The Yorkshire Sculpture Park is located in a wonderfully bucolic setting on the outskirts of Wakefield. The design of the Park dates back 200 years - it is beautiful and vast. I visited the Park a couple of weeks ago with the Lancashire Artists' Network to see the David Nash exhibition, which is on display through February 2011. Before the visit, I wasn't greatly familiar with Nash's work. Luckily for me, the exhibition is stuffed to the gills with his work and provided me with a robust overview of his repertoire. I immediately fell in love with the works and I had to ask myself why. Several weeks ago I had posted two blogs about Picasso and Yves Klein after seeing their work during my visit to the Tate Liverpool. I have a great deal of respect and appreciation for both artists, yet my response was quite critical; so, while standing in front of David Nash's piece titled "Charred Cross Egg," I had to ask myself what it was about his work that was so pleasing? 


Nash works predominantly with wood, both living and dead. Interested in maintaining the integrity of the material, he opts to use natural methods when adding color to dead wood or shaping live wood. Organic and ominous, his forms immediately demand your attention. I think it would be difficult for anyone to face a David Nash sculpture and simply turn away; it requires contemplation. It invades your space in a way that's simultaneously confrontational and subtle. It reminded me of Richard Serra's work in the way you are required to interact with it. And maybe that's part of why I responded to it in the way I did; his sculptures are inviting. It was almost like being introduced to someone - a stranger who is somehow familiar - and having them invite you in to their house to have a conversation. I had a difficult time walking away.

I pondered the familiarity of Nash's work - intriguing given this was my first time experiencing it.  Perhaps it’s because I could clearly see in his work what I admire in other artists; his designs were often reminiscent to that of Isamu Noguchi and Henry Moore; his choice to work with and manipulate natural materials reminded me of Andy Goldsworthy. There was a section of the exhibition that focused on works he completed as a response to the tragedy of 9-11. These works were grim - bold marks in black and gray spoke to the heaviness of the event, yet the grace of the line succeeded in capturing the ironic beauty present in the face of such horrific destruction (as a side note, I recall watching a program several years after the event that talked about that very issue; during the program a woman recounted a story of how she and her nine year old son were watching the events unfold on TV; her son remarked on the beauty of the clouds rising from the towers - he couldn't look away.). This bold line-work made me think of the architect portrayed in Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead who threw down his drawings with the same air of confidence and decisiveness.   

 

Even after writing all of these contemplations, I still don't know if I could definitively pinpoint what it is about David Nash's work that I respond so strongly to – there’s just something mysterious and ethereal about it.  Almost like visiting the ruins of an ancient city.  I jotted down a number of quotes by the artist regarding his work and I think he sums it up best.  Here’s what Nash had to say in 1967 about his piece titled “Archway”: "I learned with these constructions about something developing its own logic that the viewer can enter into. It could have been an integrity and truth that one could feel. And also how a worked object developed its own scale - how it could go beyond the material, go beyond the colour, to have a sense of its own scale which the beholder entered into, which is actually different from its physical scale."

 

...saw a woman smiling the most warm & inviting smile as she walked down the street.  She made me want to be a better person.

...got a blister in between my toes (on both feet!) from choosing the wrong pair of shoes - ouch!

...saw a young woman wearing very cool shoes - I think she may be a Neo-Hippie.

...saw an old copule linked arm in arm slowly making their way down the street. 

...listened to the large rustle of trees as I walked the dog.  It was an enormous sound.  Very comforting and warm.

...missed my friends.

I've mentioned before in my blog about being an old hand at moving.  What I've not mentioned is just how many times I've undergone that process which was a lot.  By the time I was 11, I had moved ten times and attended six schools (seven if you count pre-school).  Everyone has experienced being the "new kid" at some point or another in their life and as such will identify with what I'm talking about here.  Being the new kid on the first day was two-fold (at least) - there was the excitement of going to school and anxiety of not knowing anyone else.  (Other more severe anxieties would unveil themselves later when I would realize that I was among the poorest kids in school, which automatically relegated me to a particular clique, and didn't come to school donning new clothes.)   It is a very strange feeling to be a stranger on the first day of school.  It's not as if I could just fall in quietly alongside the rest of the group and blend in with the crowd, quietly introducing myself to someone and asking to play with them at recess because I was always introduced.  At one school I remember the teacher telling the whole class that I was new and chose someone to be my "friend" and to lead me around and show me the school.  The good thing for me was she was friendly; the bad thing was she was a thief and ended up getting me into unwanted mischief later in the year.  At another school I had to walk into the classroom well after they'd started in the morning, by this time aware well in advance that I'd be walking in wearing my hand-me-down clothes.  Everyone stared at my as I walked down the aisle, all the way to the back, to find my seat.  And since I had red hair - well, that was just a wonderfully built-in fodder for the teasing brigade.  The heart-pounding and flushed face is, to this day, very much seared into my brain. 

Since then I've continued to move and have been the new kid in many a new environment.  I'm used to it, but still loathe it...I just have better skills to deal with it now.  The "new kid syndrome" is worse at some times than at others depending on the situation and the environment.  And since moving to this country, I face that scenario on nearly a daily basis.  (I look forward to the day when it's a monthy, or even weekly occurance.)  And yesterday, it really was like being a kid again.  It was my first day in the printmaking studio known as ArtLab.  I was accepted just last week and have signing on at the end of the current session (a calculated move).  The first day is pretty standardly introductory, but the feeling is immense when all of the members of ArtLab are puttering away printing in all types of forms all over the place.  Because I had to be given something of an orientation and had to wait for the staff to find time to do that between helping their students, I found myself just standing there with nothing to do.  I put on my brave face and made small chit-chat with some people and was awkwardly in the way of others.  I finally found a small space, mostly out of the way, to work in and decided to do some color studies in my sketchbook for what I hope will be my next series of work.  It felt better, but still amazingly awkward.  I tried to be a big girl and stay the whole time, but I kind of felt like fuck it - I'd gone through all of this before and I didn't feel I had to suffer it just for the sake of it.  When I made that decision to leave early I was suddenly filled with an amazing sense of confidence and power - something I lacked in my youth - because I could call the shots and I could decide when to stay and when to leave.  I know it'll get a bit easier with each time I'm there and there will eventually be a point when I am in my own creative zone, feeling good about what I'm producing and hopefully engaging in meaningful discussions, rather than topical nonsense.  It just takes time.  Like everything in life.  "Baby steps to the bus, Gill, baby steps to the bus." 

Several years ago I found, while living at my grandmother's house when she was alive, her war ration book from WWII.  The book was in her maiden name and still had many of the coupons or vouchers intact.  It was an amazing find and it meant so much to me that my grandmother allowed me to have it.  The imagery found its way into several collages I've done in the past few years.  I got to thinking about the book today as I was formulizing a plan and sketching out some ideas for a new series of work.  I really wanted to screenprint some of the imagery as a background on some of the pieces.  This got me to wondering where I might have packed it for my move.  At that moment I had what felt like a weight in my gut and my face felt like it drained of all life - I couldn't recall packing it at all.  Then the horrifying realization that the book I used to store it in was gifted to the local charity shop back home.  Could it be there?  Would I have given the book away without looking through the pages?  Or maybe I didn't give it to the charity shop at all - maybe it's among the many items left in my aunt & uncle's basement.  Should I call the charity shop and ask them to look through their masses of items for the lost needle in the haystack?  Do I call my aunt & uncle? Do I just keep looking for awhile.  In a panic I looked in my digital folders to see if, by chance, I had happened to scan the image for future use.  No luck. 

It's lost.  There's nothing quite like that feeling of dread that accompanies such a realization.  I have a few more places to look, but after that the real investigation shall begin.  God, I feel like such an idiot - I could kick myself for my lack of foresite sometimes.  I'm hoping gramma is up there chuckling and is just playing a trick on me...perhaps I'll find them in the morning.  Keep your fingers crossed!

While visiting the Tate in Liverpool last week, I visited the Picasso: Peace and Freedom exhibition.  The visit re-awakened the love/hate relationship I have with the artist (ironic, given the subject of the exhibition).  The curation of the exhibit was fantastic and was exactly what you'd expect - a chronology of Picasso's own propoganda of peace during times of war and unrest set against the backdrop of his allegiance to the Commnist Party (irony again noted).  Perhaps this is the root of my issue with Picasso; not that he was an avid communist - and afterall that was pretty much the stylish flavor of the day (and I don't mean that disparigingly, just observationally) for numerous artists, actors and authors - but because he is so dichotomous.  Many of the works exhibited were those made famous in art history books for their misogynist theme; yet, the supporting text on the hanging gallery placards suggest that Picasso loved women (yes, he did!) and supported seveal women's causes, such as those against the abuse of women.  Interesting. 

As I'm typing this I'm still getting hung up on the communism thing.  I can understand why so many people were sucked into embracing such a social structure given the context of the times and I think were I alive during that time, I would be very inclined to embrace it as they did.  And there are times when I reflect upon its concept and I have a soft spot for it - in it's purest form.  This is what I can't reconcile: Picasso enjoyed working with pottery because it made him feel like he was one of the "working men".  Is it hypocrital if that position can be taken from his from his platform of fame and prosperity?  What's the modern term for this?  Suburban guilt or symdrome or something - middle class kids who wish they were poor, or mimic what they think it's like.  Poser would be an easier thing to say about it I guess.

And here's another thing: how can a man - so incredibly talented and insightful - be so prolifically average?  There's no doubt he's created a number of master works - but the man pumped out a lot of work that was, well, average.  But I get it - not every piece an artist makes is meant to be a finished masterpiece and galleries and museums have, I'm sure, acted as opportunists happy to get the slightest crumb leftover from a feast.  It just seems when you visit a museum, you tend to be overwhelmed with the average works instead of the master works.  Which wouldn't bother me if they were exhibited in the context with which they were made; maybe I have beef with the museums to glorify his "scraps".

I'm not sure I have a conclusion to my thoughts.  And I think that's good.  And I'll keep studying and loving his work...no matter how irritated I get with it.