A surprise
(One thing at a time)
So it turns out that I really don’t seem to have the time to do ‘proper’ writing with any regularity. Or at least it takes me so long, that it just doesn’t make sense to try.
Remember I promised to do something at least on the 23rd of every month? That’s never going to happen.
But what I think I might be able to manage is just to show you, now and then, one thing that’s come my way that I think is amazing, strange or magical…
Charles ‘Pic’ Higgins, Überraschung (surprise), 1964
Oil on paper laid on card
Signed bottom right; signed, dated and titled in ink verso
220×105mm (irregular)
310×210mm (framed)
I could stare at this little painting for ever. With the tiniest touches, and the close attention to and celebration of accident and micro-incident common to the kind of ‘free’ electronic musicians whose emanations I happily sift from the ambient chair-scrapings and glass-tinklings at Cafe Oto, the Scottish (Argentinian-born) artist known as ‘Pic’ seems to dare the paint to bring forth what it will.
The scrap of paper beneath his brush is the stage for an improvised drama of soaking and scattering, seeping and settling, clogging and clotting, suspense, twists and revelation. An entire little two-dimensional universe of chaotic fluid dynamics, unfolding over a few minutes, maybe even just seconds, before slowing definitively to a shimmering steady state.
Is the finished picture the result of hours of intense, prolonged mind/hand debate, or just moments of autonomic abandon? I think of Chinese calligraphers, pausing, heron-like, with loaded brush before committing ink to paper. I remember a surgeon, pumped-up like a boxer approaching the ring, envisaging his imminent fluent, decisive caesarian triumph. Is Pic as überrascht as we are at what’s happened here?
Bits that I really like, top to bottom:
The black blots that are a mountain range, a forest, the far-off … the oily halo of sanctity around the mother’s head and hands … the ambivalence/clarity of her profile (three dots of black, near-identical but unmistakably differentiated into eyelid, nostril, lip) … the wormcast of white lace at her sleeve (maybe my favourite bit of all) … how the child’s hair and clothing are made, in one continuous gesture, of the same diaphanous stuff … how the placement of the dots composing her curious-georgian expression precisely defines an up-tilt and left-turn of the head towards (and delight at) whatever the offstage surprise of the title might be … the clouds of blackberry-juice stain that embroider the hem of the mother’s gown … the eager step forward of her clumpy, elegant green shoe …
And, as with all Pic’s work that I have seen, I also like the scrappiness, the cheap card, the roughly-scissored never-rectangular outline, the frame of peeling, sun-crisped sellotape, none of which will be covered or tidied up when I frame it, leaving every atom of this, the mortal residue, the ectoplasm of a masterful performance, on show.
It’s great to have it on my desk here for now, a sideways glance away.
10% discount on everything for my readers!
You can buy any of the things I’ve found, wherever you are in the world, and have them hanging on your wall within a few days. They’ve been hidden, forgotten about for quite a while, and you can bring them back into the light. Send me a message or visit findings.gallery, where of course there’s much more to see, and you’ll get a 10% discount on everything!