tangible, consistent stand on some basic issue of faith, ethics or aesthetics; and in individual psychological and physical image, which is nevertheless acceptable to most of their contemporaries. Anyone can give numerous examples, past and present, where one or two of the above named components are there, but some other element is missing. To excuse this deficiency and the oddities it causes occasionally there is talk of genius. Lancmanis is not a genius, because the work he does is worthy of admiration; he has cultivated an ethical and aesthetic stance, and the image of a sophisticated (some may say snobbish) gentleman who exists as if outside all contexts. As an academically trained, serious painter, he has, as everyone knows, devoted his working life to transforming Rundāle Palace from a faltering "architectural monument" into a museum visible on a European scale, one that is living and continually developing, a cultural and research centre and a repository of memories. Meanwhile he himself has kept on studying and learning, becoming possibly the best expert on 18th and 19th century art styles, and the respective history and associated fields, in the Baltic region and beyond. While the museum of the Rundāle Palace is accessible and in some way useful to many, Lancmanis' research and writings are known to a much narrower circle. Yet it is precisely through this research, by asking himself countless questions and formulating answers, by subjecting himself to the emanations of the textual and material evidence of bygone times, by pondering the human and (cultural) historical drama that has been played out in the territory of Latvia over the centuries, that he has arrived at an inimitable, generally conservative, stylistically polished eloquence, which convincingly allows him to express a well-substantiated opinion - not on every single matter, perhaps, but most definitely on crucial issues of human existence and continuing survival. One such confidently expressed and substantiated view is the exhibition at the War Museum. On the fourth floor hall of the museum a group of eight paintings have been arranged to resemble an altar wall. In front of the wall opposite there is a corresponding number of show-cases with explanatory, narrative and informative texts. The glass cases hold examples of small firearms, which have been used in the territory of present-day Latvia in various eras and situations. | |
 Imants Lancmanis. The Sunken Memorial. Oil on canvas. 115x89cm. 2007-2009. Photo: Ints Lūsis | |
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The exhibition deals with the tragedy of the 1905 Revolution and the horrors of the First World War, which, as many believe, sparked off the irreversible and progressive decline of Europe and European culture. At the core of the exhibition is the notion of and sorrow for the sacrificial lamb, for the slaughter of the innocent, which, in the light of Christian faith, should erase all other deaths and sins, thus complying with the fifth commandment - "Thou shalt not kill!" The message, however, is one of resignation. Although Imants Lancmanis names The Adoration of the Lamb of the Ghent altarpiece as one of his sources of inspiration, he - a man of the 20th and 21st century - is unable to maintain in himself that evenly-balanced, personal faith which, judging by the Ghent altar, guided the hearts and paintbrushes of the brothers Van Eyck in the 15th century. It seems that the creation of his own altar, devoted to the condemnation of human brutality, has not brought Lancmanis that timeless peace, that attainment of all-forgiving and reconciling transcendence to which, after completion of extensive preparatory work, he may have aspired in his painting. If this aspiration were fulfilled, perhaps the artist wouldn't care what people thought of his creation, how it would be perceived by the transitory hustle of this world and its shiny, empty baubles. It would not matter whether it was understood the way he would like it to be, or maybe in some other, completely different way. But the modern human being is ever gnawed by the worm of doubt. Even a man as convinced and convincing as Imants Lancmanis. And he does what I described at the very start of these little notes: he destroys any possibility of systematising, thematising, enlightenment-style "scientific" reasoning. In the catalogue that accompanies the exhibition the artist, with his characteristic detailed thoroughness, explains everything: the content, genre, aim and intent of the exhibition, his style of painting, his sources of inspiration. In a comprehensive interview, which he gives to himself as an imaginary run-of-the-mill media inquirer, and also in the textual explanations for each of the paintings, Lancmanis covers almost all possible angles - the genesis and principles of formation of his pictorial language, the meaning of the series of paintings (the Rundāle sacrificial altar) and the universality in the interpretations of history and violence, as subjectively recognized and experienced by the artist himself. He who has ears to hear, let him hear. (He who has eyes to see, let him read.) The catalogue also contains the complete text in English, so the chance for some irresponsible chatter is in effect taken away not only from local critics and reviewers, but also from a more extensive circle of philosophers of artistic inclination. I would like to hope that this demarche, as some would perhaps see it, is worthy of admiration. In the conditions of overpopulation of the pseudo-intellectual space and the devaluation of meaningful expression caused by excessive verbiage, when a work of art is often just an excuse for a "theory" or some abracadabra constructed on the foundations of "theory" that exists already, Lancmanis shows the path that art should take - away from the apparent dead-end, away from the worldly fair of intellectuals, curators, galleries and museums. Back to altars. Back to sense. VII THE SUNKEN MEMORIAL "Great events which lay the ground for the further development of society are usually atoned with rituals of confession and repentance. A monumental and expensive memorial is the best way to combine the heartfelt gratitude of the nation to its heroes, and its sorrow about the victims of war, with the hypocrisy of those in power and their opportunity to maintain the spirit of soldierly revenge. The world is full of thousands of war memorials, which are usually pathetic and banal. The best soldier memorial in the world is the Brothers' Cemetery in Riga. The spiritual trauma of the First World War brought about the creation of countless monuments, memorials and commemorative plaques. Their generally official and fairly boring presentation was only rarely interrupted by some artistically inspired work. This was possible if the customer was a private organization instead of a state or public institution. One of the most strange and surprising was the monument that the European Anti-War association decided to build, using donated funds, in Latvia, in the Sudmalas pond in the Rundāle Parish, Bauska district. The leadership of the association comprised well-known anti-war activists, including the German journalist Ernst Friedrich. The name of the monument was "Kritušie" (‘The Fallen'). Sculptural groups were arranged on several large pedestals which rose up out of the water. Everything was crowned by a headless Goddess of Victory, who held a laurel wreath entwined with barbed wire in her hand. Some images - the heads of soldiers mutilated in the war - were taken from Friedrich's book "Krieg dem Kriege". Two bridges were supposed to join the monument to a strip of land; one of these was designed by Salvador Dali. The staircase which led from the strip of land downwards towards the pond was designed in the spirit of Neoclassicism, with vases and gate pylons. The monument was heterogeneous, because it was created according to sketches by a number of different artists who represented different sculpting directions. Among the winners were Arthur Bock and the young sculptors Theo Schmidt-Reindahl and Hans Belmer. However, it is precisely this diversity in style and methods that gave the monument dynamism and strength. The foundation stone for the monument was laid on 23 August 1928, but work was interrupted in 1930 because of the economic crisis. A number of interesting components of the monument were never built, including Dali's Bridge of the Drowned, which had promised to be a particularly emotional artistic image. The pacifist monument, which expressed leftist ideas, was blown up by the German army on 23 August 1941. Since then, every year on the day and hour of detonation the monument rises out of the depths of the pond for a moment. The sun is climbing up the edge of the horizon, and along with this, the monument rises out of the depths of the pond, which always happens on the morning of 23 August. The detonated blocks of the pedestals, the deformed figures have been disintegrated by the water: their heads and arms emerge on the surface of the pond, rivulets of water run downwards, along green chains of algae and waterweed. Irises and yellow water lilies with long stems rise up from the water to greet them or to lament the horrors of war, by chance having been born next to this memorial place. A pile of scrap is the only thing that is left from the protest against war, cast in bronze and stone: an unnecessary, untimely and misunderstood scream of protest. A heron nervously flies over this place, but the swan and Fisherman are completely indifferent. Soon the rubble of the monument will sink into the deep again." From: Lancmanis, Imants. Piektais bauslis. Gleznu cikls "Revolūcija un karš". Rīga: Neputns, 2009, p. 64-71 /Translator into English: Marianna Auliciema/ | |
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