Art for Collioure's sake

A child explores George Ayat's Collioure acrylics

A trip to Collioure just wouldn’t be the real thing without a substantial dose of art: it’s as integral a part of the village as are the anchovies that once provided its main source of income and employment.

Surf the internet and you’ll find various estimates for how many galleries line the charming streets – anything from 20 to 40 – this year, we even staying on Rue de la Fraternité, which boasts more galleries than any other single thoroughfare.

But even numbering the galleries accurately does not paint the full picture: many more artists display and sell their work from pitches along the promenade at Boromar or around the walls of the chateau, where visitors wind their way between the Faubourg and the Mouré, past the clear, turquoise waters.

Le filet du lamparo à Collioure by Willy Mucha

After two years of really excellent special summer exhibitions, the village’s Musée d’Art Moderne this year staged a much smaller temporary exhibit, together with offering the opportunity to view its standing collection.

Various series of geometric, abstract works by Jaume Rocamora, including Suite Collioure (2013-14) and Intervalles imbriqués (1996) are certainly interesting.

And the same can be said of George Ayats’s series of bold acrylic on canvas abstracts that are collectively titled Collioure, and which use a palette that is reminiscent of those used by Survage and Pignon in their Collioure paintings that formed the basis of those previous exhibitions.

But the standing collection is fascinating, as it concentrates completely on how a number of artists have chosen to paint this artistically iconic village since the early part of the 20th century.

Fort Mirador by Lucien Coutard

Sadly, there is nothing by that man, Matisse, but he is always in the back of your mind as you wander around the cool, white rooms.

Jean Peské’s pastel, Côte rocheuse (undated), has lovely textures and colours, while Augustin Hanicotte’s Les voiles blanches (1930) is another chance to see some fine pastel work.

Willy Mucha’s Le filet du lamparo à Collioure (oil on canvas, 1942-44) abstracts the subject in a way that seems to suggest the chaos and carnage of war amid the fishing boats.

Paysage de Collioure, by Henri Marre

Henri de Maistre’s Collioure, vue general (1941) is a very nice rendering in oil of the view from Port d’Avall, while Lucien Coutard’s 1945 gouache and watercolour on paper of Fort Mirador is a super piece of work.

The exhibits – at least given our direction of travel – concluded with Barques à Collioure (graphite on paper, 1931) and Vue de Collioure (watercolour on wood, 1929) by Survage, both of which are perfectly sound, but neither of which have the power or the inventive spark of the paintings we saw in the solo exhibition of his Collioure works in 2012.

But before that came Henri Marre’s Paysage de Collioure, a beautiful oil on canvas from 1915, painted a full decade after Matisse’s View of Collioure from the iconic year of 1905, taking the same view and treating it, if fluidly, still rather more conventionally.

View of Collioure, by Matisse

Indeed, this is, in many ways, what all these artists are measured against – the artistic explosion that was to be dubbed ‘Fauvism’.

And while most settle for considerably more conventional approaches than Matisse, Derain and Dufy, it’s perhaps indicative of the village’s incredible beauty and charm – and yes, its very special light – that these stand as a genuinely interesting and worthwhile collection of works by ‘lesser’ painters.

In the holiday season, a walk around the village – whose walls are peppered with nearly two dozen reproductions of the Collioure works of Matisse and Derain – provides quick confirmation of the fact that seeking a language to convey the immediate area has not ceased, and that not all paintings or painters are equal.

Vue de Collioure, by Survage

Some of the efforts also convey a lesson: simply applying vivid colours to a canvas will not make you into the next Matisse. Or put it another way: no, your five year old could not do this.

Among the most successful artists at conveying the village are Barry Blend (of whom much more here) and Jean-Philip Roch, who, entirely coincidentally, has a gallery slap bang next to Barry’s on the Rue de la Fraternité.

It’s a joyful style, which includes some very interesting artistic decisions – not least leaving out some trees in order to properly convey the terraces where the grapes grow in some pictures.

That self-defined Catalan, Picasso, wanted to live in the village in the 1950s, but with no house big enough for that megastar of modern art, the local council demurred at letting him have part of the chateau. A little short-sighted, perhaps?

Collioure view by Jean-Philip Roch

And even today, while this year’s bright, new headquarters for the Fauvism Trail is a huge improvement on its predecessor, one senses they could still make more of the connection.

For instance, if a fine art gallery in London can sell licensed lithographs of works by Matisse, then why not here, of all places?

But perhaps the rather low-key commercialism is part of the charm.

“No sky is bluer than Collioure’s,” stated Matisse.

And whether Collioure can – or would want to – exploit the connection more or not, it remains the case that this almost impossibly beautiful village draws those who want to try to capture its glories.

It’s difficult to imagine that ending any time soon. After all, Collioure without art would be like fish without chips. Or a pissaladière without anchovies.

A school of art you won't have heard of – and some artists you might have

The Red Baron, Barry Blend (2005)

Sometimes, little mysteries solve themselves when you’re least expecting it.

Last summer, when I interviewed artist Barry Blend in Collioure, he said of his own work: “There is a word for it actually; they have a word for it in French ... but I’ve forgotten it.”

Well, I thought about it, but didn’t get very far in trying to find that word.

And then, in October, while watching an online BBC video report of an exhibition of van Gogh’s Paris period, I came across a school that I hadn’t heard of before: cloisonnism.

It’s easy enough to have missed. Neither the Oxford Companion to Art nor Art: The definitive guide from Dorling Kindersley make mention of it in their indexes.

A piece of cloisonné jewellery

So a certain amount of internet trawling was required.

The information fished up revealed that it’s generally described as a style of Expressionism that uses blocks of bold and largely flat colours that are divided by dark contours – an echo of the jewellery technique of cloisonné, where wires are soldered into place to make a design, the spaces are filled with powdered glass (vitreous enamel) and then the whole is fired.

The term was coined by critic Édouard Dujardin in 1888, during the Salon des Indépendents, and it remains associated with the likes of Gauguin – The Yellow Christ (1889) seems to be regarded as an iconic example.

Many of the painters who used the style described their works as Synthetism.

And most sources also seem to suggest that the school was pretty much finished by about 1903.

But there are plenty of later works that suggest that it didn’t die out at all.

Picasso’s Pitcher and Bowl of Fruit (1931, oil on canvas) very much fits the definition – and who is anyone to argue with Pablo?

Yellow Christ, Gauguin

There are all sorts of cross-overs too: it’s easy, for instance, to see why Roy Lichtenstein might be included in a discussion of cloisonnism – which as much as anything, illustrates how open a term ‘pop art’ is and, indeed, how many art styles overlap with others.

There are plenty of recent works that fit the core description.

Anita Klein’s Willow (2010, silkscreen with woodblock) is one example.

Julian Opie’s Imagine You Are Driving (fast)

Olivier/helmet (Lambda print on photographic paper) is another – as are, of course, his own iconic Blur portraits, and Opie has also created quite different and equally modern works that absolutely scream of being cloisonnism by the simple fact of being stained glass.

Of these two, one could say that the Klein seems to hark back to Gauguin – if from a different period in his career – while Opie’s work looks much more like Lichtenstein.

Pitcher and Fruit, Picasso

But we don’t have to stick with the straightforwardly figurative. Take a look at Richard Woods’s woodcut, Remnant No1 (around the fireplace) from 2013. 

This is all rather intriguing on a personal level: I’ve long thought – felt, would probably be more accurate – that I didn’t ‘do’ colour.

I struggled in art at school whenever anything other than drawing was required.

In my memory, I only ‘discovered’ colour when I first saw some van Gogh in the National Gallery when I was about 19.

But it’s equally the case that I always liked cloisonné and other forms of enamel jewellery, not least because of the sheer vividness of colour.

Willow, Anita Klein

However, that’s a slight diversion.

Let’s go back to the original context of this article. It’s clear that Barry Blend’s work most definitely fits the core description of cloisonnism.

His work also fits other labels too – see my comments above about the flexibility of many schools, while I’ve noted previously that pop art, cartoon and stained glass could all be terms that would be applicable to his work.

When in Collioure last August, I gave into temptation (not difficult) and bought another one of Barry’s paintings. The Other Half, knowing my Prussophilia, was understanding.

The Red Baron touched down safely in Hackney, just down the road from Barry’s childhood home in Clapton, in September and now hangs above my workspace, where I spend a fair old amount of time just looking at and enjoying it.

Barry has a fascination for aircraft and, indeed, has also painted a larger version of the same subject, which he currently keeps in his own home.

Imagine You Are Driving (fast) Olivier/helmet, Julian Opie

But like his other paintings, the brushwork is just one fascinating aspect of his work.

Something else also struck me during the autumn.

Reading Hilary Spurling’s really excellent Matisse the Life, she makes the following observation:

“Discussing luminosity long afterwards with his son-in-law, he [Matisse] said that a picture should have the power to generate light.”

Remnant No1 (around the fireplace), Richard Woods

Of The Conversation (1908-12), Matisse’s Russian champion, “Shchukin, who first saw the painting at Issy in July, wrote that it glowed in his memory like a Byzantine enamel”.

Enamel, cloisonnism and light. There are more than a few links here.

Barry’s paintings have the same quality: they add light to a room.

September’s interview revealed Barry’s connections to a Collioure past that has now gone, linking his work with many artists who have gone before – although I’ll maintain that, if you look at other representations of the village by artists operating now, there’s nothing else remotely like his work.

But if Barry’s work has links with the past, it doesn’t dwell in the past: he creates new, vibrant images that draw on many schools, but are entirely of themselves and of him and how he sees and remembers.

Whaam! Roy Lichtenstein

And nobody should ever be suckered by their apparent simplicity. Personally, I never cease to get enormous pleasure from looking at them.

They’re far more sophisticated than one might initially think, but then that is half the reason why they’re so good.

So there we have it: a little mystery solved and, in the solving of it, a lovely array of new knowledge opened up about a school that I imagine few of us had ever heard of before.

Art in the banksy?

Bansky rat, Hoxton; sadly now gone

Banksy was on the charge in New York last month, with the aim of creating a new art work every day – although it didn’t start well, with the first one painted over within 24 hours.

But it provoked the usual sort of outbursts from some on news websites, calling for that city’s “finest” to arrest and deport Banksy (if they could find him) and then have him scrub any of his works off walls in the UK.

Goodness: how tedious some people can be.

You might not like street art, but it’s not the same as daubing ‘I woz ere’ on the local bus shelter. And neither are we talking about people stenciling something on the outside of St Paul’s.

In some areas, it brightens up rather drab and tatty surroundings. And it has the added economic advantage of being an increasing draw for visitors who want both to look and photograph.

Not that the objectors are just daft individuals trying to out conservative each other on a website.

ROA rabbit, Hackney Road

Two years ago, Hackney council decided that it would tell the owners of a building on Hackney Road to get rid of a piece of artwork from the side.

This was a rabbit by Belgian street artist ROA, who creates almost Düreresque pieces, and it was done with permission. He’s done a rat further down what is, in essence, a not very picturesque street, so such works help to give the area a welcome lift.

I actually emailed the council telling them to sort their priorities out – I like to think that that effort was influential, because the rabbit is still there, lighting up a street that is otherwise pretty dire on the eye.

In an interesting contrast to this particularly democratic art form, I’ve noticed in the last day or so that my Facebook timeline now getting spammed by Saatchi, which wants me to “invest in art”.

It amounts to them having decided what artists to promote, telling you that there’s a chance that these artists’ work might sell for lots of cash sometime in the future and wouldn’t that be a good investment?

Peeblitz; Blair – war criminal. Now painted over

It’s possibly a fairly good career move for the artists concerned, but it’s also difficult to budge the feeling that the prime motive of Saatchi isn’t one of promoting good art or actually convincing people to enjoy art more.

This is far more about Saatchi making money.

Of course, in the past, artists were at the mercy of patrons.

The 19th can 20th centuries saw the growth in importance of galleries and agents, and also of individual collectors who wielded influence – for instance, Leo and Gertrude Stein in Paris in the early 20th century.

But if we then return to street art, we can see that people can enjoy it and share it (it’s easy enough to buy Banksy prints for instance, or to print up your own photos), without some vast outlay.

Art sometimes seems to suffer from an idea of stuffiness and, of course, cost.

It’s worth noting that many of the UK’s major galleries are generally free, except for specific and temporary exhibitions.

This applies at such national institutions as the National Gallery and the Tate Modern, both in London, but also at plenty of regional galleries too.

But appreciating street art is not incompatible with admiring Rembrandt or van Gogh – and it could be argued that, as fine art has appeared to become more abstracted and, therefore, more difficult to read, the likes of Bansky fill a vacuum of artistic expression in a modern way.

Christ; crown of thorns. Brighton beach, artist unknown

Banksy isn’t alone in using street art to make political points – and street art as a whole hardly invented political and satirical art: think Hoggarth for starters (several of his works are on display in the National Gallery), but that probably upsets some of the naysayers, since the politics generally displayed in street art are hardly conservative or pastoral in nature – see the picture of Peeblitz’s Tony Blair stencil, taken on Hackney Road in 2007 and sadly painted over fairly soon after.

Although there are moments when those who are conservative about street art in general change their tune if it suits them.

My parents, for instance, thought that the Peeblitz/Blair piece was wonderful – and there was a companion piece featuring his fellow war-monger, George W Bush.

The inventiveness and quality of some street art is excellent. And to pretend otherwise is frankly churlish.

Mind, the entire New York outing included a stall set up in Central park selling original Bansky canvases for under £40.

Now that, Saatchis, is an investment. And so too are my Barry Blends – except that I have bought them for no other reason than pleasure and to lift my life on a daily basis.

And I would suggest that Banksy has far more in common, in terms of a philosophy of art as for everyone, with the likes of Matisse, who very much believed in art being for everyone, than do the Saatchis.

And that, my friends, is art.