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Posted by cypher on September 17, 2006, 3:29 pm
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http://www.thepanicartist.com/
This weekend I went to see the Robert Ballagh retrospective in the
Royal Hibernian Academy. I went to slay not to praise - and I saw
nothing that deterred me from this mission - in fact Ballagh's
paintings only strengthened my contempt. Ballagh is nearly a house hold
name in Ireland. Even those who don't know him, know his work - as he
designed the old Irish bank notes and many of the Irish stamps. Ballagh
emerged in the late 1960's as a self taught Photorealist cum Trompe
L'Oeil cum Pop artist. His work pilfered the grammar and technique of
far more talented and intelligent artists from David, Magritte,
Hockney, and his Irish contemporary Micheal Farrell.
Ballagh is working class to his core and would never let you forget it.
His paintings often featured him reading such tombs as The Communist
Manifesto or newspaper articles with headlines reporting the
unemployment rates. But don't imagine that his professed socialist
and Republican politics prevented him from making money or brown nosing
the establishment - because it didn't. In fact like most
politically minded individuals - power, and prestige is his goal, and
rhetoric only a means of attaining it.
If you have never seen a great painting in the flesh - lets say by
Goya, David or Hockney (all artists Ballagh has pastished) you might
not understand just how dead and lifeless Ballaghs art really is - but
if you have, then the deceitful and crude lifelessness of his work
becomes painfully obvious. The surface of Ballagh's paintings are as
dry and dead as a toe nail clipping. There is absolutely no need to
actually see his work in the flesh - all one sees close up is
airbrushing, stippling and blending of limp lifeless acrylic and oil
paint (that looks like acrylic paint). Ballagh's vision of reality is
as flat as a playing card and so his depictions of people often look as
real as one of those life size cut out photographs actors advertise
their films with - all surface and no depth. The retrospective was
also notable for the complete absence of drawings. Ballagh like most
photo-realists cannot draw - instead he merely traces, stencils and
projects. What one can say about his drawing as evidenced in the
paintings is that there is no inquiry into the nature or texture of
reality, merely a colouring in of outlines. This is one major
difference between Ballagh and Hockney his far greater English
contemporary - for Hockney really can draw with assured and elegant
skill.
You don't have to be a Northern Protestant or English victim of the
I.R.A. to feel utter revulsion at Ballagh's portrait of Gerry Adams
astride a mountain (yet another plagiaristic rip off, this time of
David Casper Friedrich). The conceit of both artist and
poiltican/terroist in this painting is literally gob smacking. But look
closer - is Gerry Adams just happy to see us or is that a gun in his
pocket! In fact I think its just one of many clumsy anatomical aspects
to Ballaghs art.
Ballagh despite his unwarranted success still feels aggrieved. His
writings pours scorn on Modern art and the Irish art establishment
which have not fallen to their feet in their praise of him. Of course
he's not alone in that. Every artist no matter how great - will
always have their critics - its unrealistic and immature to believe
other wise. But what is different about Ballagh is the way he makes
this anger the subject of many of his paintings. In one painting -
'Still Crazy After All These Year 2004'' he is seen from above in
his large house wearing a t-shirt with 'Fuck The Be grudgers'
emblazoned on it. Other paintings display Ballagh digging bog, posing
naked, or in political debate! I mean I am arrogant and conceited but
this guy fucking takes the biscuit! This contempt and self regard is
summed up for me in a painting of Ballagh at a doorway looking into the
country side, by his easel on the floor is a torn up poster of a
Picasso cubist portrait. The blinding metaphor being Ballagh's
preference for looking at nature not modern art. But subliminally the
message is that Ballagah is a talentless egomaniac who loathes Picasso
and modern art. And as for his pursuit of reality - it is as fake as
a Rolex watch on a market stall. Ballagh like a mocking bird seems to
think that if he can copy something (a photograph, a Lichtenstein, a
Pollock or a Picasso) he can prove his superiority. But all he really
proves is that he has absolutely no concept of artistic integrity or
style as a form of intellectual property unique to its maker (no matter
how simple its technical means can be duplicated by thieves). As you
may have gathered - if Ballagh were born in Russia in the 1930's he
would have been a socialist realist and a very successful one.
Political people who hold a utilitarian attitude to the world love art
like this - devoid of feeling, propagandist and dead to the real
complexity of the world and its interpretation.
Leaving Ballagh's dead canvases behind it was a refreshing relief to
look at the messy gestrual abstract oil paintings of Tim Hawkesworth.
But my relief quickly evaporated when I realized Hawkesworth's
paintings were nothing more than a incompetent miss-mash of Abstract
Expressionists like De Kooning, Cy Twombly and Joan Mitchell.
Before I left the R.H.A. I decided to check out the down stairs gallery
- what a lucky break! There I really did find paintings of great
beauty, complexity, intelligence and originality by Colin Martin. The
exhibition titled 'The Night Demesne' featured oil paintings of the
grounds of a country estate photographed with a flash at the dead of
night. The paintings variously depicted flower beds, a boat and a
peacock seen silhouetted against a lamp black night which shrouded
everything in the distance beyond the limited range of the camera's
flash. From a distance Martin's paintings looked like very elegant
contemporary photographs but coming up closer one realized they were in
fact lush oil painting on board. And what paintings they were! Martin
proved conclusively just how dim witted Ballagh's photo derived
paintings were in comparison. Unlike Ballagh's paintings, Martin's
were full of mystery, elegance, and superb mastery of colour, tone,
brushstrokes and composition. I would have quite happily have owned
three or four of these wonderfully emotive paintings and no doubt have
spent years looking and looking again at them. Where as there was
absolutely no need to view the Ballagh paintings in the flesh -
Martin's painting just had to be seen in the flesh! Otherwise the
range of painterly effects, subtle brushstrokes, rich colour (including
the skillful use of black one of the most difficult colours to use)
and sumptuous glossy feel of the oil paint would be utterly lost.
http://www.thepanicartist.com/
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