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timpeltjeI went to Rome today.
Looking at art was not today’s intention, but when walking past the New South Wales Art Gallery I could not stop myself from going in. Contemporary Australian artists whose names I may never remember talked to me in their colourful imagery. In one of my conversations with a painting, I came to read a quote of the artist who made it. His name is Ralph Balsam (my handwriting’s illegibility allows me to doubt on his last name) and his quote went as follows: ‘I have long held the belief that the arts from man are his expression in terms of a particular medium of his concept of the universe. The concept of relativity, the vision of it I get as a painter fascinates me. A universe without beginning, without end. A continuous creating, destroying and expanding movement, its one constant speed of light.’ The painting that stood next to it pictured how Ralphie (that is what I called him in our conversation; he didn’t seem to mind) saw this universe without beginning, without end. The whole painting was filled with what seemed to look like people, different colours but the predominating one was white, the colour of light. You could follow the white lines from all parts of the painting and escape off the edges, having penetrated bodies, lives, but still only touched the white. It did not feel as if Ralphie was pointing out the pointlessness of life, but instead, he seemed to be showing some celebration of the multitude of it. After a while a guard was attracted by my staring at the painting (and my writing) and came to have a look for himself. He did not see what I was seeing and left for Rome.
Later on, I saw a powerful frame in Charles Blackman’s “Suite V”: in the right top corner was a face in black and red. The redness of the skin and the surroundings contrasted with the black of the guy or girl’s black hairs. I talked with the boy or girl for a while trying to fathom what he/she wanted to say. In the image lay despair in its purest form. Beautiful despair. What he/she said was overshadowed by the face’s redness. I found him/her extremely beautiful; I said that I could love him/her. A blush did not show through the red of the face. Rome was getting closer.
The last painting really attracting my attention was something by Mel Ramsden. A black-painted surface was the first part of the work and the second part consisted of a white frame with painted letters saying: “The content of this painting is invisible; the character and dimension of the content are to be kept permanently secret, known only to the artist.” Maybe she originally did paint something in there and concluded that turning it to irony was far more effective than what she actually did paint. She conceals her message, pretty much like I conceal all my intentions when writing a poem. When I spoke to her, she wouldn’t say anything more on her painting; she thought she had made too clear already. And she was right. “We murder to dissect!” was all she said (the first time I heard it in an Australian accent).
I rapidly went through the older collections of paintings, less interested, not talking with any of the paintings. It is my evolution: I used to read Shakespeare (and follow him) and analyse the likes of Rubens; now I am finding my own voice, bent on only following only myself and my own taste in the midst of a post-modern wasteland of insecurities. Even Rome has those.
I went out, first walking through the adjacent Royal Botanical Gardens, enjoying the jungle in the middle of the city – cockatoos flying around, bats sleeping everywhere – I was still enjoying what I just had seen. I sat down on a bench and I looked at the sea. Well, it wasn’t the sea yet, actually, for a cockatoo like me, it was more a road of water which was connected to some bays, then to the Tasman Sea and, ultimately, to Rome, which felt close enough...
Looking at art was not today’s intention, but when walking past the New South Wales Art Gallery I could not stop myself from going in. Contemporary Australian artists whose names I may never remember talked to me in their colourful imagery. In one of my conversations with a painting, I came to read a quote of the artist who made it. His name is Ralph Balsam (my handwriting’s illegibility allows me to doubt on his last name) and his quote went as follows: ‘I have long held the belief that the arts from man are his expression in terms of a particular medium of his concept of the universe. The concept of relativity, the vision of it I get as a painter fascinates me. A universe without beginning, without end. A continuous creating, destroying and expanding movement, its one constant speed of light.’ The painting that stood next to it pictured how Ralphie (that is what I called him in our conversation; he didn’t seem to mind) saw this universe without beginning, without end. The whole painting was filled with what seemed to look like people, different colours but the predominating one was white, the colour of light. You could follow the white lines from all parts of the painting and escape off the edges, having penetrated bodies, lives, but still only touched the white. It did not feel as if Ralphie was pointing out the pointlessness of life, but instead, he seemed to be showing some celebration of the multitude of it. After a while a guard was attracted by my staring at the painting (and my writing) and came to have a look for himself. He did not see what I was seeing and left for Rome.
Later on, I saw a powerful frame in Charles Blackman’s “Suite V”: in the right top corner was a face in black and red. The redness of the skin and the surroundings contrasted with the black of the guy or girl’s black hairs. I talked with the boy or girl for a while trying to fathom what he/she wanted to say. In the image lay despair in its purest form. Beautiful despair. What he/she said was overshadowed by the face’s redness. I found him/her extremely beautiful; I said that I could love him/her. A blush did not show through the red of the face. Rome was getting closer.
The last painting really attracting my attention was something by Mel Ramsden. A black-painted surface was the first part of the work and the second part consisted of a white frame with painted letters saying: “The content of this painting is invisible; the character and dimension of the content are to be kept permanently secret, known only to the artist.” Maybe she originally did paint something in there and concluded that turning it to irony was far more effective than what she actually did paint. She conceals her message, pretty much like I conceal all my intentions when writing a poem. When I spoke to her, she wouldn’t say anything more on her painting; she thought she had made too clear already. And she was right. “We murder to dissect!” was all she said (the first time I heard it in an Australian accent).
I rapidly went through the older collections of paintings, less interested, not talking with any of the paintings. It is my evolution: I used to read Shakespeare (and follow him) and analyse the likes of Rubens; now I am finding my own voice, bent on only following only myself and my own taste in the midst of a post-modern wasteland of insecurities. Even Rome has those.
I went out, first walking through the adjacent Royal Botanical Gardens, enjoying the jungle in the middle of the city – cockatoos flying around, bats sleeping everywhere – I was still enjoying what I just had seen. I sat down on a bench and I looked at the sea. Well, it wasn’t the sea yet, actually, for a cockatoo like me, it was more a road of water which was connected to some bays, then to the Tasman Sea and, ultimately, to Rome, which felt close enough...
