Vanessa Bell - Studland Beach (1912)

Took this some time ago at the Tate.

A deep painting — it feels dramatic and emphatic ... even to us today.

But, I do get some unpleasant feeling of exclusion. Perhaps anomie? Ostracism or prohibition?

It is leavened by the warmth of the sand and the cute summer straw-hats, and a general feeling that this is a family by the beach with their mother.

Things of note:

• I didn’t recognise - until a bit later - that the 2 figures at the fore were topless/naked.
• Everyone has their backs to the viewer. Which feels v. uncomfortable.
• I came to notice the visual & emotional impact of deliberate space across a canvas through Degas’s paintings. The canvas is practically devoid of life. No characters seem to touch or interact with one another.
• Is that the sea or sky?
• I think this is a painting about mothers and daughters?
• The white tent (?) feels disjointed because of the departure from orderly recession and a sense of perspective.

The empty space reminds me of Paul Gauguin’s “Vision of the Sermon” (which I have written about).

Joan Mitchell at the Tate Modern

Some thoughts with respect to Joan Mitchell at the Tate.

She was abstract expressionist who died in 1992. During her time (post-WWII), Joan excelled when there was a bias against women artists. She is part of the “action painter” school of abstract expressionism. For Joan Mitchell, she is supposed to have worked in “stages” as opposed to being fully spontaneous. An interesting quote from Mitchell:

“Sometimes I don’t know exactly what I want (with a painting). I check it out, recheck it for days or weeks. Sometimes there is more to do on it. Sometimes I am afraid of ruining what I have. Sometimes I am lazy, I don’t finish it or I don’t push it far enough. Sometimes I think it’s a painting.”

For her genre; art isn’t merely about the piece — it’s about the “story” and “personality” of the artists. This is something I don’t buy, and smells of art-as-a-commodity marketing and the need to hype up the “named artist” to change the perceived value of works. Otherwise, it’s value is the use of colour and mark making.

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Problem with fully abstract art

For me, I think highly or fully abstract art brings about very little real connection. Art should communicate something from the artist to the viewer — which should be done through the art itself. This is where abstract art such as Pollock simply fails. Communication requires some kind of shared ‘language’ to enable me to recognise what the other person meant by some expression. But in v. abstract art, such as Mitchell and Pollock, it is absent.

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South

This diptych is supposed to evoke landscapes and trees.

There is vibrancy, and the colours seem to match harmoniously. I do like her approach to the blood-red lines.

Otherwise, I think it’s entirely forgettable.

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Beauvais

She spent many years in France, hence the title referring to a town in the North of France.

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Two Sunflowers

A shower of encrusted dark-orange-yellow paint. Black soil at the bottom, and green for the leaves, and bursts of violet here-and-there.

I don’t think this is very interesting at all — I don’t think it shows much sophisticated use of colour.

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Cypress

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Minnesota

Interesting depths of yellow for the sun-drenched Minnesota.

Heavy and thick brushstrokes establishing zones of colour. I don’t really like this much. And I don’t like the way the columns seem to separate and not flow. I don’t get why Joan Mitchell left what seems to me as an empty canvas in the middle.

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Red Tree

The strokes of strokes of fiery-crimson horizontal marks are quite engaging.

But otherwise it’s ok.

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Plowed Field

Inspired my memories of landscapes.

I quite like it. I like the heavy maroons and yellows, and I can see the outlines of different fields.

But it’s ok.

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Tilleul

Great tree — bare, black, wintry branches thrusting upward.

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The gallery

Is Roy Lichtenstein’s Pop Art overrated?

I am not sure I really ‘get’ Lichtenstein – and I don’t think I care for Pop Art either.

If anyone reading this loves his art, please share with me in the comments. Pics below are from the Tate Modern.

To me, Pop Art sounds interesting in theory. But, reflecting the tapestry of the culture around us morphs into visual memes which become part of the cliche. The “Pop Art” movement of the late 1950s placed a heavy emphasis on “found art” and “found objects”. They sought to frame everyday objects and imagery into new settings to imbue them with a renewed significance and power. For me, I am not sure I would call this legitimate “art” … but I can appreciate its historical resonance. 

Reason 1 – No creativity, little artistic merit

Lichtenstein notices a frame within a comic and amplifies it with striking vividness and scale to make the art imposing. His work sits in the Tate Modern as “high-art”. For me, it doesn’t work at all. It’s not a Monet or a Van Gogh. In fact, I hardly see any artistic merit at all. He merely took an image out of a comic book, and painted it on a canvas. Even on a technical level, it is not that impressive either. It is devoid of any creativity. It’s simplified, easy and unimaginative.

This heavy focus on “ready made” art is rooted in Duchamp; and can be seen in Warhol, Johns, Rauschenberg etc. However, I think there is a serious difference. Duchamp’s urinal wasn’t made to be “on display” and looked on as “art”. He made it “art” by putting on display and writing a fake name as a label. It was, in that respect, transformative.

However, Lichtenstein took other peoples’ genuine comic art, edited it, put it on a panel and then made it expansive. It didn’t change the idea of it. Somehow, art galleries then considered it “high-art” which contemporary art critics were not inclined to do with the original comics.

Reason 2 – “But don't forget the conceptual”

Lichtenstein became famous because the regnant philosophy on art, in his time, was the pop art scene. Lichtenstein’s work is popular and catchy because it is so familiar. It’s like a corporate logo. The rest of his earlier oeuvre is mediocre at best.

I often wonder if academics and critics simply read into, embellish, convolute and hype-up art simply because it is on the wall of a museum. In other words, the institutions of art feed themselves their art. People look at a piece in a gallery. It psychically shouts back: “THIS IS IMPORTANT”, and then people feel nervous, anxious and force a narrative that doesn’t correspond to reality. I think a lot of peoples’ instinctive reaction to Roy Lichtenstein should be “rubbish” or “mediocre”.

This brings me to another problem I have. People like Lichtenstein for his paintings – but mostly because of “what he is saying”. In the broader scheme, all art is conceptual. But, to my mind, the best ones are those who don’t treat their art merely as a message. Ideas are great; but, looking in – especially from  the outside – if the ideas seem decent or agreeable; then the general sensation is that you’re not allowed to say that the art is not that great. And why not? Because it’s conceptual. There is no real way for conceptual art pieces to be judged.

This is compounded by another problem.The viewer must get into the head of the artist. The viewer has to divine what kind of idea he/she was trying to convey; and, after all that, we must come to our own conclusions. It is all ultimately subjective.

Reason 3 – Pop Art is condescending to the masses

It is said that Lichtenstein’s work is critiquing Western/US consumerism, and our industrial economic system.

But, to me, it feels like a haughty contempt for the everyday masses who go shopping, buy their mass-produced products and newspapers, take notice of marketing, and live unrefined lives. Perhaps more for Warhol than Lichtenstein? But the work often feel like sanitised pop images suitable for the consumption of elevated wealthy classes.

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Whaam!

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Lichtenstein’s Reflections Series

Below are five works from Lichtenstein’s Reflections print series. Each is supposed to feature one of his earlier paintings which is partly obscured under bands of colour. 

Lichtenstein said: 

"It portrays a painting under glass. It is framed and the glass is preventing you from seeing the painting. Of course, the reflections are just an excuse to make an abstract work, with the cartoon image being supposedly partly hidden by the reflections."

According to the Tate, it is supposed to a wry comment on his own rehashing and reusing of his own work!  That says it all, I think!

Ask yourself, where is the art?

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Reflections on Minerva

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Reflections on Girl

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Reflections on The Scream

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Reflections on Conversation 

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Reflections on Crash

Hilma af Klint - 'The Ten Largest' - Tate Modern

This post concerns the last room of the Hilma af Klint and Piet Mondrian exhibition at the Tate Modern; the finale. 

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The last room concerns Af Klint's most ambitious artworks. Probably her magnum opus: the colossal 'The Ten Largest'. She died in a traffic accident in Sweden aged 81. Today she is recognized as a pioneer of Western abstract art. However, even as late as the 1970s, when her paintings were gifted to the Stockholm museum, they declined the donation. Not untypical of most avant-garde artists.

Each painting is enormous, a veritable giant. They seek to capture the essence of childhood, youth, adulthood, and old age. 

It seems af Klint was trying to "give the world a glimpse of the stages of life" through her perceptions of the spirit realm. She was supposed to have conducted séances - as a medium - and communicated to the spirits. She was even supposed to have received messages from the ethereal realm to create this devotional artwork. 

For me, I have little patience for this. I think she was either she was suffering from a mental illness or was taking part in occult quackery which, I think, has always been the plainest of lies and exploitation. But, perhaps I'm being too harsh. I know that Europe was awash with this sort of nonsense. France had Allan Kardec who convinced people he could commune with the dead through tables! And, we still have astrology in magazines and fortune-tellers (in this day-and-age!).

Nevertheless, I was surprised at how much I enjoyed these paintings.

I think there is something fascinating and even moving in them. I loved the way the colour shifts from blue to orange to lilac and then the faintest of pinks. Even as we go through the adult years, the colour itself fades. It speaks to the power of colour to evoke our emotions.  Then, there is the movement, the flowing, the floating, the motion of each painting. They are filled with collisions and movements and swirls. Cells, atoms, flora, shells all seem to point to the harmony and interconnection of life. The latter paintings are the most moving. To me, I think there is a sense of calm and order and even wistfulness about them. 

This artwork is really wonderful and quite moving. 

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Childhood

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Hilma af Klint and Piet Mondrian: pioneers of abstract art – Tate Modern

I recently went to the "Hilma af Klint & Piet Mondrian: Forms Of Life" exhibition at the Tate Modern. I found it a really interesting journey into abstraction, and provided insights into Mondrian's work in particular. 

For me, I think Mondrian's abstractions are more interesting. I find af Klint's mysticism and spiritualism act as a barrier for me to really engage with her work. I think she's a fascinating lady, and I think she must have shocked and touched people with her esoteric radicalism.

It seems neither af Klint nor Mondrian knew one another (or their work), but this exhibition does suggest that share a common thread in their development of abstract art, moving away from the convention of representation. 

During their lifetimes, they experienced the breaking of so many new technological frontiers. All of which challenged human perception - e.g. microscopy, radiography, photography etc. The existence of invisible worlds to the human eye (in science) also touches on af Klint's spirituality. For me, this exhibition delves perhaps too much into their spiritual beliefs - but it does form their approaches to perceiving the world. Indeed, their abstraction is a means of understanding the world.

This analysis/review is in 6 parts (with separate post for Klint's finale in the exhibition).

  

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Part 1 - Incipiency

Hilma af Klint (born 1862) and Piet Mondrian (born 1872) started off their careers as traditional classical landscape painters in the late 19th century.

• The Academy of Fine Arts in Stockholm had only begun to accept women to study in 1864. In 1882, af Klint joined them. While studying, she became well known for her landscape and portrait paintings, establishing herself as a respected artist.
• Mondrian was associated with the 'Hague School' of realist painters in the second half of the 19th century and their focus on muted colours, loose brushwork and textured surfaces.

Lake scene by af Klint

Quite a pretty painting by af Klint. 

A sunset scene. Some heavy daubs on the skyline for clouds and the setting sunshine. The painting does have shiny veneer - perhaps the atmospheric sunset?.

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Spring Landscape from Lomma Bay by Klint

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Evening Landscape with Cows by Mondrian

One of the problems with this painting, for me, is the fact that you can feel the texture of the canvass through the painting. Otherwise, it is also a charming arcadian vista with a few cows.

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Haystack Behind a Row of Willows by Mondrian

Quite a pretty painting.

I do love this type of heavy brushwork, scrapping through the impasto. Feels expressionistic, and can be quite evocative of a summery, windy feel - even natural.

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Hilma af Klint’s botanical illustrations - Tate Modern

Further to my post Hilma af Klint and Piet Mondrian: pioneers of abstract art – Tate Modern, these illustrations were part of af Klint’s botanical collection. 

I think they’re the best ones.

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Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror exhibition at the Tate Modern

On Monday 17th July, I visited the Yayoi Kusama exhibition at the Tate Modern.

I had never heard of this artist; but I have since been shocked to see just how much of a big-deal she is in the art world:  ‘Japan’s greatest living artist’ etc. 

She has been subject to an interesting and favourable BBC profile recently. 

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Chandelier of Grief

The first partition in which guests are expected to queue and enter is a darkened room. The door is then promptly closed behind you. Mirrors surrounding you, and it takes some time to adjust to darkness. At first, I was disoriented slightly, and then - at head-height - is suspended a chandelier in the darkened enclosure. 

According to the Tate, it is “intended to create a destabilising yet mesmerising effect” and be evocative of “mourning” and loss.

I was disappointed and underwhelmed. The whole thing is lame (tickets £10 per person). The chandelier seems tacky; a cheap-and-cheerful ornament. The visual arrangement is supposed to be reminiscent of some baroque-style affectation, and so presumably candleholders ought have held real candles - and not those electric light-bulb cheap substitutes. I think the shifting and dancing glow of a flickering candlelight - against the blackness - would have engendered a more stirring response. 

At any rate, and despite the overall flatness, I think this annoys me in a more fundamental way. The problem here is the lack of artistic proficiency compounded by the prevailing notion of the subjectivity of art (currently leaning on the idea that art should be objective). The viewer is expected to do the heavy-lifting. They are expected to stand there, survey the arrangement, rearrange the pieces, make sense of it, and then emote.

So, this kind of installation strikes me as lazy. It’s just a mirror-walled room with some random rubbish suspended. People are too easily impressed, and I honestly think most spectators are kidding themselves at the Tate. We know from the placebo effect that humans are apt to convince themselves that something has had more of a positive effect on them than it actually has. The viewer approaches some talked-about art, and then rationalises some meta placebo-ish explanation; and - because art is purportedly subjective - people think their unfeigned feelings must validate the force of the installation. You could suspend a dead chicken and people would still find it ‘moving’.

It doesn’t help that we were herded into the instillment and then back out: within 2 mins max. Sad.

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Infinity Mirrored Room

This is fun, and it did excite me when I first entered; but that’s as complementary as I can be (oh, and that’s me with the Hitler moustache). I have to admit there were cool and fun mirrors, lights and decorations - but not much beyond that. I don’t think this should be regarded as art. 

While doing some research for this blog, I came across a post online about this exhibition. I was struck by a comment in which a visitor talked about it giving them an “insight into seeing inside the Milky Way, the great eternal...”. This kind of talk returns me to my above point: I think it is too easy for any artist to create such an installation and then expect the viewer to do the abstract metaphysical weightlifting. 

This isn’t really some avant-garde or futuristic exploration of life or space. It’s just a bunch of mirrors which create an illusory disorienting feeling - which is fleeting; and the beautiful multi-coloured dazzling effect. Otherwise any hedged-maze would be considered art too. So it was fun initially; but it relies on cheap fleeting thrills to mask an essentially vapid superficial empty concept that could be applied to any other thing. It’s meant to sound deep but it’s not. Nobody should think Kusama’s work at the Tate has anything transcendental or profound.

Also – I hate the conveyor-belt feel of this exhibition at the Tate. Art should be personal; and this is anything but.

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The rest

So far, I have not personally come across her other works, so I may stand corrected; but - from what I have seen - they consist almost entirely of an obsession with random polka dots, phallic boats etc. Not art on a high level: more the level of graphic design. The fact that Andy Warhol was accused of ripping off her ideas is itself very revealing because I don’t think Warhol’s work constitutes much beyond fake and imitation, and little originality. 

The BBC article goes through her difficult life backstory. But having obstacles and difficulties in life says nothing about the quality of the artistic production. Her work seems easily recognisable and very superficial (like Damien Hirst).

Trip to the Tate Modern – my modest reflections on the artworks

Monday, 18th July 2022; 11am. London had one of its hottest days on record. Temperature soaring to a high of 38C. Nonetheless, I've decided to go on an excursion around the Tate Modern. I had actually intended to visit the Mark Rothko exhibition, the Seagram Murals. But no luck. There were no Rothkos on display. I think they were at a different gallery or in transit.

So instead, I decided to tour the art gallery. It’s free of charge – unless you visit a special exhibition but other than that, you don’t need to book. 

Below are some of my reflections on some of the artworks. I am not as clued-up on art, and I have never studied it etc…, so these are much inchoate thoughts and opinions at this juncture. I plan to do some researching and perhaps visit a few more galleries in due course. So, who knows, perhaps my thoughts will change again.

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Low tide London outside the gallery.

The Tate Modern is just on the River Thames. It was 38C on Monday 18th July. Not a cloud in sight.

An understated entrance.

The Tate Modern is too big to photograph. It’s an expansive ashlar structure, like a foundry, harking back to the industrial epoch.

A former power station.

Cavernous space, with slits of windows, help the Tate Modern retains its original power station spirit of Giles Gilbert Scott. An imposing contrast to its cheerless entrance, it has a breezy cool environment on such a hot day.

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Conceptual art (2015) by Haegue Yang

This “suspended sculpture” was made with over 500 Venetian window blinds. Apparently, this was created in commemoration of artist Sol LeWitt’s Structure with Three Towers. For me, I don’t think I like this installation much. I appreciate that artists are trying to be thought-provoking or “conceptual” – but if that was in my home, I’d probably take it down and put it in the skip. As I type these words, it occurs to me that – notwithstanding the illumination from the suspended structure – could this be compared to a gigantic chandelier in an expansive lobby?

Fire! Fire! (Al fuoco, al fuoco) (1963) by Enrico Baj.

Enrico Baj was influenced by “surrealism and dada” (yes, that’s an actual word: read about it on Oxford Art Online). It seems he was “inspired by children’s art” and power and military images. It does look like the “figure” is on fire. However – once again, I don’t like this. I don’t like the distorted eyes, monstrous misshapen mouth (with only a few teeth) and that a person is on fire. Surreal – it is. I get the undertone about the military – but this leaves me feeling uncomfortable. That’s probably the intended effect. Humm.

Alpine Ibex (2017) by Jimmie Durham.

This is an actual Ibex skull attached to bits of furniture. I think it’s hideous and ugly – perhaps even slightly offensive in the mockery to which the animal was subjected. I don’t think I like surrealism.

Windows Open Simultaneously on the City (1912) by Robert Delaunay.

I think this is quite interesting and feels uplifting. It turns out that the Eiffel Tower is represented here in the centre in verdant green. I think this is supposed to be cubism. I like the fact that the painting feels as if I’m looking into a landscape with various mountainy inclines and perhaps the faint distant outline of the topmost of a tree. The shades of green and orange are quite pretty. Yes, I do like this.

Bottle of Rum and Newspaper (1913) by Juan Gris.

Cubism: this scene was described as an illusion in a familiar café. “UM” for rum and “JOUR” for journal. A table at the centre. I think I can make the spherical heads of two people? However, unlike the above, I am left floundering twisting-my-head in an attempt to make shapes “fit”. I don’t think I like this and I don’t like the darker colours. It feels like an enclosed space. I don’t find this inviting.

Atlantic Civilisation (1953) by André Fougeron.

André Fougeron was a leader in the French Communist Party in the 1950s. This piece is supposed to capture the soi-disant “Americanisation” of Europe. I think it’s nasty, horrible, and I don’t like it at all. I think it’s prejudice distilled, and thus, devoid of any measured perspective. The menace in this sort of effortless anti-Americanism is the way in which people use criticism of America to imagine that their own countries don’t have those “problems”. A kind of “hmm, not sure I understand, must be an American thing” as though war, racism, poverty, pollution, sexism, and death don’t exist in Europe. The scapegoating of America – as the repository of all maleficence and intolerance and so on – is usually accompanied by a purblind outlook of its counterpart. Academics – such as the late Eric Hobsbawm – found themselves championing the USSR as an evolved socialist sanctuary. Political commentary like this really turns me off.

Biloxi, Mississippi, 2005 (2005) by Mitch Epstein.

I do think this is an arresting photograph. The savagery and brutality of the scene is counterposed by its unmistakeable serenity: calm against a cloudless sky. Mitch Epstein, apparently, captured this tranquillity following Hurricane Katrina of 2005. To my mind, the unfortunate characteristic is that the photographer appears to have used this natural disaster to project morality about the human condition. In this case, he is quoted as saying; “I am trying to find and convey truth about how we Americans live, what we want, and what it costs to get it”. I don’t really like that comment. There is no end of people using natural disasters – like AIDS – as a means of projecting forth their personal grudges against humanity.

Composition C (No.III) with Red, Yellow and Blue (1935) by Piet Mondrian.

I find this artwork complicated: the real language of abstract painting. It’s complicated because the painting is simple. Straight lines and the main colours. In literature, Vladimir Nabokov once said that the morality of writing stems from its style. In other words, it’s not the substance of the work per se; but the craft of the writer (as an artist) and how they command language on the page. I imagine a similar mentality with such a painting. For me, if I can draw an aesthetic appreciation from prose arising – not necessarily from its substance – but from the mere wordcraft of the writer; then so it must be that it doesn’t matter that I cannot see trees or sunset on a given landscape. On the other hand, I do feel that there should be some rules as a form of courtesy on the reader or viewer. You cannot just pick and cram any sets of words to form whatever sentences in a piece. That would be a serious imposition on the reader, perhaps a bit of rudeness even. Therefore, I can’t shake the feeling that this work is just too abstract. According to the Tate Modern, “Mondrian was suggesting an idealised view of society. Each individual element contributes to the overall composition of the work … This was intended to symbolise the relationship between the individual and the collective.” I don’t think I could have divined such a view without some aid from the art gallery.

No. 98 2478 Red/135 Green (1936) by Georges Vantongerloo.

It seems Vantongerloo “was one of the pioneers of a mathematical approach to abstract art”. The painting is designed in terms of the units of space, and there is a pattern in terms of their sizes. I am not sure whether I could find this interesting or appealing beyond the interval of a few minutes.

Gironde (1951) by Ellsworth Kelly.

I do quite like this. There is a warmth and radiance to the colours. It seems Mr Kelly was inspired by shadows falling on a staircase at the home he was staying in, in France. He transformed those impressions into a bit of an abstract-ism. I think I can follow this artwork, and it feels warm.

Composition (1962) by Felicia Leirner.

Some part of me thinks this is a stretch too far – veering towards the absurd. This is supposed to be a “mournful ‘reflections upon life and death’”. At most, it has an unsettling and harsh structure and I suppose its black hue connotes the underworld. However, I don’t readily ‘read’ death – if anything, it feels like the contortions and deformities of war. On the whole, I don’t really like it. I don’t think it’s interesting.

The Bowl of Milk (1919) by Pierre Bonnard.

Yes, I do like this. Not so abstract as to render it undecipherable. I really like warm colours. I find it soothing and relaxing. We can feel the radiant cosy sunshine, the sea beyond the balcony, lovely flowers in a vase; but a faint penumbra conceals the lineaments of her face and a cat (whose milk is being – presumably – set on the floor). This was painted around WWI. Yes, interesting.

Still Life with Sheep (1938) by Marie-Louise Von Motesiczky.

Not quite sure how to think about this oil painting. I think the assorted yellow and black shades are quite pretty and it evokes the feeling of a homey kitchen; but otherwise, not fully sure about these porcelain sheep and some strange fruit. Maybe that’s what makes it appealing. It seems Von Motesiczky and her mother were Jewesses fleeing from the Nazis following the annexation of Austria. She painted this in a hotel room in Amsterdam aged 32 in the very year of the annexation. Hmm.

Interior at Gordan Square (1915) by Duncan Grant.

Duncan Grant – apparently of the Bloomsbury Group – paints rectangles “as the front and back rooms of 46 Gordon Square in London”. It’s not so abstract that I’m feeling mystified, and actually I quite like the bright colours. Though, I may need to see an outline of the house plan. So, it’s interesting.

Mandora (1909) by George Braque.

This is cubism. George Braque has painted a lute at the centre. According to the Tate, “it’s fragmented style suggests a sense of rhythm and acoustic reverberation that matches the musical subject.” I think you can catch a bottle behind the lute. It’s interesting that the lute is in the centre suspended, with unnaturally harsh and abrasive – almost sharp – three-dimensional linear structures. The brownish, leafy, and grey evokes an autumnal mood. It’s unclear where the source of light is in the painting. It feels like a dizzying hallucination. I must say I find this painting interesting – but I don’t warm to it easily. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I don’t think I would like to have this painting hanging in my kitchen.

Glass on a Table (1909) by George Braque.

It seems this painting may have been influenced by Picasso. The idea was to “explore new ways of representing reality”. Some of the glass appears shattered and broken but perhaps that’s the idea. According to the Tate, “breaking up familiar items, and reordering them, he could get closer to a true likeness of the object”. Reality is warped and, for me, this isn’t a relaxing painting. Once again, as above, Braque is drawn to harsh discordant colours. I think this is too complicated and unwelcoming for me although I do appreciate the artistic craftmanship.

Seated Woman with Small Dog (1939) by Meraud Guevara.

I really like this oil painting from 1939. There is something enigmatic and disquieting about it. It feels like there’s a sombre undertone to the painting. We don’t catch the stoical (glamourous?) lady’s gaze which complements the overall note of melancholy. The inert lifeless dog, the chamber devoid of furniture and vibrancy, an agar doorway at the back intimating (perhaps) something beyond? Yes, I do think I like this painting. It makes me wonder.

Dish of Pears (1936) by Pablo Picasso.

I can’t say I find this very appealing. I get that Picasso is depicting life in the abstract: he has set a black-and-white backdrop with two-dimensional pears on two dishes in a limited range of hues. But, for me, I am not sure I like this. I get it’s a bowl of fruit, but – in a way – it’s not really fruit, as we know it. I think it’s interesting, but that’s about it.

Autumnal Cannibalism (1936) by Salvador Dali.

I found this fascinating. At the gallery, I inched closer to the canvas to study the details. This painting is like an abstraction from a lucid dream. You’ll have to forgive me, but the above facsimile doesn’t do nearly enough justice to the original. The stylishness in the details on the canvas and overall opulence of colours contrast with the essence of the painting; namely, two shapes devouring each other. According to the Tate, this “mutually-destructive embrace may be a comment on the Spanish Civil War”. Apparently, the landscape in the background is set in Catalonia which is also quite beautiful. I think this is aesthetically stunning.

Head III (1953) by Graham Sutherland.

I don’t get this at all. Apparently, this is the merging of insects and fossils? According to a contemporary critic, Sutherland’s work was “the now prevailing cosmic anxiety”. It reminds me of the Alien from the eponymous movies, but other than that, I’m disappointed. How can an Englishman produce something so hideous and repellent? Why insects?

Sleeping Venus (1944) by Paul Delvaux.

This painting was enormous. It spans an entire wall. According to the Tate, this oil painting was rendered in Brussels during the Second World War while the city was being bombed. I like the juxtaposition of the elegant classicism against the horror and the terror. The skeleton standing by a voluptuous woman (Venus​​, the Roman goddess of love and beauty). Hands raised to the sky in despair while a nonchalant lady saunters by. Very clever.

Nude woman in a Red Armchair (1932) by Pablo Picasso.

The model was Marie-Thérèse Walter. Picasso painted her entirely in voluptuous curves. Her face is split, and she has two different skin tones. Not sure what to think of her “middle” boob. I guess Picasso wanted us to see it too. Honestly – I am not sure what to think of this. It seems a bit – if you’ll pardon me – simple. It doesn’t make me think much and I don’t think the caricature is all that beautiful.

Man with a Newspaper (1928) by René Magritte.

Four indistinguishable scenes – apart from the disappearance of the gentleman with his newspaper. What to think of this? I noticed that the colours were a bit darker in the bottom duo; perhaps indicating the passage of time? I feel there’s something forlorn in this painting, the loss of someone? It’s interesting.

Paintings (1980s) by Gerhard Richter.

There was a large room adorned by six huge paintings of Gerhard Richter. Although it is quite abstract, it also feels a bit realistic. The painting above was, to me, the most beautiful and engrossing of the six. There is a fluidity to the painting, as if I’m overlooking a lake. Pretty.

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The end. 

Below is a concluding photograph of my visit. I subsequently met my friend and went on a Thames River Cruise from the Bankside area of London. Temp was 38C. So lots to drink but a lovely day afterwards.

Yours truly and the BFF.