The Sound of a Painting
In order to understand a painting one has to understand everything around it. By that I don’t just mean the frame – but the city it was made in, the landscape, the people surrounding the painting, their thoughts, whishes and dreams. And most of all one has to understand the time in which it was done.
To write about art is of course impossible. It is the equivalence of making a dance about literature or sing about bowling. What you can do is simply to tell it the way it is or once was. That is why I am going to tell you about the first time I saw one of Patrik Andiné's paintings and how it changed not only Göteborg but perhaps even me.
One has to take in to consideration that twenty years ago Göteborg was a different place from what it is today. Different people with different ideals and different thoughts. You might even say that it was on another planet. Most of those who were painting, painted models, nude old ladies sitting on chairs or standing in either light or dark okra suits. Those who dared used both colors and sneaked in a bit of violet in the shadows. I had just painted my first chaffinch, which had caused quite a commotion that divided the city into two halves. There were those who thought it was appalling and shocking. The chaffinch contained no political message, had no connection to the colorists or Neemes and had no okra shades. In spite of all of this I sat in a jury that was to select paintings to the annual exhibition at the art museum, it was an important and honorable assignment. Double rows of works were standing against the walls. An army of brown and okra colored ladies, standing or laying down, sometimes in contra post leaning against a chair. Always painted in a hasty verve as if the artist didn’t care, although the work in reality, took days to complete. Sometimes we were on the verge of giving up, but after a week we were almost finished and had selected about twenty paintings, done with that little bit of extra dash. Behind one of the selected works I found a small painting with a completely different appearance. The brush had not gone around as if on a go-cart course, this one was painted with a lot of care and reflection.
I took a few unstable steps backwards as if somebody had hit me. It wasn’t just painted in an almost ritually careful way; it portrayed a naked lady that was also a human being. All the other nude studies were merely different fields of color, surfaces, and gaps, an illustration of how you put layers of color next to each other, different shades and so on, but this one showed a person. A woman with a gaze, a hint and memories that all indicated a future. Why hadn’t anyone painted like this before? Why paint a woman in the same way you paint a stool? Were they meant for each other, and were they later in life going to get married? Even the clouds in Patrik Andiné’s painting looked more sensual and alive than any of the other nude women, no matter how perfect their fields of color and spaces were distributed. Eagerly I took out the painting and showed the other members of the jury. They shooked their heads.
»We know, we can’t show it.« the chairman said.
»Why not?« I wondered.
»There’s a spell upon it, impossible to exhibit.« said one woman in the jury, truly looking scared to death.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Why is some art shown all over the world while other is hidden in the basement, it can’t have anything to do with casting a spell upon things. Or did they know something that I didn’t?
»What do you mean there is a spell upon it?«
»It makes noises«, said the chairman and leaned his head carefully against the painting.
As did the other members of the jury until it finally looked like a medieval painting of the people gathering around the manger in complete and revered silence. Their harts probably stopped beating for a moment because all of a sudden I could hear it, the weak noise coming from the painting. I always recall this scene when I see one of Patrik’s paintings today. Something medievally religious, with an incantation in the craft, something sensual spiced up with a hint of humor. Why are we afraid of art that does not look like it usually does? It is often hard to understand how contemporary opinions and ideals seem to be leading you in to one dead end after the other. What are we afraid of? And who’s to blame? The sound?
I carefully approached the painting as if it could explode at any given second. And yes, there was a sound. A weak squeaking sound. Slowly I loosened the frame and a small grasshopper jumped out, thankful for being released from its prison. As was Göteborg, which during the 90’s became one of the most dynamic art generators in the country that fostered many of the most talked about artists of that generation. Released from the tradition but still rooted in history, Patrik’s journey continues. His painting does not fall of the road. He continues to paint in a personal manner. That’s probably why his paintings sound a little bit different.
Ernst Billgren
In order to understand a painting one has to understand everything around it. By that I don’t just mean the frame – but the city it was made in, the landscape, the people surrounding the painting, their thoughts, whishes and dreams. And most of all one has to understand the time in which it was done.
To write about art is of course impossible. It is the equivalence of making a dance about literature or sing about bowling. What you can do is simply to tell it the way it is or once was. That is why I am going to tell you about the first time I saw one of Patrik Andiné's paintings and how it changed not only Göteborg but perhaps even me.
One has to take in to consideration that twenty years ago Göteborg was a different place from what it is today. Different people with different ideals and different thoughts. You might even say that it was on another planet. Most of those who were painting, painted models, nude old ladies sitting on chairs or standing in either light or dark okra suits. Those who dared used both colors and sneaked in a bit of violet in the shadows. I had just painted my first chaffinch, which had caused quite a commotion that divided the city into two halves. There were those who thought it was appalling and shocking. The chaffinch contained no political message, had no connection to the colorists or Neemes and had no okra shades. In spite of all of this I sat in a jury that was to select paintings to the annual exhibition at the art museum, it was an important and honorable assignment. Double rows of works were standing against the walls. An army of brown and okra colored ladies, standing or laying down, sometimes in contra post leaning against a chair. Always painted in a hasty verve as if the artist didn’t care, although the work in reality, took days to complete. Sometimes we were on the verge of giving up, but after a week we were almost finished and had selected about twenty paintings, done with that little bit of extra dash. Behind one of the selected works I found a small painting with a completely different appearance. The brush had not gone around as if on a go-cart course, this one was painted with a lot of care and reflection.
I took a few unstable steps backwards as if somebody had hit me. It wasn’t just painted in an almost ritually careful way; it portrayed a naked lady that was also a human being. All the other nude studies were merely different fields of color, surfaces, and gaps, an illustration of how you put layers of color next to each other, different shades and so on, but this one showed a person. A woman with a gaze, a hint and memories that all indicated a future. Why hadn’t anyone painted like this before? Why paint a woman in the same way you paint a stool? Were they meant for each other, and were they later in life going to get married? Even the clouds in Patrik Andiné’s painting looked more sensual and alive than any of the other nude women, no matter how perfect their fields of color and spaces were distributed. Eagerly I took out the painting and showed the other members of the jury. They shooked their heads.
»We know, we can’t show it.« the chairman said.
»Why not?« I wondered.
»There’s a spell upon it, impossible to exhibit.« said one woman in the jury, truly looking scared to death.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Why is some art shown all over the world while other is hidden in the basement, it can’t have anything to do with casting a spell upon things. Or did they know something that I didn’t?
»What do you mean there is a spell upon it?«
»It makes noises«, said the chairman and leaned his head carefully against the painting.
As did the other members of the jury until it finally looked like a medieval painting of the people gathering around the manger in complete and revered silence. Their harts probably stopped beating for a moment because all of a sudden I could hear it, the weak noise coming from the painting. I always recall this scene when I see one of Patrik’s paintings today. Something medievally religious, with an incantation in the craft, something sensual spiced up with a hint of humor. Why are we afraid of art that does not look like it usually does? It is often hard to understand how contemporary opinions and ideals seem to be leading you in to one dead end after the other. What are we afraid of? And who’s to blame? The sound?
I carefully approached the painting as if it could explode at any given second. And yes, there was a sound. A weak squeaking sound. Slowly I loosened the frame and a small grasshopper jumped out, thankful for being released from its prison. As was Göteborg, which during the 90’s became one of the most dynamic art generators in the country that fostered many of the most talked about artists of that generation. Released from the tradition but still rooted in history, Patrik’s journey continues. His painting does not fall of the road. He continues to paint in a personal manner. That’s probably why his paintings sound a little bit different.
Ernst Billgren