Lichtenstein at the Tate Liverpool joins all the dots

In the Car (1963) Oil paint and magma on canvas

Whenever work sends me away from home for a day or so, one of the first considerations is food. Hot on its heels comes the question of whether there is any art to be hunted down.

Thus a working weekend in Liverpool instantly meant two things: at least one visit to the Docklands Fish & Chips for lunch and a look at what was on at the Tate Liverpool, which is just along the same stretch of the Albert Dock – both no distance from the conference centre where I’m working.

Arriving yesterday in mid-afternoon, a quick lunch saw me choose scampi and chips – served in a box with mushy peas, sliced lettuce, gherkins and silverskin pickled onions. I’m not convinced by this approach, so today I made a point of asking for just battered cod, two potato scallops and mushy peas.

Reflections: Art

If yesterday’s wasn’t bad, this was much better. The chips are not sensational – I still remember a fish ‘n’ chip lunch to die for in Scarborough in 2011, where the chips were double-fried properly, in front of us, in dripping – then today’s fish was absolutely superb.

And the service is as warm and friendly as you would expect north of Watford Gap.

So, what of the art?

Tate Liverpool is 30 years old this year and it’s staging a major show by Fernand Léger, together with one that pairs works by Egon Schiele and Francesca Woodman to examine nudes and self portraiture.

Water Lily Pond with Reflections

At present, however, the main exhibition is work by the British artist John Piper. However, there is also a concise, two-room show by pop artist Roy Lichtenstein. Perfect for the time-strapped and free to boot.

Having not actually seen any Lichtenstein in the ‘flesh’ – and probably because one unthinkingly knows that a comic fits in your hand easily – I hadn’t even given much though to the scale of Lichtenstein’s works or, indeed, to the mixture of media and techniques that he used.

These are big pieces – and when you realise the precision that is key to them, it’s hardly surprising. But the variety of techniques, from print-making to working with all sorts of media on canvas, to mass-produced ceramics, is the real eye opener.

Sea Shore

For instance, in Reflections: Art from 1988, we get oil and acrylic on canvas. Pretty conventional, really. But then Sunrise (1965) is porcelain enamel on steel and Sea Shore (1964) is oil paint and magma on plexiglass, while Seascape from the following year is screenprint and paper on plastic.

Then there is Water Lily Pond with Reflections (1992), a screenprint on enamel on stainless steel.

Together with Water Lillies with Cloud from the same year – it was a series of six made in collaboration with master printmaker Donald Saff – it’s impossible not to think back to Monet. Indeed, a series of four haystacks prints takes us directly there.

Seascape

Yet part of the pleasure here is in seeing the links to the past, but in conjunction with Lichtenstein’s extraordinary mastery of such a range of modern materials. And he used those materials to gain specific effects that actually add to the work, rather than simply as some sort of art geek’s technical exercises.

After moving from comic-style works to landscape and a video installation, we come full circle to finish the two rooms with Wall Explosion II (1965), executed in enamel on steel – in many ways, a work that epitomises the power that this incredibly concise exhibition packs: not everything needs to be so vast as to exhaust.

Wall Explosion II

Mixing some of these iconic comic-style works with less-expected landscapes makes for fascinating viewing.

Indeed, such is the familiarity of the comic-book images that I suspect many people scarcely even begin to imagine that Lichtenstein did anything much else.

It’s very much the case that, while those comic works are a very long way from being disappointing, the landscapes are the revelation and the unexpected delight that you come away with.

The Roy Lichtenstein artist rooms are open at Tate Liverpool until 17 June 2018

Another chance to examine the modern

Landscape of the Moon's Last Phase, Paul Nash

In between work commitments in Liverpool at the weekend, there was enough time to pop into two of the city’s galleries for an injection of art.

First up was the Walker Gallery, which is currently hosting a small exhibition of early work by David Hockney alongside its permanent collections.

Those collections include some real gems – my own highlights were a vast portrait of Henry VIII from the studio of Hans Holbein, The Viaduct at Arcueil (1898-1900), which is a very early Matisse, and Interior at Paddington (1950-51) by Lucian Freud.

Then there was Landscape of the Moon’s Last Phase (1944) by Paul Nash, which has a really haunting quality, Rembrandt’s Self-portrait as a young man (1629-31) and St John the Evangelist (about 1610-1614) by El Greco.

St John the Evangelist, El Greco

The latter is, I think, the first El Greco I’ve really looked at, and what strikes you so strongly is the modernity of it.

Cézanne’s The Murder (1867-68) was fascinating – like the Matisse, it was an early work and offers you a fresh perspective on the later, more famous paintings.

We’ll skate over the Pre-Raphelites as rapidly as I scooted past them: technically brilliant, but mawkish and overly fond of pictures of dying or dead women.

On the other hand, the gallery has a particularly large collection of modern art – partly because of links with the John Moores art prize.

On the train up north, I’d finished reading Will Gompertz’s What Are You Looking At?, a history of modern art from the 19^th century right up to Banksy.

It’s an excellent read – chatty and witty, and making some complex ideas seem really simple.

Interior at Paddington, Lucian Freud

And the Walker offered the opportunity to look at some modern works against the background of what I’d learned from that book.

A fair amount of modern art is, in essence, patterns, geometric or otherwise. Generally, I find these quite easy to view – what was interesting was later noting the piece on the wall in my hotel room: simple stripes, but pleasing and soothing sea greens, with just two pencil thin stripes of a gentle pink.

In using stripes, it reminded me of a Bridget Riley I’d seen in the Walker, which used apparently simple stripes to convey something quite different – in that case, a sense of optical illusion.

Gompertz says, 'no, modern art is not art that your five-year-old could do’. And that is a pretty good illustration of just why.

Some of the exhibits still left me rather cold and/or bemused – a collection of step ladders from Yoko Ono is just one example.

But there are other works that I liked very much.

Mirage, Michael Raedecker

Mirage by Michael Raedecker, for instance, won the John Moores in 1999. Raedecker incorporates different materials in his works, such as thread where you might otherwise expect paint.

This is a piece that draws you into to a fascinating landscape that seems to hark back slightly to Dalí, but without the figures.

Emin's Bed, The Little Artists

I really liked Automobilia (1972-73) by Peter Phillips, which is a collage of super-real details of various classic cars – and I have long been a sucker for the gloss and superb technique of super realism.

And then there was the Lego version of Emin’s Bed by The Little Artists, John Cake and Darren Neave, which isn’t simply amusing, but begs questions about just what constitutes art.

The Hockney exhibition was interesting – a series of etchings provide a fascinating insight not only into the artist’s early work, but also into a world before the decriminalisation of homosexuality.

Automobilia, Peter Phillips

And it’s also interesting to see early examples of Hockney’s famous swimming pool paintings, including Peter Getting Out of Nick’s Pool from 1966, which won the John Moores competition the following year.

The following day, after work, I had a small window of opportunity in which to nip into the Tate Liverpool to see the Art Looking Left exhibition.

Given time and a certain tiredness, it was very much a dive around, but if nothing else, I was determined to see David’s The Death of Marat (although it’s one of the copies he had his studio staff make).

Peter Getting Out of Nick's Pool, David Hockney

It’s not an exhibition to run around, but demands the time to read some extensive exhibit notes and even do a spot of participation. It does, however, seem to be dominated by block-printed posters and there are only so many I can take.

On the other hand, there’s some Rodchenko’s Constructivist works and some Bauhaus exhibits, which were all worth seeing.

After that, I toddled off back to the hotel to slump.

But these had been two interesting gallery visits – albeit brief.

I would note that, if you're in Liverpool, the Walker Gallery is well wroth a visit – there's something for everyone.

And in combination with Gompertz’s excellent book – and I really recommend it, especially with Christmas on the horizon (but even without) – these two visits had offered a chance to improve my understanding of modern and contemporary art.

Chagall – modern master of mystery

Paris Through the Window, 1913

Alcohol was involved, but even given a beer or two, I cannot recall ever having seen a grown man – and a rather cynical one at that – almost in tears as he described an art exhibition to someone else.

But that was precisely the reaction as someone (and no, it wasn’t The Other Half) described the Liverpool Tate’s exhibition of works by Marc Chagall to a colleague.

Most particularly, it was a reaction to two paintings by the artist, representing himself and his wife, Bella.

The first of these was Lovers in Blue from 1914, when Chagall returned to both Russia and his finance after three years studying and working in Paris.

Then in Promenade (1917-18), he pictured Bella flying above him like a kite, moored only to the Earth by holding his hand.

Promenade, 1917-18

For my acquaintance, both of these paintings conveyed a depth of love and joy that left him profoundly moved.

Now I won’t try to claim that the exhibition had that sort of impact on me, but it is most certainly fascinating and, if you get the chance, well worth a visit.

One of the things that the Tate Liverpool has captured is a real sense of the evolution of Chagall’s style.

This journey begins, in effect, with a 1910 painting, Birth, and another, of same title, with theme and very similar composition, from 1911.

The difference, though, is substantial, and reflects the surge forward in style that a move to Paris brought with it.

The former is a scene of Jewish peasant village life that Chagall had grown up surrounded by in Vitebsk, in what is now Belarus.

The second doesn’t have that sense of place, but is less a ‘primitive’ representation and far more an Expressionist one.

In both, though, the main figures remain the mother, the midwife, the father and the infant.

The Yellow Room, 1911

Further paintings from the same era follow, including several nudes. One of the interesting things to note here is that, a look back at the 1910 Birth has the new mother’s genitals visible, bloodied.

The later version has the mother’s leg bent up so that her genital area is hidden.

And this is repeated in many more of the nudes on display at the Tate Liverpool, even though, in 1913’s Nude in Movement (above right) the use of the hand to cover the genitals almost makes the painting appear to be of masturbation.

Yet in a painting of two male nudes from the same era, there is no effort to cover the genitals.

I and the Village, 1911

But by this time, the modernity of palette and the style are clear, with influences of van Gogh, Matisse and various others also visible.

Chagall took all these, absorbed what he needed and discarded the rest. It’s a journey that reminded me of that of Survage, which we discovered last year, moving from classicism to Cubism and then back, with differences woven in.

For me, two of the highlights were Paris Through the Window, from 1913, and I and the Village, from 1911, both of which have a playfulness and whimsy that is a substantial difference between Chagall and the Surrealists.

So many of Chagall’s images are fantastical, and he twists reality and loads his canvases with symbolism, but it’s a different subversion of reality than, say, that of Dali or Magritte.

And with the latter in particular, the use of planes is fascinating. In 1911's The Yellow Room too, he plays with perspective and colour – and there are echos here of van Gogh.

Lovers in Blue, 1914

Another thing that struck me: not only in Lovers in Blue from 1914, but also in Self-Portrait from 1913 from the same year, is how feminine Chagall made himself look.

Taking the former, if you didn’t know the work or didn’t read a description of it, you’d be hard-pushed to know which figure is the man.

And with the self-portrait (not in the exhibition, but in Tate Introductions: Chagall that I picked up later), it’s hard to view it as a ‘conventional’ representation of a heterosexual, non-transexual male.

Self-portrait, 1913

So was Chagall deliberately representing himself in a feminine way here – or not so deliberately?

Not only are there several representations of motherhood in this exhibition, these are works that are, on occasion, influenced by the icon art of Russia.

But while Chagall’s Jewish background is often at the forefront of discussion about him and his work, Vitebsk’s population was roughly half and half Jewish and Christian (Orthodox), and there are plenty of nods to both those cultures in his work, and to their linked beliefs and relationships.

Departure for War, 1914

One of the paintings on view features the Christ family within the setting of typically Chagallian village. The twist here is that the baby Jesus sits on Joseph’s knee and is bearded, while Joseph is clean shaven.

This is also where we cross into works that are far from having the life-affirming quality that often seems to be central to views of Chagall.

In Departure for War (1914), for instance, the woman not only looks like a Madonna, there is something sensual too, as the departing soldier appears to be kissing her breast, which has a cross on it – an act that again nods at motherhood.

War, from 1964-66, equally offers plenty to consider – and once more we tip into a number of different things. One theory is that this represents that Holocaust.

What we can see for certain is that it pictures a village in flame, together with villagers fleeing, some in a cart.

The dead lie in the snow, arranged as though to echo the crucified Christ figure on the right of the canvas; a naked woman stands in the flames, arms raised – unusually, genitals unhidden, and with a lick of flame appearing almost to penetrate her.

War, 1964-66

Close by, is a goat – a figure that occurs frequently in Chagall’s work – and a symbol in Judaism for atonement and in Christianity for Satan/the damned.

Another woman lies in the snow, holding a young child and cradled by a further figure, while yet another woman is seen in the foreground with another infant.

Behind the cart is a figure that recurs in Chagall’s work, a man in a long coat, with a cap and carrying a sack over his shoulder.

He appears too in the snowy scene, Over Vitebsk (1922), where the Tate Liverpool’s notes suggest that he may represent the Wandering Jew. He also crops up in White Crucifixion of 1938, which has the crucifixion at its centre, with representations of persecution all around it (this is not in the exhibition, but from Tate Introductions: Chagall).

The Soldier Drinks, 1912

In The Soldier Drinks from 1912, a soldier’s cap is blown off by a blast outside, while the tiny figures below suggest the importance of memory: in the soldier’s case, a precious moment with a woman flashes before his eyes, as he feels the danger so close by.

What this exhibition leaves you with is a sense of the mysteries of Chagall’s work – so saturated is it with symbols and with a sense of myth and tradition, that’s it’s difficult to read.

And for all that Promenade is a joyful representation of a relationship (and he pictured himself soaring with Bella more than once), and for all that paintings like I and the Village have a lyrical quality, works like War are visions of something very different, and seem to be asking questions about just what our traditions and myths and symbols can cause.

But that is the benefit of being able to visit an exhibition like this, and getting the chance to view a substantial body of an artist’s work, rather than a couple of pictures among many by other artists.

One of the coups of the exhibition has been to get Chagall's murals for the State Yiddish Chamber Theatre, now at the State Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow, to Liverpool, where they dominate a room.

The exhibition is essentially chronological, and this room follows the likes of Departure for War and The Soldier Drinks, and is itself followed by War. 

This roller-coaster of life is as good an illustration of anything that in Chagall’s case, his work is complex and multi-faceted and ranges across human experience. Encompassing everything from my acquaintance's response to the pictures of war, Chagall's oeuvre cannot simply be described as 'folk art', but has a universality that explains its continued appeal.

And the Tate Liverpool has done an excellent job in providing an opportunity to experience that – and all without a single ceramic or sculpture or stained glass window.

Top-notch scallops and a rather sad sandwich

Scallops – but not the fish 'n' chippy sort

As the week chugged on, I nearly reached the point of singing ‘In me Liverpool Home’ – mostly because The Other Half ‘sang’ the chorus the other day, only to discover that I knew at least one of the verses.

Mind, it made a change from the semi-constant Beatles soundtrack that is in my head – probably because of walking past the entrance to The Beatles Story so regularly over the last five days.

But setting that aside, there have been a range of food experiences over the last few days that call for a little comment.

First up, Tuesday night’s dinner for our particular conference staff team.

We had been booked into the Hanover Street Social brasserie and bar. And jolly nice it proved to be.

From a very sensibly-sized menu, I started with sautéed king scallops with cauliflower purée and pomegranate, and a golden raisin and caper jus.

First, let's point out that the scallops were superbly cooked.

It was, in many ways, a very sweet dish. But this is entirely a natural sweetness and enormously pleasing. A dish full of really lovely tastes.

For my main course, I kept a theme going and opted for pan-fried duck breast with celeriac purée and a golden raisin jus. It should have come with sautéed potatoes too, but I asked them to substitute asparagus instead, which they did.

And that was when the trouble began.

There we were, waiting for our food, when our waitress came over and explained that there’d been an ‘accident’ with my dish and they were having to cook it from fresh again.

The ‘accident’, it materialised, had occurred when one of the restaurant's other diners had walked past my dish and somehow contrived to get their hand into my grub.

It then became clear that the culprit was one of our own table.

I mention no names, friends, but let’s put it like this: I was the lone Manchester City fan at the table. That criminal was the only Manchester United fan.

The prosecution rests.

Of course, it meant that my main course was somewhat delayed. But the restaurant then told me that it was on the house because of the wait.

They didn’t need to do that – it hadn’t been their fault. But it was appreciated and the sign of a good business.

Anyway, the duck was also most enjoyable. We were stuffed by the end of two courses, so nobody bothered with a dessert. But it’s fair to say that that was the meal of the week.

Wine, incidentally, was a white Cuvee Jean Paul from the Languedoc – and very pleasant it was, with notes of elderflower and grapefruit.

It’s also worth noting that, certainly when we were there, the music was at exactly the right sort of volume not to make conversation difficult.

On Monday, having pigged out at the chippy at lunch time, we’d had a bar snack in the evening, and it was much the same on Wednesday night too, having met a friend for a larger-than-usual lunch.

The Egg Café

That lunch had got us away from the conference centre, the Albert Dock and Liverpool 1, and saw us make our way to The Egg Café, a rather hippyish veggie café just off Bold Street.

To be frank, it was a relief to get away from all the immaculate steel and glass and gloss.

I had a cream cheese and leek frittata with assorted salads. And it was very enjoyable too. The Other Half said that his tomato and basis soup was very good.

The bar food in the evening was also pleasant enough – in my case, a double portion of battered prawns with chilli dipping sauce, and a (small) portion of chips. It was all I needed.

A note on other food points at the hotel: it has been excellent to have an egg station at breakfast – poached and fried eggs done fresh.

But why do hotels really not make it such a logistical test to toast a piece of bread, butter it – and then take it to get eggs or beans on top?

I have to admit to being a little sad with my efforts one morning at making a jam sandwich.

Given that I didn’t have the chance this week to go in search of the fabled jam butty mines of Knotty Ash, I thought I'd pay homage at breakfast. But it didn’t live up to the memory of childhood jam butties, even though it was thick slabs of factory bread and, of course, strawberry jam giving a thick line of red contrast between the white.

And now for a couple of slight niggles.

Everyone knows that, in a hotel, the drinks will be expensive. However, that the cost of drinks at the Hilton, Liverpool was a somewhat smaller fortune than the charges for the iBahn internet service, which advertises itself as “super fast”.

Someone should have a word with trading standards. I tried it on our first night (having paid the minimum sum for the minimum time available), and it was akin to a trip down memory lane to the days of dial-up modems.

I haven’t bothered since. £6 for an hour, £15 for a day and £75 for a week would be rip-off prices even if it was a genuinely fast service. This is simply taking the piss.

I do want to say that every single member of the hotel staff that we have come into contact with was delightfully helpful and friendly. A problem with the iron in our room that had been caused by a previous guest was sorted out quickly and in an entirely acceptable way.

The room itself was comfortable and quiet.

But I was somewhat irritated to discover that, if one is putting anything on the room bill, and one adds a tip in the section that allows for that (the box that says: 'gratuity') that tip does not go to the staff who you are actually intending to thank.

Dear hotel – that is naughty. The general understanding that people have of tipping is that it is something that they do, voluntarily, to reward specific staff for particularly good service. They do not do it for the cash to go into some sort of pot (if that is what happens) or the company profits.

But the lesson is quite simple. I will tip in actual cash in future and will not tip by adding a gratuity to the room bill, so that there is no danger of such money, given voluntarily, going where it is not intended.

And on that note, I'm back off darn sarf: never in the history of human kind has a woman so looked forward to finding herself covered in cat hairs.