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Fantasies, Follies and Disasters: The Prints of Francisco de Goya

Wendy Woodhead — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 08:30:10 +0000

There is still chance to catch a glimpse into Manchester Art Gallery’s impressive collection of over 90 Goya prints. The Fantasies, Follies and Disasters exhibition has been running since August, with a new display of 30 prints on show from early this year. Displayed in Gallery 11, which usually hosts the small and changing exhibitions, the collection pays homage to Goya’s controversial yet widely-acclaimed three series of copper plate etchings: Los Caprichos (The Fantasies), Los Desastres della Guerra (The Disasters of War) and Los Disparates (The Follies) all produced between 1797 and 1824.

Francisco Goya (1746-1828) enjoyed a successful art career in his native Spain as the chief painter to Charles IV, and at one point as Director of Painting at the Spanish Royal Academy. Known as a prolific portraitist he painted many establishment figures of the age including the Duke of Wellington. Yet Manchester’s display observes how a more disaffected and political side of Goya emerged, and was celebrated, most notably after his death. A culmination of events including an illness, which left him significantly deaf in 1792, and mass disillusionment at the bloodshed following the Napoleonic invasion of Spain in 1808, led him to develop this fascinating artistic style. The intense scorn and political contempt Goya’s works show meant that following his death in 1828 they were judged too controversial to be published until finally in 1863-4.

The exhibit, while only small, is uniquely powerful because of the parallels it draws between the 19th and 21st centuries. The chief of these parallels is of course war, but other concurrent themes, which define both Goya’s work and our own modern cynicism, are those of cruelty, hypocrisy, corruption, deceit and satire.

On entering the exhibition you are first confronted with a wall of artwork inspired by Fantasies, Follies and Disasters, and created by 15-18 year olds from across Manchester. This introduction establishes a very innocent mindset from which to view Goya’s prints. Inside the main room the 30 prints line the four walls while in the very centre is a contemporary piece by Jake and Dinos Chapman in tribute to Goya’s etchings.

Known for their controversial modern art, ‘Disasters of War’ (1993) by the Chapman brothers is no exception. Inspired by the Goya collection a glass case features individual sculpted scenes replicated from Goya’s prints. It recalls a horrific battlefield of mutilations, hangings, famine and death. Like Goya’s work it reflects and makes visible the most barbaric and ridiculously inconceivable actions inflicted on and by civilisation. The smallness of each model is instantly captivating – as though observing a collection of toy soldier figurines – yet the intricacy and depth imbues the models with a more realistic intensity, bringing the horrors of the battlefield home and away, past and ongoing, to the relative safety of the art gallery.

Goya’s Los Caprichos (The Fantasies, 1797-9) satirises the hypocrisy and corruption of the social and political elite. The nobility, religious orders and establishment figures most commonly bear the brunt, yet Goya occasionally turns on the public for their gullibility, and to question aspects of humanity. In ‘Que Pico de Oro!’ (What a Golden Beak!) the public are mocked as they crowd round a parrot speaking from the lectern. The prints are deeply dark and graphic as the sinister and the ridiculous come together to create a sense of unease and unfamiliarity, which reflect the distortions of human civilisation. The caricatures are hideous and gnarled, often haggard and androgynous, while Goya also intersperses these with fantastical animals or humans bearing the faces of beasts. The surreal undercurrents surface through themes of witchcraft, fable and allegory, and are often based on Goya’s experiences. ‘Muchohay Quehupar’ (There is Plenty to Suck) was conceived after reading about two women who sacrificed their children to the devil. A gang of witches gather round a basket of mutilated babies at the forefront of the image, while bats cluster overhead.

Goya’s Los Desastres della Guerra (the Disasters) makes a significant leap to the surreal, where establishment figures are ridiculed under the guise of animals and beasts. Yet the Disasters series ends on a question of hope. The two etchings ‘Murio la Verdad’ (Truth Has Died) and ‘Si Resucitara?’ (Will She Rise Again?) show the virginal white of the female embodiment of Truth against a background of heavy grey etching. In the former Truth is being buried by monks and priests, with Justice mourning to the right, and a crucifix at the top centre of the print fading under the darkness of the scene. In the latter the whiteness of Truth shines forth from the foreground in possible resurrection, startling the gathering clerics, beasts and monsters. However, that the plate’s inscription is posed as a question illustrates Goya’s deeply ambiguous view of the future.

Goya exercises this imaginative leap more fully in Los Disparates (the Follies, 1815-1824). The final images on display are elevated from the bloodshed and agony of the former pictures and clearly question the absurdity of war and politics. There is a sense of the carnivalesque running throughout the images on display, but most notably in Los Disparates. ‘Los Eisacades’ (The Men in Sacks) shows a group of men bound in sacks and alludes to the pretence of madness at carnival time; in this way Goya hints at how the traditional carnival was at once a release and also a pressure-cooker of social ills. In ‘Dis Puntual’ (Sure Folly) a woman on horse back performs an acrobatic trick, yet the tightrope her horse walks across is flat on the floor, while the circus audience have their eyes closed to the truth. Goya moves on from the visceral reality of war to the ideas behind it: ideas about corruption, deception, infantile politics and repression that we are so familiar with in our modern day experiences of warfare and politics.

Being only small, the display is almost a snapshot of an exhibition, but it does its job in provoking thought and debate that is as relevant today as it was in the 19th century. Although there are some informative panels that accompany the prints, the images are open to interpretation simply because of their surreal and fantastical nature. It is this attitude of showing and not telling that the display does so well, and using just 30 prints makes it accessible and manageable. Moreover, the exhibition features an array of art by young people and an area where visitors can play with paper, pens and stampers to encourage the next generation of Bankys. The ability to interact with young people on these political and controversial issues demonstrates how, unlike Goya’s repressive society, the 21st century is a time when all voices should be heard. For me, the exhibition goes some way to answering Goya’s question: will Truth rise again?

Fantasies, Follies and Disasters: The Prints of Francisco de Goya

Manchester Art Gallery, Mosley Street, Manchester, M2 3JL

15 August 2009 – 25 July 2010

FREE

Open Tuesday – Sunday 10am – 5pm

Closed Mondays except Bank Holidays

See website for more information.

State of Play: 1984, Royal Exchange Theatre

Wendy Woodhead — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 13:45:01 +0000

State of Play: 1984, Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester, 24 Feb – 27 March

George Orwell’s 1984 is showing at the Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester until 27 March. The play never strays too far from the original text and is adapted from the novel by playwright, director and actor Matthew Dunster, who also directed the Exchange’s sinister production of Macbeth last year.

Overall it is an action-packed, darkly comic and sexually charged production, with relatively minimal props. Jonathan McGuinness’s Winston is convincing and impassioned, yet occasionally a little naïve. Likewise Caroline Bartleet is a confident Julia, but her at times strained performance betray her recent graduation from acting school. The cast are multi-talented and the acting is well choreographed. The play begins and ends with the ministry workers saluting and singing ‘Oceania I love you’ (which I unfortunately can’t get out of my head) to the faceless authority of the telescreens. About five of these transparent, lit-up frames are suspended from the ceiling in various positions and lowered throughout the performance when needed.

In spite of this minimalism, the Royal Exchange’s use of props are effective and more often than not their interpretations have been some of the most innovative I have seen in contemporary theatre. A battered bed, grubby sink, desk and telescreen are all that comprise Winston’s flat. When he is asked by his neighbour to have a look at her sink McGuinness instinctively whirls his own around to a new position at the other end of the stage and cranes his head underneath, to symbolise a scene shift; spinning it back to its original position when he has finished. The actors are prepared to enact the scene changes as part of their role, and that is the great thing about the Exchange. The first time this happens you notice it, but afterwards you begin to view the performance as more fluid and sequential than that of a fixed stage play with clearly defined acts.

Yet despite a sparseness of scenery and set, there is an impressive surprise awaiting the second half. The raised platform, which denotes the stage, is lifted to reveal a shallow, white-tiled rectangle, resembling the bottom of a swimming pool. This is all that is needed to signify the stark horror of the cell and Room 101, where Winston is later physically and mentally tortured and has his face strapped to a tube containing several very hungry rats – his most unimaginable fear. But the preparation for a stage effect like this comes at a cost. Earlier in the play, when Winston and Julia are arrested in the bedroom above the curiosity shop, two black-clad party policemen abseil down from the upper rafters of the theatre. As they hook up their cables to the platform to secure it for lifting, this unfortunately distracts temporarily from the main action.

However, the Royal Exchange will always remain a first-class venue to watch a performance, particularly if you’re looking for a fresh approach on an old text. At the centre of a grand and ornate high-domed building in the middle of Manchester city centre, complete with gilt and marble columns, you stumble across a relic of the 20^th century. The theatre is a circular scaffold with glass sides and primary-coloured staircases, with the stage at the very centre of the theatre space and seating completely surrounding it. The very best part in visiting this theatre is walking around the outside – usually served as café space – and seeing all the props and dressing rooms ready to be wheeled onto the stage via one of the side entrances.

The seats at the very top are some of the best, in my opinion, because not only can you observe the stage works if you choose, but you also get a completely different perspective on the play. You can still see everything that happens, and occasionally you see more. In this production, when Winston and the other workers collect their meals from the canteen you can see they are actually eating; when Julia brings a supply of forbidden foods to the bedroom she actually brews the coffee and Winston actually pierces the tin of milk, as they share a freshly baked loaf of bread. There may be an absence of set design and props but that is the very nature of this kind of theatre space. It eradicates the stage director’s volition to adorn the stage (and so distract the audience) with functionless props. Instead the production team make it their business to focus on realism and detail, such as when O’Brien plucks a tooth from Winston’s mouth and drops it to the floor.

It might be easy to say that this performance is needed now more than ever, at a time when the choice for ID cards has been made for us and we are subject to the scrutiny of a CCTV civilisation. But the interesting thing I realised when watching this performance is that 1984 is not just a warning against a totalitarian state, it is a warning against humanity, and even more it is a warning against how well we know ourselves. It is possible to become so disillusioned with law and society that we can, like Winston, begin to show a fervour that mimics the behaviour of those we rebel against. When Winston goes to visit O’Brien in the hopes of joining an underground revolution, he unreservedly agrees to carry out some appalling acts to achieve the party’s aims (such as “throw sulphuric acid in a child’s face”). Even the one act he steps down from, sacrificing Julia, (the one redeeming feature of mankind, the play pretends, is love) he eventually submits to by betraying her. And she him. The most ironic aspect is that Winston is only made aware of his own baseness by the same man who duped him into joining an underground revolution: O’Brien, who turns out to be his interrogator.

We generally consider ourselves to be a liberal society, erring to the left rather than the right. But as we know, and as 1984 tries to assert, “the object of power is power” (O’Brien), and no matter how far apart two political parties are, they inevitably meet. The furore over Nick Griffin’s appearance on Question Time last year can be seen in the same light (at this point I would like to stress that I am not expressing any political opinions here). The way he was hounded by our so-called liberal politicians and commentators recalled the same vitriolic repression enforced in Orwell’s dystopia. To suggest Griffin should not have appeared on the panel, and so deny that alternative insurgences exist in the UK, is no different to Winston Smith erasing the inconvenient history of Oceania in his job at the records office. In this way the performance simultaneously asks us to question the society we live in alongside the horror played out before us, yet also whether an alternative is viable, and at what cost. The moral barometer is so unbalanced that we are left wondering who represents whom, and which side of the fence would we end up on if it came down to it.

I would definitely recommend 1984 to anyone who enjoyed the book, is interested in the psychology of politics and society, and has the mental capacity to explore such scary realms of human behaviour. Equally I’d recommend it if you’ve never been to the Royal Exchange as their performances are always inspiring. As far as theatre prices go it’s middle of the road, but there are a number of concessions available and the cheap seats at the top are a winner. It might be almost three hours long but with the drama, suspense and dark humour it doesn’t feel like it.

1984 @ The Royal Exchange Theatre, St Ann’s Square, Manchester
24 February – 27 March 2010
Tickets £8.50 – £29.50
Variety of concessions available including government free theatre tickets for under 26s.
See website for more ticket details and performance times and to view a trailer for the show.

North West At The Edge

Wendy Woodhead — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 09:30:27 +0000

In pursuit of some culture comforts to push aside the dreariness of the weather and unemployment, I ventured to my neighbouring Preston to catch the ‘At The Edge: British Art 1950 – 2000’ exhibition. Currently on show at the Harris Museum and Art Gallery, ‘At The Edge’ illustrates how four northwest galleries took innovative steps in cultivating the modern art we know today. Taking controversial measures to gain more choice over the items in their collection, and to challenge the conservative opinions of art, galleries in Bolton, Oldham, Rochdale and Preston were at the forefront of bringing modern art to the mass. ‘At The Edge’ aspires to teach us a lot more than we think we know about the art being produced in the cultural age closest to us, the last half of the 20^th century.

I found the exhibition insightful and though relatively small at just three rooms, it is overall a good, brief introduction to the disparate themes of the age. Despite its size the exhibition boasts paintings, ceramics, sculptures, photography and print works from many notable names including Terry Frost, Lucian Freud, Howard Hodgkin, Helen Chadwick and Cornelia Parker. The layout is structurally coherent and the panels read with clarity, providing snippets of a changing political, economic, social and cultural scene. However, one of my main problems when trying to get to grips with the exhibition was my all too-modern perspective. The exhibition recalls how the respective gallery curators were at times taking controversial steps in collecting this art, yet for the average viewer it can be difficult to see how these artistic devices were radical. Although the panels contain the right amount of information for the size of the exhibition, they are often found wanting when explaining the shock-factor of some pieces. The first painting on display is John Bratby’s ‘The Bicycle Interior’ (1958). The painting was aptly chosen to demonstrate the increasing fascination with the banality and debris of everyday life. In fact the panel explains how it was one of Bratby’s paintings that inspired the critic David Sylvester to coin the phrase ‘kitchen sink realism’, which became a key cultural movement in the 1950s. However, a composition of pushchair, newspapers and bicycles doesn’t quite have the same impact with an audience for whom the term ‘modern art’ is synonymous with a man’s head sculpted from human blood.

The exhibition’s look at the 1960s steers far from the mass appeal of Pop Art, instead towards Op Art. There is an increasing focus on the reinvention of technique and a shift towards geometric patterns and optical illusion in the work of artists such as Peter Sedgely, ‘Phase 2’ (1965) and Jeffrey Steele, ‘Scala’ (1965). In a rebellion against expressionism the energy of these pieces is exercised through the pushing of mathematical principles into the realm of art. It rather aptly sums up certain opinions I have about the imaginative radius of the 1960s, most of which are borne out in its stolid, geometrically precise architecture. However, the collection also demonstrates more expressionistic styles of painting, with the likes of Lucian Freud’s ‘Woman’s Head With Yellow Background’ (1963), which brings more of an emotional gravitas to figure painting. Frank Auerbach’s, ‘E.O.W On Her Blue Eiderdown’ (1963) also experiments with layering and moulding oil on canvas to create a physical presence that protrudes from the wall. Yet it was William Roberts’ ‘The Common Market’ (1963), which brought the two diametrically opposed styles together in a modern metaphor for the debate over EU membership. The painting fuses the expressive use of colour and vibrancy of multi-cultural London, with a controlled use of form to accentuate a community living and working together.

The way art was thought about during these five decades also changed, becoming increasingly subjective from the 1970s. Displaying some works from the rise in British figurative painting, also known as ‘The London School’ of art, the pieces on display demonstrate an increased experimentation with perspective. None more so than John Wonnacott’s ‘Crescent Road II’ (1963-76) where a seemingly normal suburban street is seen through a wide-angled view. The distorted foreground creates a real sense of everyday unease, which would become more prevalent in art of the later decades. In a similar exploration of perspective, Adrian Berg (whose painting ‘Gloucester Gate, Regents Park: Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring’ (1977-79) hangs adjacent to Wonnacott’s) flexes his artistic dominance by painting the entire stretch of his perspective: ‘Naturally I can see an arc of 180 degrees […] I have joined up what I see on the extreme left to what I see on the extreme right’. Although ostensibly more of a figurative experimentation than Wonnacott’s literal one, there is the idea of the artist being able to subtly distort our perceptions of the truth. Ironically, most of these paintings depicting London life belonged to the Touchstones Rochdale gallery. It is surprising to see how these relatively unknown northern galleries were at the forefront of a shifting artistic landscape.

The half-concealed symbolism that pervades Wonnacott’s painting seems to point to the 1980s, which in part became a playground for the senses and the imagination. This is at least the case with artists like Maggi Hambling whose painting, ‘Sunrise, Orwell Estuary No.2’ (1985) looks supernatural. The great globe of red, yellow and orange light twists and rises from the dark blue and black of the sea beneath, like the conjuring up of some great power. In reality it is one woman’s expression of awe as dawn breaks across the Suffolk coast. Other artists, however, were battling themes as diverse as capitalism, race, women’s rights and alienated youth. John Keane’s ‘Controlling Interest’ (1987) is the collage that most struck a cord with me, as it shows the villain we have all become so accustomed to ridiculing in the last few years: through the melee of brush strokes, newspaper clippings and glossy magazine images, the archetypal successful businessman of the 80s reclines in his chair. Subtitled, ‘A latter day baron enjoys the freedom of the press’, we see how there was a new hierarchy for art to challenge and detest.

Whereas art between the 1950s and the 1980s is seen to introduce new methods of painting and new subject matter, the art of the 1990s becomes more interactive with the viewer. Painting is almost completely overridden by the use of mixed media in a bid for hyper-realism, and the strongest of these artworks prey on the fear and fascination of the unknown. If the art of the 70s saw a shift towards the autonomy of interpretation, the 90s seeks to confront those interpretations. So many of the artworks in the final room of the exhibition cause us to experience feelings of familiarity alongside discomfort that we are expected to do something with them. We ask ourselves why we are so repulsed yet in awe of a long plait of golden hair braided with a pig’s intestine (Helen Chadwick, ‘Loop My Loop’, 1991). Similarly, with Laura Ford’s ‘Elephant Boy’ (1998) we are introduced to a vulnerable child-like figure, clothed head to toe in a grey knitted schoolboy uniform. His hands in his pocket seem at once innocent and frightened, yet also confrontational. That the boy’s head is masked behind an elephant shaped hood, instinctively makes us question what is beneath. Art has entered a psychological realm, where our imagination becomes our own enemy. It is a striking piece to end the exhibition on; you leave feeling unsure about what is to come next, and if anything this is the principal point of the exhibition.

In questioning what the future of art will be like, ‘At The Edge’ also ponders the future of galleries. A glance at the accompanying leaflet, branded with a plethora of corporate logos, highlights to what extent regional galleries have become reliant on centralised funding bodies and local authorities in recent years. This exhibition runs for a year, visiting each of the galleries integral to the collections on display: Touchstones Rochdale, Gallery Oldham, Bolton Museum as well as the Harris. While this exhibition is unique in that the respective gallery curators have collaborated to build on their own collections, there are more and more exhibitions touring from national museums and assembled by outside bodies. Although they increase the profile and the accessibility of the touring exhibition, it does raise the question whether local galleries and their curators in particular are losing some of the autonomy they worked so hard to gain.

Overall, the real charm of ‘At The Edge’ is viewing these works in their regional homes. We are far too familiar with seeing modern art paraded on the London scene that it is refreshing to see their northern origins. Unfortunately, perhaps because of its size, ‘At The Edge’ occasionally feels a bit too ambitious; I found it difficult to get a real sense of any prominent themes or movements in the art of this tumultuous period. Moreover, with the focal point of the exhibition being a northwest perspective, it is a little lacking in explaining how the collections in these galleries compared to those nationwide. Nevertheless, the exhibition is innovative in the way it approaches this era of art and it certainly made me think differently about the northwest’s cultural heritage. Moreover, it fills in a few gaps while bringing the viewer up to date with the modern art we know today.

‘At The Edge’ is definitely worth a visit, if you fancy a break from the shops, or if you just want an excuse to do something different. It is compact with minimal reading and the best part is that admission is free (thank god for local authority funding)! There is still time to catch the exhibition at the Harris, which is on until 13 March, but it will also be travelling to Gallery Oldham in mid April, and Bolton Museum at the end of July. So, if you fancy brushing up on your modern art history this is a good place to start.

At The Edge: British Art 1950 – 2000
Harris Museum & Art Gallery, Market Square, Preston PR1 2PP
16January – 13 March 2010
Admission FREE

Check the website for more information on opening times

The exhibition can also be seen at:

Gallery Oldham
17 April – 17 July 2010
Bolton Museum, Aquarium & Archive
31 July – 30 October 2010

Martina Cole’s Two Women at Theatre Royal

Emanuela C. Evangelisti — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 14:07:40 +0000

The story of Susan Dalston could not have been staged anywhere else – Martina Cole’s Two Women fits perfectly with the Theatre Royal, Stratford’s first permanent playhouse since 1884. As Artistic Director Kerry Michael puts it: “Her authentic East End voice and passion for strong female characters makes this perfect material for us to explore on our stage”. Martina Cole, the author of 16 bestsellers, is one of the most well known British crime novelists, as well as patron of Chelmsford Women’s Aid and Ambassador for Gingerbread, the National Council for One Parent Families. Her books have been sold by the millions and inspired popular television adaptations such as The Take for Sky1. Two Women is the first of her novels to be translated for the stage.

The over six hundred pages that constitute the novel have been by necessity significantly reduced by Patrick Prior for this adaptation. The show is rich in flashbacks. Starting from the very last scene, it goes back and forth with quick set changes (designed by Yannis Thavoris) and a fitting sound design (by Theo Holloway). This production, directed by Theatre Royal Stratford East’s associate Ryan Romain features a renowned cast of professionals including Marc Bannerman (Eastenders), Frances Albery (Hunter), Victoria Alcock (Coronation Street, Bad Girls), Alison Newman (The Vagina Monologues, Kidulthood). The “two women” of the cast, Cathy Murphy and Laura Howard, bring to life two starkly contrasted characters – one born to a working class family consisting of an abusive father and a devious mother; the other the middle class picture of money and boredom.

Susan and Matty meet in Holloway prison. They are both in for the same reason: murdering their respective husbands. They also admit their guilt and show no sign of regret. “I would do it again”, Susan had told police and newspapers after hitting her husband a hundred times with a claw hammer. By doing this she had showed the temperament of a serial killer rather than a harmless little victim, “the person needing protection” which as a woman she should, by society’s standards, always portray. At least this is Matty’s theory, as she herself explains to her cellmate in one of several dialogues where they respond to one another, prod one another, laugh together and give in to each other’s provocation. Matty and Susan are outcasts of society, united solely by their gender and the crimes they have committed, not victims. However battered and badly treated under the yoke of shameful and careless individuals who were committed to gratuitous acts of violence never even seen in the animal world, Susan blames herself for marrying a man who so much resembled her violent and brutal father, the person she had hated most in the world. In spite of being subjected to the random follies of empty minds fed by ignorance and boredom and devoid of any reflection, she takes full responsibility of what has happened and does her best to protect her children from a similar destiny.

The show is enjoyable and leaves room for both laughter and tears.

Two Women is on at Theatre Royal until March 20

Royal Academy offers a fresh approach to an old master

Wendy Woodhead — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 10:54:56 +0000

When I was unexpectedly bought a ticket to the opening day of the Royal Academy’s new exhibition, ‘The Real Van Gogh: the artist and his letters’, I felt some slight reluctance. Knowing very little about the artist in question, the fact that this exhibition is ostensibly about the man’s correspondences, struck me as a little erudite. While I was right to feel uneasy about the hoards of people making it very difficult to move from one work to the next, the exhibition was otherwise informative, fresh-thinking and accessible. It has been cited as one of the biggest exhibitions of the year and it has certainly set a high standard.

The Royal Academy’s exhibition presents a more literary side to Vincent van Gogh than the ‘tortured genius’ usually depicted. The Academy has displayed almost 40 of the artist’s original rarely-exhibited letters written to his brother Theo (art dealer and financial support to Van Gogh), sister Willemein, and artist friends including Anthon van Rappard, Emile Bernard and Paul Gauguin. The exhibition is structured thematically and loosely chronologically throughout eight rooms. Each room is devoted to the subjects which pre-occupied Van Gogh in his brief 10 year artistic career from the age of 27, between 1880-1890: perspective; landscape; the human form; colour and nature. The rooms are suitably painted to the tones of Van Gogh’s work at each particular time, so the first few rooms are sombre, later becoming more vibrant as he experimented with colour. The subtle changes in the ambience of each room and the use of quotes on the wall instantly convey Van Gogh’s ever-changing attitude towards the progress of the artist, and make each room easily accessible to the visitor. If you are wondering how 40 letters can fill eight rooms, it is because they are interspersed between some 65 paintings and 30 drawings. These include major works of art such as ‘Self Portrait as an Artist’, ‘Van Gogh’s Chair’ and ‘Cypresses’, as well as earlier sketches and watercolours. Most of the letters contain what Van Gogh dubbed his ‘croquis’ or ‘scratches’, which are sketches of finished works. By juxtaposing these sketches alongside their finished counterparts, we can see how important it was for him to convey his ideas about his work to those closest to him.

Alongside these ‘croquis’ are poetic passages of description with which he colours the sketches, and it is when reading these that you understand there is more to this artist than meets the eye. Van Gogh’s letters are rich in imagery and thought, in his constant need to communicate the direction of his art. There is intensity in his descriptions of how colour and composition work together to arouse feeling but also how it can function to reinvent the rules of painting. The exhibition rarely attempts to interpret his art, but rather offers the visitor the chance to read Van Gogh’s work through his often spiritual and philosophical correspondences. These letters capture a sense that art was all-consuming for Van Gogh, and that it encompasses more than just the oil on the canvas. From the introductory room we are informed of the depth of meaning that words and literature held for Van Gogh, books and the bible being a constant source of influence and comfort to him throughout his life. As he expresses himself in a letter to Theo, ‘Books and reality and art are the same kind of thing for me’ (letter 312). Through these letters he seems to acknowledge the limits of painting and seeks the power of words to fully demonstrate, to others and possibly to himself, his pursuit of becoming the modern artist. Having given up trying to draw peasants working on the land Van Gogh wrote that he was not striving for ‘academic technique’, but rather to portray the ‘harmonic form of the human body’ (letter 515). As his eagerness grew his attention shifted from the strict form of landscape and the human body to an increasingly pantheistic belief in man’s relationship with nature. This cultivation of skills in colour and technique seemed an attempt to capture the essence of humanity and nature.

Although his correspondences are not free from an increasing sense of failure and inner torment, there is a glimpse into how art exercised a calming influence on his despair. The Royal Academy’s exhibition does not give in easily to the idea that this artist can be defined through his mental illness, which is refreshing to see. Unlike most ‘tortured geniuses’ there is no sense here that his art does or should reflect his mental decline; more than anything his art strives for tranquillity. Although Van Gogh wrote to Theo that he had not progressed, as he would have hoped, the exhibition is a lasting testament to quite a different view. The Royal Academy builds up a picture of Van Gogh’s artistic career room by room, as if adding layer upon layer of colour and technique to our deeper understanding of the artist. On leaving the exhibition I was in no doubt that Van Gogh’s short but prolific career (in his last 70 days he produced more than 70 paintings) had been but a constant quest, even obsession, to redefine the modern artist.

The Royal Academy’s exhibition is something of a triumph, offering the viewer a new way in which to read (literally) an artist so devoted to the progress of modern art. It is easy to follow and structurally coherent, beginning with his decision to become an artist in 1880 and following through to his increasing attacks of mental breakdown, hospitalisation and eventual suicide in the last two years of his life, 1888-90. Moreover, the accessibility of this exhibition extends outside of the art gallery. The 40 letters on display are just a small fraction of the 902 rare and fragile texts, yet the comprehensive catalogue can be accessed via the Royal Academy’s website, allowing the visitor to search for letters and read the facsimiles, transcriptions and translations at leisure. This is an exhibit for the Van Gogh enthusiast and the newcomer alike. What is created out of this exhibition is a more complex understanding of the artist figure, an idea that Van Gogh held himself: ‘the duty of the painter is to study nature in depth and to use all his intelligence, to put his feelings into his work so that it becomes comprehensible to others’ (letter 252). The exhibition shows how one man invested so much of himself and his learning into cultivating his techniques and craft in the pursuit of a deeper and spiritual truth. I left with the view that Van Gogh was not just a great painter, but also one with a great poetic and intellectual vision.

The Real Van Gogh: the artist and his letters

The Royal Academy of Arts, Piccadily, London W1J 0BD

23 January – 18 April 2010

Tickets £12 (concessions available)

Check the website for opening times and last admissions

Katalin Varga

Saqib Shah — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 12:14:46 +0000

British director Peter Strickland’s debut feature is a stunning piece of work. Made on 16mm film and produced independently it was picked up by Libra productions and screened at the Berlin Film Festival where it was also nominated for the Golden Bear. Shot in the Transylvanian region of Romania, the story concerns a middle-aged woman who is left homeless when her husband finds out that she was raped and that their child is a product of that act. With her son Orban in tow, Katalin sets out on a mission of vengeance to find and punish her tormentors.

In a recent article printed on the New York Times website Stanley Fish commented on the ongoing popularity of revenge films at the U.S. box office. Two of the recent successes associated with the genre, one of which is mentioned in the article, are Taken and Law Abiding Citizen. A film like Katalin Varga, however, will never get the marketing and publicity attributed to those productions and most likely pass undetected on limited release at cinemas. The reason for this is that the film is more concerned with creating a unique environment for its characters to inhabit rather than focusing on the perverse violence undertaken by the protagonist. The latter scenario has become a prototype for the genre. Katalin Varga, however, is more thought provoking in its subtle approach to its overbearing narrative arc. The ending packs such a shock that no number of gruesome deaths can compete with its impact.

The film’s cinematography is particularly striking bestowing its location a pastoral quality. The soundtrack by Steven Stapleton and Geoff Cox is hauntingly atmospheric automatically attaching a sense of dread to Katalin’s journey. Together the two elements blend to create the kind of suspense that is associated with the mythical region of the film’s location. In particular one remembers Bram Stoker’s Dracula, a prominent piece of literature that was set in the same location. There are repetitive shots of a dark forest shown from Katalin’s point of view which are related to the horrific experience she underwent but also bring to mind the supernatural images of the novel.

Strickland has gone on record as stating that he was trying to avoid any connection to the vampiric myth associated with the region. His film, however, contains a larger more contemporary evil. It is the patriarchal menace of society that terrorizes the film’s protagonist. The narrative contains hardly any benevolent male characters and it is the women who continuously suffer at their hands. Saying that, Strickland does manage to make the viewer sympathise with Orban’s genetic father, Antal. Upon learning from Katalin that she was his victim there is a genuine sense of responsibility and grief in his behaviour. At the disgust of the boy’s mother he even begins to bond with Orban.

Apart from its ending the film contains several emotionally resonant moments. In particular Katalin’s monologue that she recites to Antal and his wife describing how she was raped is an intense sequence. Katalina’s dialogue transforms what is at first a horrific memory into a redemptive fairy tale. She recounts how she was told to persevere after the encounter by the animals of the forest. The scene contains no flashbacks and is ultimately better for it because we are left with an account that takes on mythical proportions.

Katalin Varga is a huge accomplishment for its crew and director. Any reservations one has of its amateur status, being shot on 16mm and independently produced, are laid to rest once its arresting visuals are experienced. Furthermore it contains well developed characters brought to life through solid performances by the cast. It deserves wider recognition as a progressive film which successfully subverts the genre conventions associated with revenge films.

Where the Wild Things Are

Saqib Shah — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 15:45:16 +0000

Spike Jonze’s latest directorial effort has been surrounded by much intrigue and inevitably much hype. Since his two collaborations with writer Charlie Kaufmann, Being John Malkovich and Adaptation, Jonze has amassed a cult following. So when word first got out that he had been chosen to adapt Maurice Sendak’s beloved children’s book Where the Wild Things Are excitement hit fever pitch, well at least in western film blogs and publications. Jonze’s own geeky look and indie sensibility meant to many that he would be the ideal candidate to bring the source material to the big screen. His inventive and groundbreaking work in the fields of music video and skateboard video showed him to be a playful yet progressive talent who also had crossover appeal. Finally, and perhaps most crucially, he had the approval of the book’s author Maurice Sendak who is now credited as a producer on the film.

After continuous scheduling delays Where the Wild Things Are was finally released in December. The initial excitement and hype has meanwhile turned to intrigue and debate over the merit of the final product. Delays usually mean that a studio is unhappy with a film and its commercial appeal. Had restrictions been placed on Jonze’s creativity due to the nature of the material and the film’s relatively large budget? On first impression one can’t say that they have, yet the film isn’t a complete success either.

It seems that the director has had an incredibly hard time bulking up a short children’s book. The original story concerns a young boy named Max who, upset by a quarrel with his mother and in need of attention, escapes to an imaginary world inhabited by huge animal-like beasts. They accept Max and crown him as their king. Mayhem and mischief follow as Max bonds with the creatures. Inevitably he returns home and finds that his supper is still warm and that all is forgiven.

There are notable differences between the book and the film. Most prominently Jonze has tried to flesh out the characters, particularly Max and the Wild Things who all have their own distinctive voices and personalities. Max is immediately singled out as a loner. At the start of the film he is shown building himself an igloo outside his house. After it is destroyed by his sister’s friends he takes his revenge by running amok in her room. Later he argues with his mother when he is disgruntled by the male presence in the house, what seems to be his mother’s boyfriend. He bites her hand when she tries to grab him; the ensuing tension is the catalyst for his escape. Max can come across as a spoilt child but he is also a fragile and sensitive character. His longing for acceptance is reflected by his relationship with the wild things. His specific affection for two of the wild things, namely Carol and KW, is due to his craving for maternal figures. There is one symbolic sequence in particular that emphasises Max’s fragility. In it he climbs into KW’s stomach in order to hide from a disgruntled Carol and is shown curled up in a foetal manner.

A lot more attention has also been paid to the wild things’ environment. Their world is bathed in hazy, natural light and consists of endless forests and desert. Together with the wild things Max utilizes his natural surroundings to build a fort. It consists of a large towering sphere in which he and the wild things live. A visual highlight of the film is a wonderful tracking shot from Max’s point of view as he runs toward his majestic creation. The world of the wild things also acts as a huge playground in which Max and his friends recklessly chase and play with each other. In these scenes the adventurous and simple-minded wild things resemble the crew of the television show Jackass, which Jonze co-created, as they stumble over and fling each other about.

Jonze must be commended for capturing the recklessness of youth in his set pieces. Furthermore he has drawn an incredible performance from his star the young Max Records who plays the protagonist. The voice cast which includes James Gandolfini, Paul Dano and Forest Whitaker are also excellent. Finally one must also praise the brilliant soundtrack by Karen O and the Kids which encapsulates both the melancholic tone of the film’s opening and its chaotic core. Emotionally, however, the film offers an empty conclusion. Jonze is trying to get at bigger issues of environmentalism and alienation through the script’s reference to the dying sun and the natural wildlife of the wild things world. Even the deserts outside the lush forests can be viewed as a comment on desertification. None of these themes however is fully realised and in the end the film lands somewhere between the director’s artistic sentiments, envisioned in the occasional visual flair, and its empty, frivolous narrative.

Kiyotsune & Pagoda: Noh visits London

Emanuela C. Evangelisti — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 11:12:04 +0000

The 20^th century literary critic Shklovsky considered the purpose of all art to be that of rendering things unfamiliar, strange and distant. Brecht thought this is necessary in theatre in order to make the audience critically aware of what is happening on stage. Unlike the dynamics of conventional entertainment – where individuals are encouraged to identify with the characters and the story – experiencing the unfamiliar and the “strange” through art prolongs the processes of perception, suspends judgement, and transforms individuals.

In this light, Japan’s ancient art of noh is a peculiar occasion of estrangement for Westerners ready to submit to its slow-paced movements, symbolical gestures and prescribed rhythms.

Oshima Noh Theatre of Hiroshima Prefecture and Theatre Nohgaku, based in Tokyo and New York, are currently collaborating on a tour visiting four European cities, offering a rare chance to experience this fascinating, rich and mysterious art form which includes poetry, music and dance.

The show visited Queen Elizabeth’s Purcell Room in London on the 2^nd and 3^rd December before moving on to Dublin, Oxford and Paris. The performance features the central scenes of classical warrior play Kiyotsune written by noh author Zeami in the 14^th Century, as well as the world premiere of Pagoda, a contemporary noh piece written by Chinese playwright Jannette Cheong. The first is the story of general Kiyotsune who took his own life by jumping into the sea to avoid giving himself into the hands of the enemy. The show stages the encounter and dialogue between the ghost of Kiyotsune and his wife. Pagoda is an English language noh work focusing on themes of migration and mourning. As Theatre Nohgaku artistic director and Pagoda’s music composer Richard Emmert puts it, “it is a step in making noh an accessible art form for the English-speaking world”.

Traditional noh chant and dance developed from the Japanese language. Several attempts were made in the 20^th century to create an English noh play. Pagoda has an English text and original noh style music, both written following strict noh rules. In the noh world every scenic element is protagonist: nothing is left to chance. Characters gracefully inhabit the minimalism of the setting, the stage creates a space of intimacy and the spectator sits still as if witnessing a very special and highly aesthetic ritual. The beauty of the costumes worn by the actors combines with the delicacy of the noh masks, the elegance of the gestures and the precision of the music. Characters come in and out of stage in silence: we follow their movements – incredulous – to the centre of the stage where their masks or their mask-like faces stare at a void above and beyond the audience. The latter watches them looking out at sea, counting boats, recollecting broken destinies. We travel through space and time together with these unearthly figures whose feet slide slowly onto the floor, whose arms seem immobile until we see them bursting out in a fast but composed final dance. Here speed seems suggested, rather than exposed, through sudden yet soft moves within the restricted space of the noh stage.

A sense of tranquillity is constantly evoked by the ever present pine tree image painted on the back wall: a symbol of longevity, virtue and steadfastness in Japanese culture.

Websites for both companies can be found at:
http://www.noh-oshima.com/noh-oshima-index.html
http://www.theatrenohgaku.org

Grimm Tales

Claire Massey — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 13:45:26 +0000

Fairy tales are currently appearing in theatres up and down the country; the British pantomime tradition takes popular fairy tales and dresses them up with men in drag, girls dressed as boys, slapstick, songs and the compulsory cries of ‘it’s behind you’. But if you like your fairy tales a little darker Grimm Tales at Manchester’s Library Theatre is the show for you.

Children’s bookshelves are often stuffed with sanitised versions of the Grimm’s tales, in which Grandma hides under the bed instead of being eaten by the wolf, and Gretel refrains from pushing the witch into the oven, but in adapting six of the Grimm’s tales for this production poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy didn’t shy away from all the harsh lessons and gory bits.

First performed at the Young Vic in 1994, and directed for the Library by Rachel O’ Riordan, eight actors gleefully tell the stories and take on the many parts. The show takes place in what looks like an abandoned nursery; a tree grows up through the floor and out of the ceiling, and the cast’s shadows play on the bare walls. Dance, physical theatre and traditional music are all incorporated with great energy and obvious enjoyment.

The tales performed include the familiar, like ‘Hansel and Gretel’; those you’ll know but perhaps not in this version, like ‘Ashputtel’, which is a Cinderella story; and those you probably won’t have heard before like ‘The Mouse, the Bird and the Sausage’.

The show is being promoted as being suitable for those aged six and upwards. If you’re taking children I wouldn’t be too worried about them being disturbed by the grimmer bits; when I watched the show the younger members of the audience seemed to be delighted by them – the only shrieks and squeals came whenever the actors kissed.

Grimm Tales is on at The Library Theatre, Manchester until 23^rd January 2010.

Between Two Worlds: Alfred Schnittke Festival

Emanuela C. Evangelisti — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 10:45:19 +0000

From 15th November to 1st December Southbank Centre, Royal College of Music, Pushkin House and Deptford Town Hall have been hosts to a very interesting music festival in London celebrating the figure of Alfred Schnittke, a Russian composer of the generation of Edison Denisov and Sofia Gubaidulina, who left us an heterogeneous repertoire of music for films, concert halls and theatre.

The festival is titled Between Two Worlds, referring to the double cultural background of the composer who was born in a German family, spent his early years in Vienna and lived most of his life in Russia. As much influenced by the Russian avant-garde as by the Western classical and baroque traditions, the richness of his styles echoes Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky, Shostakovich as well as Bach, Mahler, Berg and Schoenberg. He wrote sixty-six film scores, nine symphonies, three operas, chamber and choral music, ballets, concertos and sonatas for various instruments. Writing music for film was a common way for Soviet composers to support themselves. It also gave them freedom to experiment by bypassing censorship.

All Schnittke’s compositions, in their diversity and ‘polystylism’ – as their conjunction of styles was termed -, seem apt to rousing the imagination even when they are not accompanying films. It is enough to take a look at the short video promoting the festival which edits musical extracts from the Cello Concerto No 2, the Gogol Suite, and the Piano Concerto with a selection of animated images, to get a sense of this. It is available on the London Philharmonic Orchestra’s website (see link below).

Concerts, film screenings, talks, and a study day, have made this initiative a very successful event which for sixteen days has celebrated the “man in between”, as Schnittke has been defined, performing his works as well as those by composers important to him.

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