A surreal dream of an exhibition at Tate Modern

It is rare that you visit an art exhibition and come away with both a sense of having been thoroughly entertained, yet also feeling that you’ve seen a work of revolutionary scholarship and been thoroughly schooled too.

But the Tate Modern’s new blockbuster, Surrealism Beyond Borders, nails on both of those counts.

 

Personally, I’ve long liked some Surrealism very much – and some considerably less so. But I’ve also seen it as a very European school, and indeed, a very masculine one. And the iconic status of Salvador Dalí as the popular leading Surrealist has also left me with a sense of it being a tad on the political right.

A perfect illustration of at least some of this is the one book about the school in my personal art library. Surrealism, written by Cathrin Klingsöhr-Leroy and edited by Ute Grosenick for Taschen, was first published in 2006. It is worth noting that the latter has worked on at least one title for Taschen specifically around women artists.

 

Now, it is a slender volume, made up of short pieces about specific, important works in the school.

 

Thirty-five works are featured, by 18 artists. Five are by Dalí, with four each by René Magritte, Pablo Picasso and Max Ernst. Of the artists here, only Meret Oppenheim (a single work) is female. Only Matta (Chile), Wilfredo Lam (Cuba) and Man Ray (USA) were born outside Europe. Of these, only Matta didn’t die in Paris.

 

So for instance, no Leonora Carrington or Dorothea Tanning.

 

Tate Modern has long been working to rectify some of this: its 2019 Tanning exhibition was excellent.

 

But however basic such Taschen guides are intended to be (and that basic nature does not mean that they are not good), this all feeds an idea of a movement that was almost entirely European – indeed, almost entirely centred on Paris, where poet André Breton penned the Manifeste du surréalisme in 1924 – and predominantly male.

 

Wrong. Wrong – and then wrong again. As this extraordinary exhibition makes quite clear. 

 

Indeed, the very title of the exhibition, Surrealism Beyond Borders, makes that point – that this is not just about geo-political borders, but about sex and gender ones too.

 

With Surrealist groups in Japan, South America and Egypt, it can hardly be seen as  exclusively ‘European’. And it is most certainly not a predominantly male thing.

Co-produced by the Tate Modern and New York’s Metropolitan Museum, we open with Marcel Jean’s Armoire surréaliste (Surrealist Wardrobe, left) from 1941, when he was trapped in Hungary.

It is both of and painted on wardrobe doors – complete with real keyholes – and has an impossible double landscape behind those parts of it that are open. It is classic trompe-l’œil, stunningly executed; a real mind messer and arguably precisely the sort of thing that I have most relished about Surrealism for years – superb technique in a super-realistic approach, married with a dreamlike subject.

 

On the same themes, it’s why I have loved Giorgio de Chirico’s works since studying art for A’ level. And Magritte too, though I have had very few chances to see works by either of them in real life and away from the printed page or digital image.

 

Here, we have de Chirico’s Le rêve de Tobie (The Dream of Tobias) 1917 (see final picture in this post) and Magritte’s La durée poignardée (Time Transfixed) 1938, both of which are wonderfully, gloriously executed.

 

Incidentally, as the Magritte is framed and under glass, you can get very up close and personal to it at this exhibition – and it is worth doing so, because the brush work is absolutely sensational.

 

These were personal highlights because they were works not seen before ‘live’ by artists I personally love, but there were plenty of new discoveries that were highlights too.

 

For instance, from 1961 we have Remedios Varo’s autobiographic triptych – brought together here for the first time in years – showing her strict Catholic upbringing (left), a group of female artisans weaving a mantle for the world (one – how apt for these times – masked) and a depiction of the artist and a friend leaving Spain for Mexico.

 

It is fantastical – and (as observed by The Other Half) harks back to Bosch and Bruegel, yet is utterly different from anything we’d seen previously of their work.

The exhibition also includes Fantomerne by Danish artist Rita Kernn-Larsen (second picture from the top), which she created after the shock of witnessing a drowning.

 

Then there is the anti-colonialism of Malangatanta Ngwenya’s Untitled from 1967.

 

Perhaps the major revelation is of Surrealism in Japan – Kikuji Yamashita’s The Deification of a Soldier, from 1967 (see below), is astonishing; a visceral response to the artist’s own experience as a Japanese soldier in WWII. There are other works by Japanese artists using Surrealism to express the horror of the war. All of them are absolutely worthy of inclusion in this exhibition – they are not present for the sake of it.

Yet Koga Harue’s Umi (The Sea) from 1929 (see top picture) is a lovely, upbeat work bringing together images that he had collated from magazines and postcards, presenting a positive future.

 

Then there is Laurent Marcel Salinas’s Naissance (Birth) from 1944. Born in Egypt – that there was a Surrealist group based in Cairo is just another revelation here – he signed a 1938 group manifesto, Yajya al-fann al-munhatt/Vive l’art dégénéré (Long Live Degenerate Art).

 

As only a slight aside, I was delighted – albeit rather surprised – that, at this point, the curators didn’t feel the need to point out the ‘degenerate art’ was a Nazi description for any art that didn’t fit their rather limited view of the world.

And in keeping with moving away from a very limited idea of Surrealism, in this exhibition, there is just one work by Dalí – his lobster telephone, while both Carrington and Tanning have works included.

There are two works by Picasso – it's difficult to see how Les Trois Danseuses (The Three Dancers) 1925 really fits, but Composition au Gant (Composition with Glove) 1930, certainly does.

However, even if the former doesn’t really ‘fit’, its inclusion still raises an interesting question of the overlaps and similarities between Surrealism and Cubism. Similarly, de Chirico never identified as a Surrealist, yet it’s difficult for any viewer looking at his works not to see him as one.

And Tanning has in other places (indeed, another Taschen book), been categorised as producing “fantastic art”. But what is Surrealism if not ‘fantastic’?

And here you have a perfect illustration of why this exhibition, is not simply called Surrealism Beyond Borders, but genuinely goes beyond the previous borders erected around the school, whether formally or informally.

 

The last time that The Other Half and I visited an exhibition was in May 2021, but the Tate Modern’s Making of Rodin was a tad disappointing. However, it had felt safe – timed entries so no overwhelming crowds and, of course, face covering.

This still felt safe, with continued timed entry and at least half people wearing a face covering. What it also did was succeed in being a really excellent exhibition.

• Surrealism Beyond Borders is at Tate Modern in London until 29 August 2022.

 

Haring exhibition shows what 'pop art' can be

Untitled (Apartheid) 1984

It’s not uncommon to visit an exhibition and find something that you didn’t expect. More rarely, though, is visiting an exhibition that goes way beyond the unexpected and offers something revelatory.

The Keith Haring exhibition, which opened last month at Tate Liverpool, is in the latter category.

Knowing I would be in Liverpool for a week for work, I’d done my usual and checked what was on art wise in the city.

There was an exhibition of Charles Rennie MacIntosh at the Walker (on until 26 August), but it’s a push to get the time, during a particularly intense working week, to get that ‘far’ from the conference centre.

Mickey Mouse eyes

However, the Haring exhibition was scheduled to have just opened at the Tate, which is only a short walk away from where I would be working, so it was a simple matter of remembering to pack my Tate membership card.

I was familiar with Haring’s simple figures – pop art’s answer to Lowry’s stick figures. In the 1980s, you couldn’t miss them – they were ubiquitous.

But context can make all the difference.

Here, we see works from the very beginning of Haring’s all-too-short career: the early Mickey Mouse cartoon eyes and examples of the drawings that Haring, with a deep belief in art being for everyone, executed on paper stuck up in New York Metro stations.

On a personal note – God, I remember drawing those eyes myself. Since, I’ve remembered how I drew and then drew again Mickey Mouse and more off the Disney icons.

But setting such personal memories aside, these are interesting enough and show his style evolving, but what really starts to resonate is later works.

Silence = Death

Haring rarely titled his works, so the only guideline to what he wanted to say is mostly on the surface he worked on – and his ‘canvases’ ranged from the yellow hood of a New York taxi to squares of tarpaulin.

While I knew that Haring had died of AIDS-related causes – and had, late in his life, campaigned around HIV/AIDS – I had not been aware that his political awareness had begun far earlier and went far beyond that.

Perhaps the best example of the HIV/AIDS works is 1989’s Silence = Death, a moving combination of the pink triangle and the idea of ‘hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil’.

But in terms of wider political awareness, there are works here that specifically speak out against apartheid in South Africa, while others examine the links between money and war.

An A5 page of my studies from The Matrix

Even more fascinating – and complex – are Haring’s works exploring new technologies. Intrigued by the possibilities offered by growing computerisation, the artist was also aware that there could be downsides.

It’s been suggested that Haring’s line can be compared to Picasso’s, but in it’s effortless, it reminds me more of Matisse – and indeed, many of the later works have a decorative quality, created out of densely-packed glyphs, that is pure Matisse too.

And as glyphs, they also have a sense of continuing a form of human expression that is millennia old.

The vast (and unusually titled) The Matrix, from 1983, seems at first almost abstract: it needs attention to understand anything it, so densely is it packed with ideas.

A day after my visit I returned in a lunch break, complete with sketchbook and pens. Trying to replicate some of the figures is a great way to more fully appreciate the sureness of Haring’s line.

Untitled, 1983

But back to the complexity of technology. Could aliens save us – or slaughter us? Will technology enslave us? Will we end up fucking computers or being fucked by them?

Things here are not necessarily as obvious as they seem. The last works displayed are Boschian in their nightmare view.

Equally interesting are works such as No Sin ... run off on printers, yet interestingly designed and with an eye to mass communication of an idea. 

This is the first exhibition of Haring’s work in the UK.

It’s a revelatory experience: work that built upon pop culture and pop art – Haring might have been the successor to Warhol and Lichtenstein, but he was far more grounded in the community in which he lived and worked, and in political struggle, while he also believed in art for all.

Untitled, 1984 –  no doubt a Boschian hell, though

While I have seen little Warhol and only a small Lichtenstein exhibition (ironically, at Tate Liverpool a year or so ago), I would suggest that Haring was streets above both of them.

In his work, there are what now seem prophetic questions about the nature of technology.

While the last stage of his career was bound up with his own struggle with HIV/AIDS, there is no self-pity and no mawkishness anywhere, but a boisterous sense of joy that is present in every line he executed.

In his work, Haring often dealt with death and the means – or potential means of it. Yet ultimately, this is a life-affirming journey: his work bows to nobody and no god. It is out, it is not ashamed and it is most avowedly concerned with equality for all

It is on until November and is well worth a visit.

Keith Haring is on at Tate Liverpool until 10 November. Find out more here.

Modigliani – bohemianism's poster boy

Nude, 1917

Modigliani was just 35 when he died in Paris, in 1920, of tuberculosis exacerbated by alcohol and drugs. Just after his funeral, Jeanne Hébuterne, eight months pregnant with the couple’s second child, threw herself out of a fifth-floor window.

He’d had just one solo exhibition (closed by the Parisian police after a day because of its ‘shocking’ nudes), sold only a few works – for little money – and died destitute.

If the stereotype of the self-destructive bohemian artist needed a poster boy, Modigliani would be a prime contender.

Young Gypsy, 1909

It’s fitting too that, like van Gogh, his work would only become appreciated and valued in the years after his death.

Tate Modern in London has been hosting a major Modigliani exhibition since November – it closes on 2 April – and after various false starts, The Other Half and I finally caught it, just before seeing the new Picasso exhibition in the same gallery.

The two men knew each other – but what strikes one most when seeing these two exhibitions so close together is the ferocity of their working: Modigliani over the latter part of his short career (he destroyed most of his early work) and Picasso particularly in the single year that the new exhibition seeks to shine a light on.

Both exhibitions also include works that are not the artist’s best, but which provide a deeper context for visitors.

The earliest of Modigliani’s works shown here reveal the influence of Cézanne – not least in the palette – before we reach the elongated figures that are instantly recognisable.

But one of the first exhibits, The Young Gypsy from 1909 tells us straight away where we’re headed, with its accentuated cheekbones, puckered lips and almondised eyes.

Portrait of Léopold Survage, 1918

There are plenty of these here – both nudes and portraits. In some, the line is exquisite – in others, less so, while there can be an archness in some of the portraits that helps to embed them firmly in your mind – the 1915 portrait of art dealer Paul Guillaume is a perfect example.

On a personal level, I was delighted to see that the curators had included his portrait of Leopold Survage, a fascinating artist who studied briefly under Matisse in 1905 and later followed in his footsteps to Collioure.

It’s impossible to know whether – and how – Modigliani would have developed were it not for his early death. Some art historians believe he would have gone on to much greater things, but his creativity was such that his work stays long in the mind – perhaps not least because he is pretty much impossible to categorise in terms of labels of any school or style. There is simply Modigliani.

• Modigliani is at Tate Modern until 2 April

Picasso 1932: a fascinating insight into the artist's mind

The Dream

For Pablo Picasso, 1932 was a tumultuous year. Famous and wealthy he might have been, but at 50, with his marriage to Olga Khokhlova on the rocks and already in a secret relationship with 22-year-old Marie-Thérèse Walter, he was also restless.

Playing with surrealism at the same time as trying to best Henri Matisse in the colour stakes, it’s little wonder that his critics were questioning his ability to develop new work.

“The work that one does is a way of keeping a diary,” Picasso was quoted in L’Intransigeant as saying, that June, when his first major retrospective opened.

Tate’s new exhibition, Picasso 1932, takes on this one year in the artist’s life as a way of exploring his evolution as an artist at such a crucial stage of his career.

We begin on Christmas Day 1931. Having spent the day with family and friends at his home in Paris, Picasso completed a small painting – a surrealistic take on Jacques-Louis David’s The Death of Marat (1793), with a woman killing her rival.

Woman with a Dagger

It’s difficult to see Woman with Dagger as one of Picasso’s great works, but like so much that follows it, it offers a fascinating insight into the state of his mind.

Such is the nature of the artist’s work rate that this exhibition cannot hope to include every work from that period, but there is still so much – and of such variety – as to make you wonder at the sheer ferocity of productivity.

It was a year that saw Picasso produce a series of works based on Matthias Grünewald’s Crucifixion from his Isenheim altarpiece (1510-15), at the same time as he was creating a series of Dionysian paintings of beach scenes. An intriguing juxtaposition of themes.

Nude in a Black Armchair

There are prints here, works using charcoal and works using ink; a piece made with objects stuck into the paint on a canvas – a leaf, a butterfly – together with sculpture and paintings.

The curators have also used one room to partially recreate that first Picasso retrospective, including a 1901 Blue Period self portrait, Portrait of Olga in an Armchair (1918) and Les Trois Danseuses (1925).

But at the heart of the exhibition – as so clearly at the heart of that year in Picasso’s life – is Marie-Thérèse. Initially painted anonymously, his muse becomes less hidden as the days lengthened and warmed.

The Dream may have an oft-remarked phallic side of her head, suggesting she had sex on the brain, but it is a far more tender work than that might suggest. And a series of large canvases painted that spring effectively re-invented the nude.

Marie-Thérèse is seen with pale, lilac skin and blonde hair, arranged in ways that are sensuous and voluptuous, erotic and tender, with a wonderful simplicity of line: Nude in a Black Armchair is a perfect example.

Reclining Nude

Some of these are also interesting for illustrating the influence of Matisse in the use of decoration in the backgrounds.

It’s just one of the one of the points made in Jack Flam’s excellent Matisse and Picasso: The story of their rivalry and friendship, which is very much worth hunting down.

After the success of the June retrospective, Picasso left for the Normandy coast and continued painting his nudes, with some of them appearing to have flippers rather than limbs, as though they were morphing into sea creatures – possibly a reference to the prowess of Marie-Thérèse as a swimmer.

The Rescue

But that prowess nearly produced a tragedy late in the year, when Marie-Thérèse contracted a serious viral infection after swimming in the Marne. 

And so the artist embarked on a new series of works, picturing bathers drowning and bather being rescued. Marie-Thérèse is identifiable in both of these roles.

This was not art for patrons or dealers, but art for the artist. Art as autobiography; as Picasso himself said in the early summer of that year, as a diary.

Sometimes it can feel particularly difficult to get to grips with Picasso, so vast and wide a range of work did he produce over such a long life, that while this is clearly Tate Modern’s 2018 blockbuster, it offers a welcome opportunity to focus tighter and understand more clearly.

1932 is known as Picasso’s ‘year of wonders’. And Picasso 1932 is enough to leave a deep and lasting impression on visitors and will certainly merit a return visit.

• Picasso 1932 is on at Tate Modern until 9 September.