The Perfect Painting
It must all be considered as if spoken by a character in a novel.
0.1.
I know this project is about painting.
I know it, since the project is mine.
And I am
for better or worse
a painter.
A painter who is obsessed.
Obsessed with creating a
Perfect Painting.
It has to be
The Perfect Painting!
This is my working title.
I have been pursuing it for quite a while now.
It is not a painting that I have done yet,
but I believe to be working on it.
I am not the first to pursue it,
but that is another story.
Or is it?
1.0. The Practice.
1.1.
I find myself surrounded by images.
This is it.
The imagery is what I prey on.
I carefully select and reorganize as part of my working-method.
This results in a personal selection.
A private collection,
that I love to show.
In this sense, cut and paste is important,
as a social phenomenon, that is.
The work have been considered to have something to do
with the difficulties of decision
when offer and options are multiple.
I can agree with that.
The appropriation of images is linked to the idea of the parasite
as well as the idea of Teamwork.
I build on the ruins of and the rubbish of Rome.
Images become my own
when I revisit them as paintings.
There is some sort of rendering going on
when I work.
Followed by editing. I take notes, then edit.
Images become paintings
while paintings become trophies.
Symbols of labour.
Symbols of the deed.
---
I will be honest.
To begin with, I am not completely sure what this Perfect Painting is. Maybe it does not even exist.
I guess that time will tell.
--
1.2.
It is a Thursday afternoon.
A sound.
Like an abrupt snore or the vibration from a drill penetrating a brick wall.
This is what the inter-phone at my apartment sounds like. It is a red telephone. It is old like everything else in the building. That is why it sounds like it is out of breath.
I always think of my childhood and the Cold War when I see a red telephone.
I answer it.
It is neither the Communist nor Hollywood,
but my friend from the fine art supplies store.
We follow the usual drill.
I buzz him in through the front door.
I can hear him approaching.
He suffers, breaths heavily as
he walks up the 89 steps of my staircase with the stretchers and linen I commissioned. When he has almost climbed the stairs, I put my head out and ask if he needs any help. That way I seem nice, but do not really have to make an effort to help him.
We chat for a while, but nothing serious, since he has to keep delivering material and the lorry is waiting for him downstairs with material for all of the city’s painters.
If they are not delivering, nobody paints anything.
Some day I will get rid of the municipal competition by sabotaging the transport vehicle of the fine art supplies store.
1.3.
The materials have to be of excellent quality.
I know this from experience.
I mistrust any painter who is not a fetishist.
The canvas I use is Belgian linen.
I have been using it for over a decade now.
It is always the same.
It is fairly more resistant than canvas made of cotton.
Moreover, some of my favourite contemporary painters are also from Belgium.
1.4.
I get my stretchers made from wood of the black pine tree. I was not aware of this fact. I did not even know what a black pine tree was, so I informed myself on the Internet:
The black pine is a low tree that rarely grows taller than about 20 meters.
Generally it has a conical or pyramidal crown.
The foliage is dense and dark. Usually it grows in higher areas.
All-right.
---
Even though I used to read and write a lot as a child, I do not consider myself to be a particularly cultivated person.
Years ago I wanted to become a writer, but
I stopped writing
to dedicate myself to painting.
When I paint I concentrate better.
Maybe it is because I can let my hands do all the dirty work.
---
1.5.
A roll of primed linen on the floor.
Black pine tree stretcher on top of it.
Measuring and marking out by eye. It is not an exact science.
It reminds me of fishing.
Let go and pull the line back in.
Little by little, never abruptly. The fish gets away and you end up with a warped canvas.
Scissors from Finland.
I cut the roll of canvas.
I flip it over and make sure that the stretcher is in the center. I have some special aluminum pliers that I use to stretch the canvas over the frame.
I fold the linen and with a staple gun I fix it to the wood.
Clack. Clack.
Clack.
I used to fix the canvas to the stretcher with a never-ending amount of staples. Now I put in only a chosen few. That way it is easier if I have to take the painting off the stretcher, roll it up and stick it on an air-plane,
or in some rotten warehouse.
I begin with the middle and work my way to the corners. The folding is quite delicate, since I want to avoid bulks on the backside caused by the thick linen.
The canvas must be tense, but not like a drum.
I leave some space for the natural movement of the materials. When it is cold, the stretcher will tense up like a cock in the winter.
At warmer temperatures, the wood expands again and leaves the linen tense.
It is a matter of balance and cycles like many other things.
I now have a front and a back of this potential painting.
That is important.
2.1.
Painting is still very present among contemporary artists.
Out of love, or hate, or indifference.
What I am talking about is this willingness to make the painters stop painting. On several occasions my so-called friends and colleagues of profession have encouraged me to quit.
Many others have abandoned, but their past as painters is usually mentioned.
As if they felt guilty about it or something like that.
What if the divorce was based on a mutual agreement?
However, painting and drawing are still the most common manner to get involved with this thing called art.
It is a social matter, I guess.
It is probably because parents show greater appreciation for the abstract expressionism than for the ready-mades that most children produce.
---
Those who gave up painting.
It sounds a bit like an epic title or a manuscript for a film.
Those who gave up painting. And the sequel; Those who gave up painting, II.
This time it is personal.
--
2.2.
When I think of some of the fairly good painters who stopped painting, it is not as if I am struck by sadness or similar feelings.
Somehow it is the most logical conclusion of any serious painting practice.
Exit.
At least if it is understood as a trajectory, a journey or a process.
There are many possible paths,
but they all lead to the same place.
The End.
2.3.
The first option, is in my opinion also the easy way out: One quits painting out of frustration from not being able to express ideas properly through the use of this type of media.
The painter can stop painting because
for some
it is a possibility to do so.
The second option would be that the painter actually paint the perfect painting and therefore the natural consequence of that would be to dedicate one’s time to other tasks.
Why keep on seriously doing something,
if you have already succeeded?
2.4.
When thinking about painting it is important to consider, that the painter’s relationship with the media can be very similar to, say, a romantic relationship.
Most painters have a great attachment to their work
and the history
and responsibility that comes with it.
It is similar to the Idea of Pygmalion falling in love with his own sculpture, Ymage.
If this (fatal) attraction is not present, there can be no obsession.
...And no pursuit of perfection.
---
Even though I am not too thrilled about it, I should probably position myself in front of
and on the matter of the famous blank canvas.
Historically it has been a topic worth talking about,
but honestly,
I have never worried too much about it.
As a statement, maybe it sounds a bit preposterous, but nevertheless it is still true.
---
3.0.Epilogue.
Sometimes I know what is going to be on a canvas before preparing it. Other times I prepare a few in advance,
to make me able to react quickly, just in case I have to execute some idea urgently.
Ideas are rarely urgent.
Neither is painting.
That said, incomprehensibly,
The Perfect Painting
is always pressuring me from some corner of the mind.
It is not like having a bad conscience, but I feel the presence in the same way.
It is a mental thing.
It is a hope, the expectation.
A hallway, with all the doors open.
It is on my mind. It is present.
It is totally clear to me.
The perfect painting is always
the next one.
The perfect painting is the one I am about to paint.