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11/23/2005: "The Gesture of the Painter" by Alberto Sughi
In the first part of this Blog I touched the thoughts and problems of this man who is a painter, now we can follow the artist’s work and better understand his choices and uncertainties, desires, and the restlessness that accompanies him. Now I believe we can follow the artist with greater clarity. As I am talking about my own experience as a painter, I will return to a more personal account. I have always felt a particular excitement in front of a large canvas; as if the wide space offers all those possibilities for my imagination that have been denied in smaller formats. For this reason, I prepare a large canvas.
I could paint more figures: the table prepared with people standing eating. The most unexpected things could happen. Some dogs could come in to frighten the guests; they could drink so much that they get drunk; a lonely, hysterical woman could be taking off her clothes, causing interest or indifference in the others; people could stand close together, drawn together by enjoyment, or fear. Everything was possible. That great, white space could be the scene in which I became aware of my life, or rather of the moods and curiosities of the life I have known, or observed.
I started to sketch figures, movements and actions in charcoal: the act of eating, a man taking off a woman’s fur coat, an inquisitive dog in the middle of the guests, two people standing close together and looking at each other, a woman with bear shoulders, a close-up of a detached man. The sketch was full of atmosphere; full of provocation; of possible solutions going in opposite directions.
When you draw with charcoal there are no problems, of size, light, or space. It was like an inventory of images, on which I would have to reflect, to understand and select. I told myself: “Who knows what will happen during this supper? Who knows how this social gathering, waiting for something to happen, will end? Anything can happen, or nothing could happen at all. The characters could act or end up static, immobile, like statues”.
I talked to a dear friend of mine about it; he seemed amazed about my reasoning on the subject:
“ Alberto, - he told me, - you talk about your painting as if you weren’t the painter, but only a spectator. But only what you want to happen will actually happen; only what you know about life could happen”. I tried to say that this wasn’t true, that I was ready to follow those characters, that as soon as I had more specifically defined a physiognomy, that I had fully understood the subject, I would have set in motion a process that was not only mine. I only wanted to interpret, to watch, to register. I was ready to depersonalise myself in order to create a painting.
To depersonalise means, above all, for a painter, to willingly decide to live without all those characteristics, those personal traits that seem to create themselves in his hands. To remove, from the work, all those automatisms of execution that have come from familiarity with a way of painting; all those "hallmarks" that seem to be an integral part of what is called the "personality" of an artist, and which, in fact, are nothing more than a deposit, the ashes of the work that, out of idleness, have never been allowed to settle. In all the studies that had made me decide to begin this large canvas, all my usual ways of proceeding in my work were, in effect, still present. There were quick sketches, moments of careful analysis, contrasting with others that were hastier and more vague. In other words, those characteristics that have always been an indication of my artistic education were still present: in a combination of post-impressionism and expressionism tending towards realism.
This time I had to choose another way of proceeding. I didn't want to enter into my picture; to force it to contain a pictorial background that I did not think would be able to portray the new spirit that had captured my soul and my mind. I had to “depersonalise myself” and therefore to decide, as a first step, to remove my hallmarks.
Despite my determination, it was not so easy. It’s like suddenly feeling tired of your own voice and your own vocabulary; or realising that your own voice and words can no longer express your thoughts.
“Depersonalising myself” in the way I intended, to answer my dear friend, could not, on the other hand, mean only this. It must mean something more. Perhaps it was a self-appraisal that I wanted to carry out; to understand better who, and with whom, I was; not to remain locked inside conventions in trying to interpret my life, and I was searching, in an artistic way, for a back door to get out. Other painters will have interpreted their profession as artists in this way.
I started to remove all the figures that had a relationship with the other figures. The man removing the lady’s fur coat disappeared; of the two figures looking at each other only one remained, his eyes now merely fixed on emptiness. The inquisitive dog disappeared, as well as the woman undressing. Of the twelve figures I had drawn, only four were left.
Their actions remained the same as when they were together; but since I had removed all the relations between one person and the other, those actions, which had been created in the context of a common aim, became foolish and ritual.
That was the moment that I started to paint more convincingly, more precisely, without emotion.
These paintings, as I now observe them, finished and signed, are the result of a work that lasted seven months, and that started when I decided to paint a man talking.
Alberto Sughi (nov. 2005)
For more info on Alberto Sughi see. www.albertosughi.com
