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.

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.