Art
The obsessed
Evan Anthony
Candlelight could possibly enhance the work of some artists, but better the brushers of teeth be deluded into thinking they have come to the aid of the country than that the mood of Edvard Munch's paintings at the Hayward Gallery be further intensified by flickering shadows not of his making; while shadow and subs
tance are very much the essence of his work, it would prove, I suspect, a bit too Munch. No, the Government has its priorities right this once, and the neurotic Norwegian's romantically disturbing pictures glow (if that is the word) unaffected by the restrictions of the day. The richly warm and contrasting colours are there to seduce you while the subjects and swirling patterns disturb. The world of Munch is one of obsessions, and having survived being impressed by Impressionism, he developed, in Expressionism, an appropriately florid approach to illustrating the passions that eventually exhausted him and brought him to breaking point.
The power and success of Munch as an artist has much to do with his credibility; it is worth considering today who would unblushingly call a painting 'The Kiss.' Death in the Sick Chamber,' 'Anxiety,' Jealousy' etc, no less paint such pictures convincingly. It is not merely the passage of time and the establishment of reputation that earns an artist this kind of hammy freedom; the searing experience for him must come off as a searing experience for us if he is to be properly appreciated — the mark of truth, if it exists, must be confirmed by a canvas produced with confidence and skill.
Munch has both in abundance. His neuroses have filled books, even art columns, having first appeared in his pictures. Another man's madness can be very interesting, even appealing — from a distance; but whether an artist cuts off his ear or associates with the like of Strindberg is not of central importance — the trick is to avoid trying our patience while baiting his soul.
All is not morbid despair or nightmarish in his work; alongside the brooding loneliness of his 'Self-portrait with Wine Bottle' there is the marvellously forthright painting of 'Dr Daniel Johnson,' and a lovely portrait of his sister. There are the lyrical scenes as well as the disquieting ones. It is an exhibition for those prepared to become involved with an artist.
Leon Kossoff is another artist obsessed by particular themes. If I say that, on view at the Fisher Fine Art, his pictures look like the mischief and anger of someone who has broken into the place and dumped them there, I don't mean to suggest that Kossoffs work is garbage; far from it; merely that his brutal and vigorous style seems out of place squeezed into the elegant confines of the Fisher Fine Art. They need the space and the atmosphere of the Whitechapel, where the last batch were shown, to give them the room needed to appreciate them.
The portraits are the least of the collection, but if the repeated ver sions of the artist's father and the self-portraits are needed to exorcise evil spirits so that he is free to indulge in his love affair with Dalston Junction, they can be tolerated. These large, thickly layered portraits of city streets are something to see.
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