One of my most complex works at this size. I had reservations regarding posting it online as it has many layers and a subtlety that is not possible to see at 72 dpi.
This painting has been hanging in my bedroom for over three years, so that I can wake up to it in morning light. Graphite and pastels in raw titanium white acrylic. Live, it almost looks like an oil, except the ghost-like aspects of the pastel pigments in the more highly transparent acrylic medium would not quite work in oil, unless perhaps you were using a lot of alumina hydrate pigment in oil to get a much higher transparency without losing paint viscosity.
Once someone sees opus 1681, they are more likely to understand why many of my pieces can only be truly seen live. No digital manipulation or camera can capture the special nature of this piece, because its perceptual situation is intrinsically caught up in the nature of the cognitive processing necessitated by our two-eyed visual apparatus. You simply see things that are not there, or, more accurately, invisible to a single-lensed camera.
In the recent film Ex Machina Jackson Pollack’s concept of automatic painting is mentioned in conjunction with testing whether an Artificial Intelligence is displaying programmed behaviour or willfully conscious behavior. It’s a subtly complex issue, both for AI and art.
The programmers in the movie also make the astute point that if Jackson Pollack had to be rationally aware of each action, its meaning, and its significance, it would probably have been impossible for him to make a single mark. Rational awareness, and rationality, has its own built-in limitations.
It is virtually impossible for a machine to create a truly random sequence, because its activity has to be programmed, that is, determined by something, or constructed via something that cannot be random called computer code.. Mathematicians have shown that even the so-called “random number generators” of computers are precisely not random.
In that case one has to exploit data from certain phenomena which exhibit specific tendencies to chaotic behaviour under certain conditions. In this way, a machine might be made to generate what seems to be random-like sequences. This turns out to be far more difficult than it would appear at first glance.
It is also very difficult for a human to make something that is not willful. Certain states have to be attained or cultivated that permit more freely unmotivated behaviour or actions. There is an interesting gray area or set of fringe situations where things seem to be somewhat random, but aren’t, but are completely program-free, even rational-free. It is this area that has become increasingly interesting as the search for AI continues and our exploration of the problem of human consciousness continues as we gain deeper insight into human consciousness, both ontologically and epistemologically, and the human mind’s awareness evolves of what, specifically, makes it a human mind.
This is precisely the territory that my painting explores. I further constrict the limitations on randomness by consciously outlawing some of Pollacks devices, such as flung paint. Every mark is made via a deliberate action of the human hand, my hand, so that human intention is inherently involved. But all traces of rational structure and “programmed” process are also eliminated.
This is one reason I’ve never been much interested with what many have come up with in terms of mathematically or geometrically determined art. To me, such art is exploring the very territory that is most irrelevant to our future understanding of human, and on the converse side, artificial, intelligence. If it is mathematically determined structure, then the problems above are solved, known, and relatively straightforward. It is in the cases where no mathematical or geometrically generated structure manifests that the demarcations and issues of human, or non-human intelligence get really interesting.
The great thing about works on paper like this is that they are easy and relatively inexpensive to ship to anywhere in the world. Since they are on unsized or lightly sized printmaking papers, they roll easily and flatten out again easily, so they can be safely shipped in a tube.
The other thing about this work is that if someone likes a piece in digital view, they’ll love it live. So it is easy to make a decision on the internet and order an original painting without waiting to see it in a gallery or museum [besides you usually can’t buy the pieces showing in a museum anyway].
If you are interested in something you see here or in the Art page archives, drop me a line via my FaceBook page or profile [Erik Reel for profile; Erik ReeL for page] and I’ll give you an email box to communicate with me. I no longer post my email urls directly on this site because they get bombed if I do and makes the email box unusable. Sorry. Most of my works on paper are $3,000 US [see pricing page for more information}
Symphony in dark green.
Blues, a la Miles.
An acrylic on paper for the day. Enjoy.
This painting, Opus 1670, is unique for me, done on a sheet of smaller and very fragile paper that allowed a slightly different working surface with its own unique possibilities. In spite of its lightness it has a certain weightiness and vigor that belie its fragile substrate.
The Third of May, a famous date for the history of painting. Here’s my Opus 1668, a more positive and ecstatic tribute to the human spirit for today, even though we may live in times no less dark than Goya’s.
Also on lighter, thinner, more fragile paper than usual. This paper inspires a lightness and openness to the work, and is capable of very subtle coloring, hardly given justice by the digital gods.
Something for you for Spring. Spring without Spring colors. Think of pollen impregnating the world.
Also on thinner, smaller, more fragile paper than usual.
In Opus 1665, I am using a paper I usually don’t paint on. Its very lightweight, less than 130 Kg/m2 and does not take the same degree of textural effects as what I usually work on. In some ways this makes things clearer. Exuberant energies at work here. Enjoy.
This came out of a continuation of the working sessions that created 1660-1663. Even though I am posting this one on the web, it really has to be seen live, especially for the dark blue marks and background areas, to get the overall real impact of the work.
By the way, I will be showing at the Morris Graves Museum in Humboldt county in 2016 [dates not set yet].
You can see that I was on quite a roll from opus 1660 to 1663. Since the general process per painting takes at least about 5 days due to drying and setting times of the paint, I tend to work on several, up to a dozen, at a time, .
Ironically, I tend to do an oil painting in less time than a similarly-sized acrylic, partly because I use a lot more layers in the acrylics as I exploit the substantially greater transparency of the polymer medium.
The Opus number refers to my current studio log, which was started at the end of 1999. So opus 1662 means that this is the 1,662nd work I’ve done since the beginning of 2000.
This painting is on 30 x 22 inch [75 x 55 cm] archival printmaking paper. I am using liquid acrylic paint, pastels and pencils and charcoal and a lot of acrylic medium as well as paint. The papers I use the most are Magnani Pescia [crown watermark grade] and Italia, Rives BFK, Lana Royale, Rives de Lin, DS Lenox, and Fabriano Artistico hot press which is the only watercolor paper I typically use. Magnani Pescia, crown watermark, is by far my most favorite paper.
Unfortunately, this paper seems to be no longer available in the United States. There are people in the USA who say they are selling it, but they are not selling the watermark grade, which is the best grade and the grade I use. It seems that the people in American who order this paper cannot tell the difference between the lower grades and the crown watermark [or top grade] paper, so the mills and suppliers ship them the lower quality stuff, charge them the same price as the crown watermark paper and they, in turn try to fob this stuff onto us, the artists, and charge the higher price as well. There are seven versions of Magnani Pescia. This follows a longstanding, but growing trend in the USA of art suppliers substituting lower quality items for long-available quality items.
Fortunately, in some cases, there are conscientious, usually smaller, more specialized, suppliers entering into the game who either have started producing their own art supplies here in America, or still try to get the original, quality merchandise. If you are an artist, I encourage you to seek out and support these suppliers, especially if they are local. On the other side of things, some of the best supplies can only be obtained from their source in fairly large quantities: quality stretcher bars from China, art paper from Italy, etc., usually can only be ordered in quantities of at least a shipping container or railroad car at a time. You’d think with globalization, it’d get easier to obtain internationally produced items, not more difficult.
“Perhaps the strongest showing of work in this exhibition comes from Erik ReeL.”
Santa Barbara Independent
I was once asked if there was coding in my paintings.
I answered “Yes.”
But it was not a simple “yes”– for coding implicitly means explicit and narrow referentiality and thus, in my terms, to be avoided or discarded.
But then, later, in the end, I actually do sneak in personal codes with explicit intentions and references, thus violating what I say I am doing.
Most of these insertions are sexual and/or personal, and thus private.
Then there’s the issue regarding believing what artists say about what their own work means: It’s called the intentionalist fallacy.
It is a true fallacy, believe me.
My current paintings use a highly constrained visual praxis: For the most part, I primarily use simple open and closed convex curves of genus 0 or 1. This is a severely constrained set in light of all the possibilities.
Occasionally I throw in a non-constrained deviant, or something that is more of a mess, a scribble, than a mark. Again, I have no “pure” intentions, nor reductivist ambitions, here. I am more interested in discarding the referentiality of Modernism and Post-Modernism, the baggage of the whole mimetic tradition.
This is also, of course, why this work is explicitly post-Structural and post-Conceptual.
Notice, too, that amongst the referential modes I reject are the highly regularized patterns, geometries, and rationally predictable “formats” of that wave of abstraction we first saw emerge in the late 60s and 70s and to a certain extent, still emerging in Los Angeles and later, again, amongst the Post-Moderns, especially as tilings–to say nothing of the Modernist grid, and its “formats”–are all considered references to external systems to be avoided in this new endeavor.
Geometry is insufficient.
Once I stripped all extraneous referentiality out of my paintings, instead of encountering the expected: a minimalistic, reductivist abstract modality, I quickly discovered richer, non-reductivist, possibilities that presented a seemingly endless range of emotional responses and readings.
This richness exists in part because there is a similar range of open possibilities in how the human mind appropriates marks for its own meanings and cognitive purposes, even without a specific spoken-language or any of its possible representational schemes.
What was clear at all stages was the fact that it was possible to create profoundly different emotional responses within a surprisingly highly constrained visual idiom.
Thus, again, we come to: Oh. Wait, there’s more that can be said and done.
The possibilities I became interested in concerned exploring what could be called proto-linguistic possibilities. Especially in the sense that these marks were, in part, the super set of marks from which many human cultures pulled the marking set developed for representing marking systems with explicitly mapped meanings.
These sets with explicitly mapped meanings include marking sets such as:
– alphabets, syllabaries, hieroglyphs, runes, and brush-characters, etc used to represent written language, that is, as the full written representation of a spoken language;
– or quasi-linguistic systems such as hobo-signs, trail signs, rail signs, or battle-signs; which, though they have explicit meanings, do not cover an entire spoken language;
-or specialized highly abbreviated notational systems such as those employed for music, movement, and modern mathematics [as opposed to, say, medieval mathematics, where the formula and relationships, with the exception of integer numbers and their basic arithmetical operations, are written out long-hand in Latin or Arabic].
Once inserted into the paintings, and frequently distorted, the marks are not intended as representations in any of these systems, but rather as human marks prior to their subsequent adoption to a specific written language, thus “proto” in the sense of “prior to” or “preliminary to” a spoken language.
Painting as exploring mark-making itself; mark-making freed of all its referentiality to the material world, to history, to story-telling, to materialistic pretension.
One question that immediately arises: What makes mark-making specifically human, and if human, hand-made [as opposed to human and human-machine-made]?
Another is: What if everything else is stripped away and we only see marking? Marking without explicit representation anywhere? Specifically, marks on a flat– and thus “to be read” surface, thus de-emphasizing, even denying, its material thing-ness?
Eventually I, too, came to feel that in painting there was still more to be done, that there was meaningful, and possibly visually arresting, territory yet to be explored.
What remained, I felt, was a certain exploration of mark-making itself.
Mark-making freed of all its referentiality to the material world, to history, to story-telling, to materialistic pretension and dysfunction.
The added bonus, for me, was that this also placed such painting against the materialism buried deep within the culture around me. Painting that stood against materialism in both radical and subtle ways.
The German philosopher, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling [1775-1854] in his Philosophy of Art [1802-3], said that “architecture is like frozen music” , a sentiment famously echoed by Goethe in 1836. Since Paul Klee, a similar equivalence has often been proposed for describing abstract painting.
For many, much architecture and most painting has probably felt to fall far short of the musical, though I suspect it also depends on what music one is listening to. For me, my painting has been directly inspired by and in some cases explicitly linked to specific music. I’ve mentioned elsewhere the inspiration I’ve received from the jazz of Miles Davis, Monk, Ornette Coleman, and others.
One composer whose music feels very close to my present work is the mature work of the Polish composer Witold Lutoslawski [1913-1994]; in particular, his aleatoric ad libitum technique that dominates his Chain compositions, piano concerto, and the third and fourth symphonies. This is especially true of much of my work on paper, which constitute a virtually daily visual diary and reservoir of ideas for my larger works on canvas.
There is no explicit connection between us, but I can often hear his music in my own paintings. There is an openness and freedom in his music that I seek to express in my improvisational work. Both of us, I suspect, have our inner dread of the predictable and pre-determined.
When growing up in Seattle with Tobey’s late “white writing” paintings, with their ochres, blacks and whites–the whole “Northwest Mystic” school used color like that– I dreamed of doing a Tobey in full color.
“When I grow up,” I said, “I’m going to paint a Technicolor Tobey.”
So that’s what I did.
Abstraction. New endpoints. Subsequent diversion into pictorial means. So it goes.
Around a personal praxis or process that insured a unique image vocabulary, at each point the initial impetus to abstraction is driven by something genuinely new, quickly followed by a sense that everything possible has been done so far as is possible via abstract imagery.
Once this endpoint is accepted, artists move off into more pictorial– or, alternatively, into non-two-dimensional concerns. The latter initiating what one could call the “concrete” alternative.
So we move off into the pictorial or the concrete. Either way, re-affirming the deep-rooted Materialism within our culture.
Then, something happens. Someone, someone tired of feeding the materialist monster, someone fed up enough with our material world, says, “Wait, I see there is more to be done.” and further, “I don’t want to refer to anything in this material world; I am sick and tired of feeding the materialist monster.” From there it is less than a quark to total abstraction.
We seem to be at such a point again.
In America as it came onto the edge of things, it did not take long for Tobey, then later Pollack and an entire generation or two [followed by another in Europe with Art Informal, Tapies, etc] to come up with an entirely new approach to abstraction. Approaches primarily centered on improvisation, an emphasis on scale, broadly brushed expressiveness, and a certain approach to materials and paint, process and gesture.
But once this abstract “expressionism” if you will is seen as exhausted, a more pictorial means is sought, and used to subvert representation. Thus we see Pop emerge and pictorial tactics intended to critique media and advertising and other coercive modes of representational pictorial production.
There’s more to be done, abstraction-wise. After the pictorial retrenchment of Pop, we see a new generation of “format” abstraction, from Stella to Bridget Riley, where each “signature style” claims a very specific, rather small, highly constrained territory of format, technique, and idea.
This heralds a generation that sees the most ruthless reductivist tendencies since Malevich: All black paintings and minimalism exploiting both pictorial and constructive means of extreme visual reduction.
The 70s sees a matched triumph of an ancillary aggressively formalist art criticism emphasized in art magazines such as ArtForum.
From there things swing so far as Coplans declaring the eternal triumph of photo-based, thus pictorial, imagery forever more, and the consequent rise of Flash Art magazine.
New endpoints. New subsequent diversion into pictorial means. And so it goes.
I recently re-read Raphael Rubinstein’s Provisional Painting Part 2: To Rest Lightly on Earth, from the February 2012 issue of Art in America. This is, I feel, one of the best things written about painting in this century, so far.
I like it for not only what Professor Rubinstein says, but also for how he says it. Its style and approach to writing seem particularly appropriate for the topics discussed. Even the title is pitch perfect.
It is also an extremely helpful read for anyone interested in my art.
It is for this reason that I include it in my bibliography page, even though it is not explicitly about my painting, it reads as if it is, more so than most of the writing that is explicitly about my painting. What Rubinstein says is certainly applicable to my current painting praxis and philosophy.
I encourage everyone interested in my art to read it.
Note also that it is part two to an earlier article, Provisional Painting, published in the May 2009 issue of Art in America. The earlier article is a very different, but no less important piece.