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George Rorris
When I was selecting workshops, I was drawn to George Rorris’ for a number of reasons:
- A twist in perspectives, in uncertain empty spaces.
- Lonely figures in snapshot moments
- Interesting colour shifts from muted greys to powerful chromatic intensity.
At the time, I didn’t know too much about him beyond the paintings I could find online, but after spending a week talking with him, I found myself researching his approach. There was a significant language barrier, as George has limited English skills and I have only fragmentary French at best (and no Greek)
George spoke frequently about considering the Dionysian and the Apollonian in painting. On my return, I looked into this and found references to Nietzsche, which I understand to be about balancing Chaotic and Orderly influences. For Rorris, this relates to his approach to painting in how he balances shadow and light, thick paint and thin.
He is also an extremely intense painter when working with models. A fellow artist at the workshop — who knows George personally — talked about how he had a model smoke during a sitting, resulting in many packs of cigarettes smoked. I wouldn’t consider that ethical, personally, given the power dynamics between (famous) artist and model.
During the workshop, I could definitely feel Rorris’ intensity as he would wipe out areas of my panels and repaint them. This was incredibly stressful, early in the week, until I reminded myself why I was at that workshop: break bad habits and learn new things. Setting pride aside, I focused on what George was doing rather than my own emotional feelings at those actions. I saw frantic, scribbly paint marks. Dynamic and lively. He mixed colours messily, and scrubbed paint back and reapplied in layers. The results had depth and illusions of detail.
Following the workshop, he sent along his lecture notes, which I have stored safely. I’ve found myself going back to them frequently.
Gathered Research
Across the following artists, I’m drawn less to spectacle of the work than to the aftermath: monuments after their authority collapses, rooms after someone has left, figures suspended in unresolved narratives.
This reminds me of what I like in my favourite works: subjects in states of change or transition. Perhaps it is an ambiguous transaction in midflight (Receipt of Goods), or reckoning with the personal artifacts of loss (Shift’s End). The entire construction of Strange Intimacies feels parallel to what is interesting to me in the artists below.
Thomas Hirschhorn
Dioramas. Small “standees” of pedestrians meandering around monuments in states of disassembly. The statue of Stalin — but no, Sir John A? Red hands are the sign of the missing & murdered indigenous women, here. I see the pulling down of the Sir John A Macdonald statue just down from my parents’ house. I see the pulling down of US Confederate generals’ statues, and the slogans from protest placards painted on too-huge monuments. These statues were not this tall, but perhaps they occupy a larger space in the zeitgeist than their physical size implies.
“Qui Honorer” was written on the wall. Who do we honour? Eugenicists, racists, and the genocidal, if Canadian history is any guide.
There is little explicitly written in the materials I can see online. I don’t know which specific issues and monuments the artist is addressing. I’m reading into these dioramas my localized context and memory.
Ilya and Emilia Kabakov
When I Google “Ilya and Emilia Kabakov,” the search engine tells me that the results have been delisted due to European Court of Justice rulings. This is fascinating, but it is no barrier to me. If something is on the Internet, it can be found.
It is very amusing to me that when I bypass this block, there is nothing obvious about why Google might show me the delisting warning. Anyway.
There is an interesting sci-fi in Soviet era creativity. A future communist utopia that explores the solar system and beyond. Hard-edged concrete brutalism on Mars. I see here a more human, more local, and somewhat sad sci-fi. A spring-loaded harness, a shattered roof, and a pair of men’s shoes left on the floor. His belt, a jar of beans(?), and a portable bed. Posters of political events? concerts? I can’t tell.
Perhaps I’m in an existential mood, but the yellow blanket and portable bed get me thinking of an ill or injured person. Someone who has left/is leaving, and all that will remain are their artifacts and the hole they leave in others’ lives.
Gregory Crewdson
I’m looking specifically at Redemption Center, which is part of a collection of what appears to be middle America—decaying, hollowed out, and hopeless. The photos are rich with greenery and beautiful skies that frame and inhabit boarded-up streets and vacant lots. The city and society may be falling apart, but nature brings hope.
I’ve been playing a video game about zombies in a 1980s small town, and this feels perfectly set in that space. There are people here, but they stand about awkwardly, uncertain and out of place. The dead living on, long after the purpose of their location has come to an end. It is beautifully haunting.
Looking closely at the image, I see some strange weirdness in the perspectives and the colours. A touch of digital manipulation, perhaps, that adds to unreality. The skies, in particular, don’t look right — they belong somewhere else. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there, and aren’t real. I’ve seen skies like that. Adds to the overall unsettled, yet peaceful, sensation of the work.
Pablo Bronstein
I’ve never heard of “muffineers” before, but now I know. There are words for everything. Before I looked it up, I had the image in my head of some sort of Knight of the Baroque, dressed in muffin-themed garb. I like my interpretation better than reality — a sadly common experience. I’m not sure what to make of Bronstein’s
drawings. Technically beautiful, whimsical. Architectural. Is there a narrative here? I suppose there is, since I’m imagining dessert on its way to some excessively baroque feast. The artist is also a choreographer, and that feels more well-grounded in narrative to me. I’d love to see, in person, how he marries choreography with his still works.
In the artwork I’ve chosen to look at, why are these items hanging out on a bridge? Why are they so ridiculously massive — note the staircase to the bottom right. Titanic cake and muffineers (new favourite word?). My video game sensibilities suggest this is a boss fight of epic and surreal proportions.
Neo Rauch
And we return to painting. Figuration always brings narrative to me, though it doesn’t mean a clear one. Every person tells a story, from academic figure studies through to grand history painting of great battles. Rauch’s Feldzeichen feels dreamlike. People moving this way and that, looking at random objects and dressed according to different sensibilities. Embedded tableaus of smaller people evoke memory, though this is shown as a painting being worked on by one of the subjects.
Repeated opaque symbols tie a narrative in place — the “tent” shape of the “trees” matches the shape of placards dropped in the foreground. I see broken frames, and a distance encampment, while in the foreground, two people seem to argue about a “tent” shaped object in the yellow-suited man’s hands.
I don’t know what is going on here, but it is contentious. Somehow ripe with history.
