John Singer Sargent, Éblouir Paris

John Singer Sargent, Portrait of Madame X, 1884

As the title of the John Singer Sargent exhibition at the Musée d'Orsay promises, these paintings dazzle. While Sargent's Portrait of Madame X (1884) is on all the publicity material for the exhibition, the woman with the porcelain skin and the risqué dress strap is only one of many treasures in the exhibition. What we see here is an artist immersed in the radical experiments of his time, someone who goes beyond the boundaries of what painting knew in the late nineteenth century as he discovers new ways of depicting modern life. Even though Sargent spent time in Paris, training at the École des Beaux-Arts and showing at the Salon, his work is relatively unknown in Paris and France. He enjoyed receiving portrait commissions from patrons in Europe and acknowledgment at the Salon, but the majority of his paintings are held in American museums and institutions which could explain why they are not so well known here.

John Singer Sargent, The Derelict, 1896

Among the qualities of painting that dazzles the eyes is Sargent's ability to capture an extraordinary, diffused luminosity. The light is so bright in some paintings that it is as if the work sits on a light box. Two paintings in particular struck me as studies of light, Dans le Jardin du Luxembourg (1879) and The Derelict (1896) in which a small boat is engulfed in otherwise gentle waves at dusk. The light from the setting sun, all but disappeared behind a curtain of cloud, looks to light up the ocean, soft and serene. In In the Luxembourg Gardens, the sun is higher, yellower, but the atmosphere is more even. There is an apparent dullness to the day, but on Sargent's canvas, it still radiates luminescence. In both paintings, it is Sargent's handling of white, yellow, and cobalt blue that enables water and sky to shimmer and shine. Sargent is known as a portrait painter, but in the urban paintings when people appear, faces are not important; it's the atmosphere which becomes the real subject matter. 

John Singer Sargent, Dans le jardin du Luxembourg, 1879

It will be noted that, for all its radiance, In The Luxembourg Gardens and other paintings have a blurred vision, as if Sargent is looking through an out of focus camera lens. This is perhaps because he was aware of the growing popularity of photography in his time, or because he intended to emphasize the atmosphere, not the actions in the urban setting. 

John Singer Sargent, Gertrude Vernon,
Lady Agnew of Lochnaw, 1893

In another striking innovation of Sargent's paintings, his brush could be so loose and fast that it's hard to imagine how the resultant sketchiness escaped criticism in his time. Beginning at the Ecole des Beaux Arts where emphasis was placed on the structure and rigorous academic approach to painting, Sargent soon moved to the atelier of Carulos Duran where he did away with academic requirements and loaded a brush with paint to be applied directly to the canvas. There is much to compare to the well-known painters of his day: Whistler's handling of white, Manet's realism, Monet's use of light as subject matter and theme. In addition, the loose, fast energy of impressionist brushstrokes resonate across Sargent's canvas. But, Sargent is unlike all these other artists, working in a style all his own. His portraits, often of women with clear, flawless faces, looking directly at the viewer and surrounded by a sea of brushstrokes are radical in ways that others were yet to discover. In this sense, The Portrait of Madame X is somewhat unusual in Sargent's oeuvre as it has a studied-ness and a build up that other portraits do not. 

John Singer Sargent, Rehearsal of the Pasdeloup Orchestra at the Cirque d'Hiver, 1879-1880

A painting that is both quite different in its subject matter and similar in its fast and fluid brushstrokes, is that of an orchestra rehearsing at the Cirque d'Hiver. Here, it is as if the music carries the painting away, filled with movement and an energy that captures the dynamism of the magic that happens when the orchestra is in full swing in this arena. Sargent paints the orchestra from behind and looking down, primarily because this was the view from where he sat when at the circus. However, once again, it is not the faces that matter, but the swirls and sweeps of the architecture, the swell of the music, the energy of the event. In this, his paintings are impressionist, but because they depict the rhythms of modern urban life, they are also realist. This unconventionality, even among painters who were known for their radicality, is the dazzle of Sargent's paintings shown in this wonderful exhibition.

Emilie Kngwarray @ Tate Modern

Emilie Kam Kngwarray, Untitled (Alhalker), 1989

I really loved this exhibition, particularly for the colours in the paintings, the focus on animal footprints, flight paths, hunting and eating activities, as well as their age. And the animals that Kngwarray represents are exotic: emus, goannas, insects and native Australian birds. The intense yellows and reds, marking the movements and stories of animals across space, seen from above on huge canvases were delightful. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander painters such as Kngwarray see the land as alive, filled with energy, and that's what provokes them to paint it. 

Emilie Kam Kngwarray, Anwellar (pencil yam), 1990

I was struck by how realist the work can be when seen from particular perspectives. As paint is used to map space and place, to see the landscape and everything that moves across it from above, the deep ochre tones come to reflect the Australian outback. Similarly, the artist's profound connection to the earth is held in the natural earths and plants from which her intense colours are made. When Kngwarray shifted to using acrylic, it felt as though her paintings became representations of the land, weather, animals, and the stories written by them. The thing itself was no longer in the painting. 

Emilie Kngwarray @ Tate Modern Installation View

Towards the end of her life, Kngwarray painted bold lines and blocks of colour, transposed from the body painting used for dances and ceremonies, particularly as they are practiced by women. Thus, the work turns to issues of family and female community, belonging, connections between women and through ancestral lines. The spiritual dimensions become increasingly pronounced as the colours become bolder and brighter. Far from the typical tendency of an aging artist to paint smaller and more sombre, darker works, Kngwarray becomes increasingly positive and the works more and more joyful as she gets older. 

Emilie Kngwarray, Untitled (Awelye), 1994

As wonderful as the exhibition was, I always have issues with the exhibition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander art in museums like Tate Modern.  I kept wishing there was more information, and at the very least, reference to the appropriation of Kngwarray and other First Nation artists' work. The exhibition makes a point of reinforcing that her community was involved in the selection and curation of the paintings on display, but I wanted to know more about what happened before they were produced. Where did her paints come from? How did she learn to paint? Who was supporting her as an artist? When and why did she move to painting on canvas and using acrylics? And, how did she become so well-known. As the only way to become a well know artist is to have a gallery or institution promote the work, there must have been steps taken to make her work public, steps not shared in the exhibition text. Given that, according to the exhibition text, she made her name as an artist in the 1980s, it's likely that she encountered exploitation and appropriation. 

Emily Kam Kngwarray, Ntang Dreaming, 1989

In addition, not knowing the long history of these works and the artist, it was a little unsettling to be looking from behind a barrier at her paintings in a museum, hung as precious objects on a wall. Painting in Kngwarray's culture is a more practical, integrated activity, rather than a product on a wall to be revered. Similarly, the choice to show a single First Nation painter also makes me approach with caution: the idea that work by a single artist be put on a pedestal to be admired in a prestigious museum privileges one artist over all of those who formed the community that is indispensable to her work. Single-artist authorship is not in keeping with the culture that enabled Kngwarray as artist and her paintings as profound art.

Christopher Wool @ Gagosian, Grosvenor Hill

Christopher Wool @ Gagosian
Installation

The works in this exhibition - many paintings on paper - were quite different from what I associate with Christopher Wool's art. Known for his stencils, screen prints and spray paint, I think of Wool's post-pop conceptual paintings as fast, flat, and without surface texture. By contrast, the small works on display in this latest London exhibition were filled with dense, thick paint in gestural sweeps, curves, and coils. Similarly, in the works exhibited here, Wool ventures beyond his familiar black and white into pink, ochre, grey and sandy. The lyricism and poetry of thick brushstrokes over silkscreen, spraypaint, and stencils make the works closer to expressionism than to pop or conceptual. Indeed, at moments they reminded me more of Philip Guston's early expressionist works and at other times verging into impasto with their thick build up of paint on a fragile surface.

Christopher Wool, Untitled, 2018

Most of these paintings are reworkings, rewritings, modifications of Wool's earlier works. He takes old editions and in a process of erasure, addition, digital modification, creates entirely new works that are also deep with self-referentiality and self-replication. As if to announce his need to rethink, repeat and simultaneously erase, or make something entirely new of what already exists, Wool has crossed out earlier signatures and dates on the prints and re-inscribed with new date and signature. Such recycling is both like a dance that circles back on an earlier work, and a starting again, revealing obsessions and an announcement that "this is how I have developed as an artist."

Christopher Wool @ Gagosian
Installation

There is also a noticeable theme of doubling, mirrors, repetition and copying being explored in the works on exhibition. Works such as a series of Untitled black oil and inkjets on paper from 2022 explore two halves of the same, though the shapes differ. It is as Wool has folded the print in the middle and pressed the paint across the fold. In other works in which different modes of paint application layer the paper, the lines between two halves are sketchier, but nevertheless visibler. At still other times, coils and curls are painted over the two halves of a page as if to create a shadow between one and the other, though it's not clear which is the object and which the shadow. In a further repetition, the winding, twisting coils of industrial materials made into sculptures can be seen as mirroring the paintings on the wall. 

Christopher Wool, Untitled, 2021

As mentioned, also on display at Grosvenor Hill are Wool's winding and coiling sculptures. Coils and loops and twists and turns echoing those made with spray guns underneath paint on the paintings are realized in three dimensions and placed on the gallery floor. The sculptures are fashioned out of found copper-plated steel and bronze. The twists, turns, and knots made me think of the confusion of my mind, moving in multiple different directions, following different rhythms and coming together in a poetic ambiguity. Sitting somewhere between industrially produced and hand made (with welding and obviously shaped), the sculptures are an enigma. But, their communication with the repainted monotypes gives them a sense of a whole they might not have on their own. 

As the press release for the exhibition put it so nicely, Wool is an artist pushing at the edges of abstraction. What wasn't mentioned, however, is his fascination with industrial materials, fabrication, waste, and all the processes between manufacture and demolition that have become so familiar in the twentieth century. I managed to see the Christopher Wool exhibition on its final day, and I am only sorry that I didn't go earlier and get the word out so that more people could have enjoyed it.  

Copyright Images Gagosian Gallery

Luc Delahaye, Le Bruit du Monde @ Jeu de Paume

Luc Delahaye, Taxi, 2016

After years of looking at Luc Delahaye's photographs, Luc Delahaye. le Bruit du Monde gives an opportunity to understand them. My long held ignorance of the Delahaye's photography may come from my own short sightedness that led, in turn, to a struggle to see the tension in the large format documentary works. Alternatively, it could be that the current exhibition at the Jeu de Paume gives a wonderful overview of his oeuvre, particularly highlighting his transition from documentary to art photographer. Seeing all the work in one place, Delahaye's search for "truth" and "reality" of the image across his career not only coheres the oeuvre, but reveals his multi-pronged approach. 

Luc Delahaye, The Milosevic Trial, 2002

What I appreciated in the early photographs in exhibition, particularly those that I had not seen before, was the discord between the space and the actions taking place therein. For example, the emotional void of the banal space in which Slobodan Milosevic's trial takes place. The bloody brutality of his crimes is nowhere to be seen in the trial room, thus creating a puzzling photograph that makes us take a closer a look, thinking that we might have missed something. Or witness the discrepancy between the darkened space and George W Bush's speech to European Allies following the end of the Gulf War. In the speech, Bush emphasized lasting peace in the Middle East and the end of conflict in Gaza as being within reach. Delahaye's darkened hall screams doubt: a doubt that has become a reality in the twenty years since the photograph was taken. 

Luc Delahaye, George Bush at Concert Noble, 2005

While, from the beginning, Delahaye's photographs have always manipulated reality—how can a photograph do otherwise—as the 2000s wore on, Delahaye turned more frequently to "composed photographs." These works are made of multiple images, to capture a reality or truth that is inherent to events before the camera. Delahaye removes the distortions of photography to make images closer to how we see the world. Nevertheless, the reality that he creates is never the one seen by a photograph, or the human eye. There is always a marked out of frame, the person doing the shooting, the bomb from which people are running, the man who is shot, do not appear in the image. We only ever see the results and traces of disaster. The depiction of the aftermath simply draws attention to the reality beyond the frame, that which is invisible to the eye.

Luc Delahaye, Les Pillards, Port-au-Prince, 2012

Delahaye sees the world through disaster eyes. Death, corruption, war and violence everywhere, greed and power running riot. Among the works on view are his black and white diary photographs in which he takes pictures of everything in his day. In these, we see images taken from newspapers, with figures such as Barack Obama, paintings, sculptures, Nicolas Sarkozy. No matter the content of the image, it's difficult to see them as about anything but power, and thus, continuing the violence. A photograph of Gerhard Richter's September painting is a typical Delahaye image - the aftermath of unspeakable violence, the tower spewing smoke, many times removed in a photograph of a painting of television images. So yes, Delahaye's work is about violence and the disasters of the world that we are living in, but it is also about the way that we see these events, and we are left asking, "what is the truth that lies behind them?" Both the events and the images. 

Luc Delahaye, Les Témoins, 2016

Finally, in one of the most exquisite works on display at the Jeu de Paume, Delahaye's Les Témoins, 2016 depicts inkjet print stills from a video recorded in February 2016 at a morgue in the city hospital in Jenin in the occupied West Bank. The video showed the ritual cleansing of three young Palestinian bodies following their attack on Israeli police in Jerusalem. In Delahaye's piece, we see hands laid over a chest, hands falling to a side, hands coming together, and in the middle, the head and shoulders of a body, taken from below. The reference is clear: the christ like imagery, and the practice of cleaning and praying for the dead as it is described in the bible. The coming together of the women to send the body off to the Lord. Of course, Delahaye's interest in the religious symbolism is, once again, around violence and death.

Sean Scully, Blue @ Thaddaeus Ropac, Marais

Sean Scully, Night Sea, 2025

Walking into Thaddaeus Ropac's main space in the Marais gallery feels like stepping into an oasis of still blue water. Blue is given new life in Scully's otherwise familiar squares and rectangles. Blue is a colour that comes with a long history in art, loaded with signs of wealth and opulence thanks to Lapis Lazuli, an escape into nature—skies, oceans, rivers and mountains—and Picasso's fall into melancholy in his blue period. Under Scully's brush, blue takes on a complexity, flowing from material to imaginative, human made to nature, evoking calm to agitation. The exhibition is quiet, lulling, and as indicated by Scully's verse printed on the vestibule gallery wall, poetic.

Sean Scully, Blue, Installation @ Thaddaeus Ropac

Standing in the centre of the small exhibition in which three 70' x 70' oil on copper paintings sit along three walls respectively, while being lulled by the feeling of lapping waves and gently rippling waters, I kept wondering, how many variations are there on the colour blue? And, can blue be grey and green, sometimes maroon and black? Certainly, for Scully, they are. What happens when blue moves closer to red, or white or black are added to make blue gesture in ways that it might not otherwise? In Scully's paintings, blue deepens its expression, lyricism, and effusion of serenity.

Sean Scully, Wall Blue Blue, 2025

The nine paintings in this exhibition are unique, and in turn, every square and rectangle within a single work is different from the next. Not only is the colour of each different, but the brushstrokes are sometimes horizontal, at others vertical, and still others, both. On occasion the stroke turns, swerves, returns, starts again, but always within the form of the given square or rectangle. The paint moves fast across the copper support, in one stroke of the hand, or multiple. The speed of oil paint on copper fills a blue field with energy and movement, but never interferes with the tranquility of the whole.

Sean Scully, Wall Cobalt White, 2025

For Scully, paintings always begin from a place, a place in memory, a place he has been, a place in the world. The squares and rectangles within each work remind of the patterns given to us in the built environment, and also nature. In the small catalogue accompanying the exhibition we see Scully's photographs of two such places: blue doors, slatted wooden walls. Having seen the photographs, it becomes impossible to see anything but these walls and doors in the paintings. For me, without reading the titles of the paintings, without seeing the images on which they are based, the intense blue is about water: the cool and inviting worlds of fresh water, a sea at rest. But it is a body of water filled with emotion and passion, feeling, running, and at times, unsettled. 

Bridget Riley, Point de départ @ Musée d'Orsay

Bridget Riley, Cataract 2, 1967

This small exhibition, tucked away in an upstairs gallery at Musée d'Orsay, is a gem. I have to be honest and admit that I have never seen a solo exhibition of Bridget Riley's painting and art work, and likewise am no expert on Op Art. The good news is that my lack of knowledge meant that the exhibition was eye-opening, in more ways than one.

Bridget Riley, Straight Curve, 1963

Riley has often discussed the influence of Seurat's pointillism on her work, particularly, his ability to capture light and shadow through line, his balayé technique and the optical effects of both for the viewer. Seurat was a painter who was interested in how the viewer sees, how to create a harmonious frame through laws of colour and contrast and the ability of colour to irradiate such that the eye perceives light and shadow. The current Riley exhibition expertly demonstrates how she extrapolates his intention, does away with the representational, and elevates painting to an experience of vision through looking at abstract works. Placing some of the Musée d'Orsay's Seurat paintings, sketches, and drawings next to Riley's sketches and fully-rendered paintings was thus not only illuminating, but fully convinced of Seurat as inspiration for the British artist.

Bridget Riley, Untitled, 1979

Standing before these paintings, we quickly recognize that they anticipate us as viewers, playing with our eyes as they move. It's difficult to focus on a single spot because there are no details, just shapes that appear and disappear as we move our eyes around and over the picture plane. Riley's meticulously conceived and executed lines and shapes dance and vibrate, dancing before our eyes. Over time, it's not that something becomes revealed, but that we can no longer look, and must turn away as the painting gives us a headache. At least, this was my experience. The most sophisticated of the works on display do not even need us to move our eyes, but rather, we hold our eyes still when standing in front of a work such as Cataract 2 and the lines and curves vibrate like waves on the ocean, of their own accord. 

Installation View

As is often the case with single artist exhibitions, Bridget Riley, Point de départ offers insight into the complexity and meticulousness, the conceptual sophistication of the artist's work. But it also helped me to see Seurat's paintings from a new perspective. When looking at a painting such as Seurat's Bathers at Asnières, 1884, our attention is fully focussed on the curvature of the backs of the boys on the grass, remembering Seurat's use of white and colour and scrambled brushstrokes to create hazy limits between figure and environment. Next to Riley, Seurat's curves become fascinating, rippling from canvas to canvas, from thenineteenth century painting to the twentieth century abstraction. And when juxtaposed with the Riley paintings influenced by Seurat's The Circus, the harmony and gaity created through opposite colours becomes writ large across Seurat's painting. 

Bridget Riley, Blue Landscape, 1959

As might be expected with a Bridget Riley show, this exhibition is a treat for the eyes. Light and shadow, curves and movement create paintings that dance for us, perform for our eyes, giving us cause to remember the deceptions of vision, the fact that nothing sits still in this world. We are reminded that our eyes operate in a particular way, our retina creating the changing colours and movements, shadows where there is only colour. And maybe in the end, we will ask ourselves if we are seeing things, if things are really as they appear. All this in paintings that are intellectual, revealing, and as relevant today as they were fifty years ago. 

Tyler Mitchell @ Musée Européen de la Photographie

Tyler Mitchell, Ancestors, 2021

I was excited to see Tyler Mitchell's exhibition at the Musée Européen de la Photographie. Mitchell is a young photographer who has enjoyed a meteoric rise to renown, thanks in large part by a photograph of Beyoncé for the cover of Vogue. The work on exhibition in Paris ranges from film, through portrait photographs and landscapes, to what I will call, memory works in which he places old family photographs on mirrors. These photographs are  particularly sophisticated in their creation of reflective visions that simultaneously look back to Mitchell's own history and draw the present viewer into this history. 

Tyler Mitchell, Riverside Scene, 2021

There is a lot of staging in Mitchell's photographs: it is possible to see that he has spent a long time putting together the mise-en-scène of the image, creating carefully crafted photographs made to look realist. In particular, the portrait paintings with their curtains and backgrounds, poses and performances display the process. The people's poses are often playful and relaxed, with no sense of threat or indication of oppression or a violent history. Of course, this is the point; the figures have taken back the centre of the frame, the look at the viewer, and the narrative told by an image. They are now the protagonists of their own story where once African Americans were excluded from history. The landscape photographs are also powerful because of their appropriation of the pastoral landscape format, inserting African Americans into a space that is not, as Manet reminded us over a century ago, divorced from history as painters such as Claude Lorraine and Nicolas Poussin would have us believe.

Tyler Mitchell, Wish This Were Real, 
Installation

Some of the most powerful photographs were those in which he uses mirrors. A man swimming in a local waterhole reflects a staged portrait of two men that hangs on an opposite wall, one sitting, the other seemingly smoothing down the backgroumnd. Next to the reflected portrait, what looks like a waterlogged object in a small black and white photograph reminds the viewer that these same waters were used for disposing of bodies and erasing traces of violence against the likes of the men in the larger photograph. The man's liberty to swim has been hard won over the course of history. In another photograph, two women, perhaps mother and daughter fix their hair in a mirror, a mantlepiece filled with old photographs of ancestors sits in the foreground. The photograph suggests that the stories of generations are woven into the daily rituals and routines in the present. Metaphorically, the photograph also reminds us that the people remembered on the mantelpiece are always in the foreground of daily life. 

Tyler Mitchell, Untitled. Blue Laundry Line, 2019

Ultimately, while I enjoyed seeing this young photographer searching for ways to represent his people with dignity, joy, and grace, the narrative was a familiar one, putting African Americans into the position so long assumed by white people. Taylor's intention is noble, but the message is not new. With his exploration of different genres, styles, and photographic techniques, the exhibition shows that Mitchell is still searching for his own visual language. The ancestor photographs were lovely, the landscapes interesting with their layers of art history, and the portrait-style works were colourful and bright. So, in short, Mitchell has a promising future, and it will be interesting to see where his aesthetic settles. 

Images copyright the artist and Gagosian

Berlinde de Bruyckere, Need @ Galerie Continua

Berlinda de Bruyckere, Need, 2025

Berlinde de Bruyckere's exhibition at Galerie Continua in the Marais is an absolute must see, standing out from plethora of great exhibitions in Paris this Autumn. The work arouses a complexity of emotional and visceral responses with its raw, confrontational sensuality. Wax sculptures of legs below the knee, discoloured skin, aging toenails, cloaked in animal hide, covered in tufts of hair, placed under a bell jar, standing on an old table. A piece such as City of Refuge I (2023), like much of her work, is repulsive and fascinating, clearly fabricated, yet hauntingly real, too close for comfort, yet intimately familiar, sequestered inside a bell jar. The fleshy, disintegrating limbs, body flanks, and sculptures of branches that could also be legs, are sinewy and seductive, pulling us both closer in and forcing us, unwillingly, to step back.

Berlinde de Bruyckere, City of Refuge I (2023)

Need, the title of the exhibition itself is provocative, suggesting desire, compulsion, the craving for physical intimacy, and the repugnance of the body in all its nakedness. And yet, the sculptures are also like bodies, discovered after a long time, rotting, in the cellar after being dismembered by a serial killer. In this sense they cry danger and a ghostly presence of an unknown, but intriguing past, haunted by death. The need of an internal, living disequilibrium together with that of a death awaiting explanation, are pressed together under the bell jars. Their apparently aging plinths and tables making the forms everyday, familiar. In spite of their rich sensuousness, their provocation of much more than sight, they maintain a mystery and something never able to be explained.

Berlinde de Bruyckere, Need, 2025

Many of the limbs, slices of flesh, or whatever they are, are bound in string, like meat, ready to be sold, eaten, put in the oven. In this, they remind of Rembrandt's Slaughtered Ox, 1655. But because they are also always on a little plinth, not hanging from meat hooks, the objects function differently. That said, while not on exhibition at Galerie Continua, de Bruyckere has made works that are hung from hooks, as if in an abattoir. But the sculptural objects on display at Galerie Continua, looking like slices of flesh, draped in an exotic fabric, again, make them something to revere, giving them a strange and rare beauty. 

Placing the "specimens" of an unknown origin under glass domes of course complicates their significance. This familiar way to display precious and delicate objects signals that they need to be protected, kept. The bell jar which traditionally maintained a controlled environment, also says that the exotic is something worth looking after. Simultaneously, on display, they draw our eye to their importance as something to be looked at, specimens under glass to be ogled. Today, the glass dome also works very well to create a shine on its surface, making the object underneath appealing, valuable, to be looked at, as if to arouse our need to consume.

Berlinde de Bruyckere, Need VII, 2025

Also on exhibition in Need are a number of pieces hung on the wall, looking like wood, merged with flesh, as if the two had grown together. The objects are always in heavy old wooden frames, often with a mirrored backing, or pieces of paper stuck to the back. They reminded me of fragments found in a forest, still alive, or dead and being preserved using flesh for unknown reasons. Other pieces were titled, Plunder, Madonna, and Archangel — suggesting religious connotations, such as sacrifice and worship. 

Berlinde de Bruyckere, Need VII, 2025

Torn cloth in heavy frames likewise reminds of liturgical cloaks, resonating with the drapery around pieces of flesh. For the 2024 Venice Biennale, de Bruyckere installed an exhibition in the Abbazia di San Giorgio Maggiore, bringing presence to the pastness and fragility of those involved in the Christian narrative. The fragility and tenderness, vulnerability and suffering of fallen trees, translated into wax by de Bruyckere are nevertheless not referring to institutional doctrine, but rather, the sculptures put human emotion and need at the centre of a religious experience. Even though the religious references are more subtle in the exhibition at Galerie Continua, the power of the emotions elicited by de Bruyckere's sculptures is similarly overwhelming. 

Minimalism @ Bourse de Commerce

Robert Ryman, Untitled, 2010-2011

The Pinault collection's current exhibition, in spite of its title, is not so much an exhibition of minimalist art as it is a display of works that embrace the themes and concerns of minimalist art from the 1970s onwards. Among a handful of what we know to be minimalist works are an array of art privileging light, surface, the monochromatic, balance, the grid and so on. Of the several of works made under the minimalist umbrella, a sculpture by Donald Judd, a lovely Brice Marden encaustic, Number (1972), and some Japanese Mono-ha pieces stood out.

Robert Ryman, District, 1985

For me, the highlight of the exhibition was seeing Pinault's collection of Robert Ryman's paintings, most of which I would consider to be his least minimalist works. The one piece which might be described as minimalist is the sculptural District (1985) from the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam. On walking into the Bourse, the first works, hung along the right wall, were Ryman's final Untitled (2010-2011) paintings. White vibrates over blue, red, yellow, green, orange and purple. White is never as pure as it makes out, white is never as pure as we think it is. For Ryman, white is tinged with blue, even when only whisps of blue can be seen on the canvas as the first of his Series paintings from 2004 also on display in the first room. For Ryman, blue is the DNA of white. The frame and the edges are as important as the center of the painting, so in the Untitled (2010-2011) works, it doesn't surprise to see white falling out of the square, the frame a misshapen orange and green and blue. Coloured ground and a trapezoid shape of white, edges of white on coloured backgrounds remind of and may be influenced by Rothko, the space of the picture in a single colour influenced by Malevich. Thus, this late series might be seen as an ode to the history of twentieth century abstraction, from black square to colour field.

Agnes Martin, Blue-Gray Composition, 1962

A small painting by Agnes Martin, Blue-Gray Composition, in the upstairs galleries was exquisite, like nothing I had ever seen Martin paint. In it, she considers horizontal lines, interacting with a vertical line down the middle, a window of white at the centre, as if it is an opening for light falling through space. I have always thought of Martin's pencil lines as far from minimalism because they are hand drawn, tending to slight falters as the hand moves down and across the canvas. Martin's works are about looking, how we engage with a painting, seeing it from afar, then moving forward to be met by a completely different painting. They are delicate and fragile, intimate like the line drawn in pencil, quite at odds with the industrial constructions of Donald Judd and painted geometrical shapes by Frank Stella's.

On Kawara, Today, Sept. 13, 2001.

 

 

The vitrines around the inner circumference are filled with a selection of On Kawara's Today series in which he paints a date in white on black background, accompanied by a box with a newspaper clipping from the given date. The works are mesmerizing because we read the newspaper clippings as showing what is important to that culture on that day. For example, on September 13, 2001, an article from The New York Times bemoans the chaos brought to the stock exchange thanks to the collapse of the Twin Towers. The accompanying image of burning twin towers is horrifying, making the responses of the stock exchange as reported in the NYT disturbing. The newspaper cuttings in boxes are also fascinating for their historical value. It seems so long ago that newspaper clippings would be archived in a box.

Meg Webster installation in the rotunda

The rotunda is occupied by installations of San Francisco artist Meg Webster. Sensuous sculptures made of natural fabrics, materials and foliage. The deliciously soft scent of honey emanating from a wax piece with traces running down an uneven surface, textured and tempting touch, was compelling. There was something perfect about the shapes made from salt, red ochre, and foliage, again engaging senses other than sight. Webster is interested in experimenting with how these landforms resonate with their materials, reminding us also that the structures of the natural world are also very much fabricated.

Susumu Koshimizu, From Sculpture to Surface—A Tetrahedron, 1972/2012

In the upstairs galleries, the works became more adventurous, departing from the minimalist aesthetic, often through introducing natural materials. Although it was interesting to see works by Hans Haacke, Dorothea Rockburne, and Jackie Winsor, these later examples of post-minimalist installation and sculpture didn't seem to belong as forcefully as others (such as those of Meg Webster). Ultimately, the exhibition offers a sweep through some key minimalist themes, at times, at the expense of coherence. That said, Pinault's collection is so impressive, and the fact that a single collector has work enough to fill four floors with minimalist-related art is mindboggling.

Abstract Erotic @ The Courtauld, London

Alice Adams, Big Aluminum 2, 1965

This small exhibition at The Courtauld was important on a number of levels. First, the fact that the 1960s work of three women artists, Louise Bourgeois, Eva Hesse, and Alice Adams was exhibited together is always to be appreciated. Following on from that, each of the artists was engaged in practices that appropriated the materials of industrial modernity and pushed them beyond their limits to create sensuous discourses on the body. Moreover, their focus was on the body as  sensed, not touched, desired and desiring without oppression, and sexual without abuse. Put differently the work of Louise Bourgeois, Alice Adams and Eva Hesse takes the intransigence of industrial materials and forms soft, provocative curves marked by rich texture and resonance. 

Installation of Louise Bourgeois sculptures

It was interesting to see the artists using latex and rubber as medium. The material with its elasticity, organic properties was a provocative alternative to the hard edged plastics, steel and other industrial materials that characterised the hard edged masculinity of minimalism in the 1960s. They were also using latex for making artistic sculptures, a material that was at the time, marketed for children's toys and other household goods. Thus, the use of latex enabled the artists to push the language of art in multiple directions.

Louise Bourgeois, Fillette (Sweeter Version), 1968

As mentioned, one of the most striking aspects of all their practices was the exploration of the body through new and then undiscovered approaches. Bourgeois playful forms that embrace many levels of ambiguity were especially provocative. Are pieces such as her well known Fillette male or female? Vulnerable or trapped? Protected or isolated? Bourgeois is mistress of blurring boundaries, including the distinction between the inside and outside of the body, well ahead of the times. In works such as Avenza, I was also reminded me of the Alien mothers eggs in the film series, eggs laid and hatched on her own without a male. In spite of the binding of male and female, there are moments in Bourgeois work where women have the ultimate power. Bourgeois's art is truly transgressive years before the fluidity of gender and sexuality became front and center of the public discourse. 

Louise Bourgeois, Avenza, 1968-69

Eva Hesse's sculptures are radical and transgressive in a different way. If Bourgeois shifts between opposites, Hesse takes us inside the body, to organs and the ooey gooey amorphous stuff that is not conventionally seen. 

Eva Hesse, Inside II, 1967

I was also touched by the intimacy to the works, whether created in fleshy fabrics or harsh modern fabrics such as steel fencing, chains, rope and chicken wire. The shapes and sculpted objects push these industrial materials beyond our understanding of how they were made to be used. Adams' Big Aluminium II made with chain-link fencing is a prime example. Like many of the forms on exhibition in Abstract Erotic, Hesse's creation of an organic form out of inorganic matter is a radical inversion and turning inside out on multiple levels. And yet, works in metals and other industrial fabrics also use the inherent qualities of the materials: malleable, ductile, tensile, tough, and elastic. It is simply that the shapes and objects are not those we associate with these materials. Perhaps it is the multiple levels of unconventionality in the works and the exhibition as a whole that are the most significant elements of this unique exhibition.