A Letter to Tre.
Tre, it’s uncertain what it is about painting at
present—the supposed figural re-emanations circling into their
near-to-centennial influences of magic realism and surrealism—that feels so
lacking, as bodies and looping presentations of a real object in a stretch-ed non-real
environment persist through Now painting. Tre, it’s true that some painters
have retreated to fresco!, and this is charming, but most have stayed
themselves in the highly-refined and excessive matter usage that drives a well-made
painting, or I mostly see visual surfaces where so much is lacking because
their mental reach is compromised by their physical. Faces and objects have
lost all of their myth, Tre, and I cannot believe they simply look like faces!
or objects apathetically driven together, and so much seems to go to waste because
the material of these bodies is less favored to the materials—often so un-considered
or considered only to a restrictive guide of painting materials—that harm its
obviously eager intimacy. Darkness and
obscurity of reference are seen as rites to ground oneself in a surreal environment,
but these are the archives’ playthings and turn the self-proclaimed pariah into
the preacher loved by his choir. There
is great harm, here, Tre, and I lament to look at so much of this painting,
because I find no enviable landscapes or definitive notions of artists looking
outside of thine archive: what do you think?
Let’s say, I went to The Whitney Museum of American Art, and saw the
Ground Floor Painting show of young-er new york artists—did you hear there is a
show somewhere in the world called Surreal?—and I could not even breath
surrounded by such claustrophobic painting. You would think these people paint
within some cloistered monastery where only conservation and piety to an
increasingly ill understood past were taught. Okay, Tre, I’ll admit, I only browsed your
essay on magic realism as post colonialist discourse, as it was very tiring to
not have any action in this writing. Oh,
also, I felt that the objective of your writing was to convince me that every
revelation of imagination I have had lacks any love or romance because I have
always expected to own that revelation and experience. Tre, do not take away my
experiences and excitements of adventure, because I am owed this trajectory
known as life, and I determine what is beautiful about it: you never noted that
in your essay, Tre, ha! so what do you think now? Tre, what do you even know
about painting? Oh, do not bring up European sketch-es now, that is so dull of
you and you only ever want sex bubbling up out of your canvas. Okay, let’s talk
for real for a moment.Tre, speak to me about suicide.
Yes, yes, of course the suicide note and the pencil are the only two objects that matter. One is a statement of undoing Oneself, one is the statement of founding Oneself. How then can painting ever hope to hold the same equity of excitement when pared with that mouth-watering juiciness? Don’t tell me again that sculpture is more important, Tre, that is complete bullshit, because you can only arrive to good sculpture through a perfected understanding of painting. Oh, ok, you’re right that it’s the one artform that says the most and wins, but you do agree that painting is the originator, right? Oh, and this sculptural painting we’ve seen lately? Good, I’m glad we agree on that at least, its perfected tears and cuts are quite lovely like your grandpa’s stubble you enjoyed those youthful mornings, or, okay, if we must say, like Giotto’s angels peeling back the cerulean fakeness to reveal the sexed reds of heaven and glory. Ackk, enough with the simile, Tre, just tell me what you mean! You are referring to those two stoics of the seraphim in Giotto’s Last Judgment of Padua, right?, peeling slightly back the folds for the great reveal—hehe an apocalypse—that totally reclaimed painting as an artistic act of correct judgment and necessary decision on what is beautiful? Tre, do you think every painting wants to be adoringly consumed by that which is before it or that which is after it? Do you think red chases blue, or does blue chase after red? I see no chasing in any of these figures. Chasing only exists on the fringes—whether its your paper or your frame kissing and revealing so many of your folds that are unaccounted for by history or thine eyes—and god damn babe they’re telling me to drink you. Tre,
