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Bartha Contemporary - sequential gestures 

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Bartha Contemporary - sequential gestures 

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I'm doing some googling for interesting exhibitions and come across this one. I go see it. I like the idea of repetition as a subject matter.

Stefana McClure’s subtitle-based pieces stuck with me maybe because it reminded me that sometimes the doing is more important than the result.

Repetition as a way of staying with something. Not trying to resolve it, just returning to it. I feel like that’s what I’m doing in the studio lately too, circling, layering.

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This weekend was largely dedicated to refining my contextual essay. I spent a lot of time developing the content, which turned out to be quite revealing. It helped me recognise that my artistic journey over the course of the Graduate Diploma has followed a far more coherent path than I had previously acknowledged. What sometimes felt fragmented or ‘random’ actually reveals a consistent movement - one of dissolution. While I’m pleased with the substance of the essay, I found the process of presenting it visually quite difficult.

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From law to art - from structure to 'surrender'. I decide to make a frame around the essay with 'dissolves'. I thought this was an interesting way of conveying the journey visually. I work on this way longer than it probably needed to - I make dozens of attempts.

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She suggested, as part of my research, to ‘get out of London and be in nature.’ This worked out. We went to spend the weekend in Sussex, where I was able to take some walks in the woods.

I found these structures while on my walk which struck me in their beauty and feeling. Like small huts made of sticks, they seemed both delicate and purposeful, as though they had been carefully constructed yet abandoned to nature. This was inspiring to me...I tried to draw them, inspired by their mysterious presence. I enjoyed how they seemed to exist in a liminal space, neither entirely natural nor entirely human, embodying the themes of concealment and revelation that I explore in my work.

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Notes, thoughts and results (creative or not) of Lectures and/or workshops.

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During the Christmas period, I created sketches and paintings inspired by the ideas of 'portals' and 'standing stones,' concepts I explored in the Artefact project.

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Weeks 19 and 20 have felt strange...quiet, as everyone has been occupied with tutorials, and for me, solitary. I spent most of my time closed off at home, painting, grappling with my thoughts, and striving to articulate a coherent visual language.

Despite my efforts, Monday and Tuesday were particularly frustrating. No matter how much I painted, I couldn't achieve the outcome I was searching for.

The issue seems to lie in the subject itself. My intention has always been to present a subject that resists immediate recognition, encouraging the viewer’s interpretative instincts and desires. However, in Term 1, I moved away from this by working with large areas of black. These black forms retained "edges" (enough to pull the viewer in and make them question what they were seeing): it was crucial that they remained distinct.

I never wanted them to dissolve into mere abstract gestures, which could too easily be dismissed by viewers familiar with abstraction. Instead, the black had to hold its presence as something more defined, something that demands engagement rather than easy categorization.

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I’m particularly drawn to this piece it feels slightly different from my previous work. In this one, I used color as a form of shading to give the shape a sense of three-dimensionality, whereas I usually use color to create 'auras,' as we discussed last semester. I like this direction and think I need to explore how these shapes can exist in a fully 3D form.

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Part of me still feels unsatisfied with these images, which makes me think I need to push myself further and find a new direction. I’ve noticed a recurring tendency to cover the entire canvas in black, almost as if I’m trying to erase or obscure something. It feels like I’m circling the same ideas without fully breaking through. I know something needs to shift....there’s a tension I need to resolve, a new space I need to discover within my practice.

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I came across Ian McKeever’s work and I'm intrigued. His use of layering creates a sense of atmosphere, yet the paintings still maintain solidity. There’s a tension between opacity and structure that echoes with what I’m trying to navigate in my own practice.

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Sentinel X | Works of Art | RA Collection | Royal Academy of Arts

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This is one of McKeever’s ‘Sentinel’ group of paintings (2003-5), which were first exhibited at the Alan Cristea Gallery in 2004. In Sentinel X, the artist explores effects of translucency and opacity, light and darkness, things delicate and powerful, near and distant. The finest membranes of colour appear to fold in on themselves, as if opening or closing around an inner light source that seems to emanate from the centre, the whole floating on a pool of black.The title ‘Sentinel’ implies a state of watching and waiting. McKeever has written: ‘Paintings stand still before our eyes. In looking at paintings the task is not to understand them, nor to read meaning into them, but to accept them as experience, to ‘be’ with them and begin from there.’ [Ian McKeever, ‘Painting is not a Flat Art’, from In Praise of Painting – Three Essays (University of Brighton, 2005) based upon three lectures delivered at the University of Brighton and Cambridge University].McKeever has also spoken of his desire that, in an age where the impact of digitalised imagery is often little more than the visual equivalent of the fast-food industry, painting might yet return both maker and viewer to a slower, deeper, even replenishing experience of temporality: ‘In painting a painting one does not set out to paint what one knows, but rather tries to touch those things which one does not know and perhaps cannot be known. Implicit in the unknown and what we cannot know about paintings, is a stillness and silence. Our lives are now flooded with images which remorselessly bombard us with what we ‘should’ know, and which steal our time. Perhaps one of the things which paintings can do for us, if we are prepared to be still in front of them, is to give us back our own sense of time and the independence which goes with it.’ [Ian McKeever, ‘Painting is not a Flat Art’, from In Praise of Painting – Three Essays, published by University of Brighton, 2005; based upon three lectures delivered at the University of Brighton and Cambridge University].At the beginning of the twenty-first century McKeever was also working on his Four Quartets, a series of sixteen paintings divided into four groups (corresponding with T.S. Eliot’s series of poems). The ‘Sentinel’ paintings (and their corresponding works on paper) relate to the ‘Here’ group from the Four Quartets. Equally in the way that an inner light seems to radiate out from the paintings, the ‘Sentinel’ paintings form part of a clear development from McKeever’s earlier ‘Door’ paintings to the ‘Sentinel’ and ‘Here’ groups, which all manifest this quality.

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This has been an incredibly important week for me, a genuine turning point in my practice. Interestingly, this shift seemed to emerge from pure exhaustion and desperation. Over the weekend, I spent countless hours drawing, drawing, and drawing. I tried to paint, but nothing felt good to make. I felt stuck, disconnected from the work.

However, as I reflected on the feedback I received for my Unit 1 work, I began to see a thread running through my practice. I was told that my charcoal paintings were "particularly striking," a comment I’ve heard before. My soft pastel works, too, seem to elicit a strong reaction. Encouraged, I picked up some new soft pastels from Cass Art during a trip to town, determined to explore further. I began to work, over and over, letting the pastel work with me and allowing its blurred effect to unfold naturally. This effect, I realized, wasn’t something to fight but to embrace.

Similarly, I returned to grinding charcoal I found on the forest floor, letting the material sing on its own terms. Why had I been so focused on defining everything? Why had I resisted the softness, the blurred edges, and the imperfections? This week, something shifted within me. I moved into the practice with a new openness, letting the materials speak. The soft pastels blurred and smudged; the charcoal spread unevenly. And yet, this felt right. The materials, in their unpredictability, began to guide me.

This week has taught me the importance of stepping back and listening—to myself, to my work, and to the materials I use. By surrendering control and working with the medium rather than imposing my will upon it, I’ve found something new, something genuine. It feels as though my practice is finally beginning to sing.

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This week (partially inspired by the concept I was chasing for the presentation of my essay), I returned to working with found charcoal, experimenting with how the powder could be thrown or moved across the surface to leave behind traces; fragile, unpredictable marks. While some of the results were visually interesting, I found myself questioning the purpose behind this line of exploration. It felt more like an experiment for the sake of novelty rather than a meaningful extension of my core practice. I realise just how strongly I’m drawn to oil painting and I'm having success. Why am I not allowing myself to follow that path.

Letting go of the charcoal felt like a quiet but important decision, a way of refining my focus as I move into Realise. Painting, not just as a medium but as a mode of thinking, is where I want to be. That clarity feels grounding.

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START OF COURSE - Unit 3 Investigation Lecture 06/01/25

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START OF COURSE - Unit 3 Investigation Lecture 06/01/25

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Today we are introduced Unit 3 and the idea of developing a project for the next six weeks which lies at the core of our interests and practice.

Off the top of my head - I would like to explore

mystery - mystery of land? Of interiority?

earth - as a metaphor for the past and/or subconscious.

Divination and ‘occult’ practices - in line with the above.

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Untitled, Paintings, Mixed media on canvas, 88.13 x 70.89 in. (223.9 x 180.1 cm.)

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Vivian Suter’s work reflects on integration of art and nature, challenging traditional ideas of artistic control. Her practice involves surrendering her canvases to the elements, allowing rain, mud, leaves, and even animal interactions to leave their mark. This approach embodies a philosophy of collaboration with the natural world, viewing it as an active participant in the creative process rather than a passive backdrop. By relinquishing control and embracing unpredictability, Suter presents a model of coexistence and mutual influence between humans and the environment, highlighting the interconnectedness of life and art.

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Last semester i delved into concepts around our relationship with the earth. More specifically, I was interested in the ways we ‘read’ the ‘messages’ of the amorphous which occur in nature.

Note: a huge inspiration was artist Solange Pessoa.

In line with these thoughts, in a break, I started exploring the idea of making paint with the earth of the different homes I have had throughout my life. As symbols of secret keepers.

I emailed the woman that leads this course to see if i could take her course or if she could direct me towards appropriate sources for the art of pigment making.

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How to create handmade watercolor paints from foraged pigments.

What is better; paints made from foraged natural pigments or mass-produced store-bought paints?

Everything is derived from nature, unfortunately, today we are living in a world that is driven by consumerism. Imagine walking through a forest or climbing a mountain, and foraging for pigments to make your own paints just like how it was done in the bygone era, instead of going to an art supply store and purchasing a mass-produced tube of paint. It is indeed very convenient getting paint supplies from an art store but is it as salubrious as what nature has to offer us? The answer is simple No!

The labels on paint tubes never provide us with information about how something was made, the origin of raw materials, who produced it and under which conditions, what it contains and what impact did it have on our environment during the manufacturing process! Honestly speaking, no one even thinks about any of this because modern society today has become disconnected from nature!

After dabbling with store-bought colors for a little while I came to a realization that art supplies are notorious for remaining tight-lipped about the content of their paints. You don't know what chemicals are in your paint unless they carry extreme health risks warning on the label or if you are a nerdy scientist like me who will go down to the bottom of it! These kinds of warning labels indicate they are toxic to you and should, therefore, be handled with care. I am yet to come across a label that indicates the toxicity of the contents of a paint tube to our environment and other life forms. This means, in art studios all across the world, artists often have no inkling of what they are using to produce art or the impact of those materials on the environment. Hence, I embarked on a creative journey of making my own watercolor paints from foraged pigments and practicing sustainability in creating art as well!

"Connect with the earth"

Making a connection with pigments in their wild habitat!

Working with natural pigments is a transformative process that establishes a unifying relationship between you and the Earth. Getting familiar with pigments in their wild habitat and how to ethically forage them has the potential to profoundly shift your art practice.

The beauty of nature inspires reconnection with our own essence. It awakens the senses, allows us to tap into what is sacred in all things present in nature, and experiences our own connection to all we behold.

Given these realities, as a serious practitioner of creating sustainable art, I am on a journey looking for better ways to practice my art, art that does not require me to consume, pollute, or create demand on our fragile ecosystems!

In this post, I will share with you my passion for making watercolor paints from foraged pigments. What is remarkable about this process is that each landscape is unique: your own land's color palette will depend on its geological features.

As you forage for pigments and transform them into paints, you know exactly what goes into making a paint, where it came from, and lastly, they can all return back to the earth without having any destructive effect!

The ancient craft of Pigment Making

Natural pigments are literally everywhere, and if you travel and spend time in nature, you can find a wide variety of colors. Most of these are colors of the earth; colors of soil, clay, sand, or stone. To date, I have collected quite a few pigments from my travels in the last couple of years. It is a joy creating art with nothing but dust! Art that you can connect with!

Foraging for natural pigments in the wild?

Before you head out and begin collecting pigments you must develop consciousness and make a deep connection with the Earth. While foraging for pigments in nature make sure you are abiding by the laws and are not causing any ecological damage. Pigments can often be found in exposed edges of streams, rivers, and lakes; the water will expose clay banks and stones, making it easy to find pigments.

Anywhere that a lot of rocks are exposed is potentially a good site to pick up some pigment stones. Because you require pigments that are easy to process, especially when you are starting out, good pigment stones are fairly soft. You can sometimes tell a good pigment stone by rubbing it against a hard surface. If it produces something that looks like paint or clay on the surface, it is likely a very good candidate for making paints.

Rocks such as sandstone, shale, muscovite, etc. can also be processed, but the processing is a lot more tedious. Harder stones may be worth processing, especially if they have unique colors. Clays can make good pigments, but not always; you can dig them out, let them dry, remove any large or hard rocks or organic matter and grind them after levigation. Each geology and ecosystem has something different to offer you, and it requires a lot of experimentation.

Materials like soot and charcoal also make for great pigment sources. Soot produces more of a warm black, while charcoal produces a cool black. Charcoal black is obtained by carbonizing (charring) wood. It is very stable as are all carbon blacks and is absolutely lightfast and compatible with all other pigments. I collected some wood charcoal from a bonfire on a trail run in Upper Austria and transformed it into beautiful granular black paint. However, one must remember that incomplete combustion of wood results in the formation of toxic hydrocarbons. Read here for more information.

One of the best candidates for paint is the ochres. Ochre is the specific term for a pigment that comes from iron oxides and iron-based minerals, clays, and soils. So generally, ochres are common minerals found world-wide that contain varying amounts of iron and oxygen.

A short tutorial: Foraging for natural pigments.

How to make natural pigments

To prepare your pigments, you will need to ground the pigment candidates finely while not breathing in any dust. Before proceeding you must adhere to safety regulations. Connect with the energies of the earth during this process and embrace the time it takes to do this. I use the following approach:

1. Breaking rocks into smaller pieces

First, break the rocks into pieces that can be finely ground using a mortar and pestle. I use a hammer and a thick plastic sheet on which I break the rocks. Break the rocks as fine as you can using this method. This process must be carried outside and by wearing a respirator/NIOSH mask.

2. Grinding

Grind the pieces using a pestle and mortar until you have achieved a very fine powder. This process may be a bit difficult if you are not used to it. Therefore, before commencing make this process easy by breaking the pieces into smaller sizes with a hammer.

Sifting is the most critical part of the pigment-making process. The goal is to attain the finest particles possible. You can sift multiple times to get a fine grind by using a sieve with very fine mesh. I use old pantyhose to get finer particles.

The process of grinding and sifting is really an art form in itself, some are easy to do, and some are quite difficult-depending on the material. It requires patience and is a very meditative process.

An alternative method of refining pigments is through the process of levigation. Read here for more information.

Finally, paints are created by mixing pigments with different additives. Depending on the additives pigments can be transformed into oil paints, pastels, acrylic paints, watercolor paints, and/or tempera.

Handmade watercolor paints are made using a binder that is made from gum arabic, honey, glycerine (optional) distilled water, and clove oil (natural preservative). Read here about the safe working practice during the paint-making process. It is all about experimenting and figuring out what works best for you.

Once your paints are ready you can start creating art that expresses how you feel, something that you can connect with, art that makes you happy and is sustainable!

I am every bit enthralled by the process of making my own watercolor paints from the found treasures of the beautiful Earth. I hope this post has inspired you to pursue the same creative voyage!

"One must see nature as no-one has seen it before"- Cezzane

If you want to learn more, check out my new online course, a comprehensive guide to foraging and making natural pigments.

Online Course: The Pigmentum In this course, you will learn how to safely and ethically forage for natural pigments, how to identify, process, and transform an assortment of colored rocks and soils into beautiful and unique artist-grade pigments. Disclaimer: Not every natural material is harmless. This includes mineral pigments and earth colors, which may contain hazardous components. When working with fine mineral dust, it is recommended to use a respirator or dust mask. It is advised that one must consult with the local authorities about the geological features of an area. The author may change the contents of this document at any time, either in whole or in part.

1. https://shop.kremerpigments.com/en/rezepte/detail/diy-backyard-watercolors-from-stones?id=26

2. https://www.connect.ecuad.ca/~vsager/FNDT%20150%20Spring%2012/earth%20pigment.html

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How to make natural pigments from foraged raw resources

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Learn the ancient craft of Pigment Making. I will show you how to collect and process natural pigments, make paints and sustainable art.

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These three works represent the most resolved moments of my NYP and Artefact projects. Each of them touched something fundamental in my practice (material, form, and atmosphere) but in very different ways.

The sculpture was the most materially ambitious piece from Artefact as I've never worked with sculpture before. Despite its symbolic alignment with my themes (subsoil, subconscious, unknowability) it didn’t feel like mine. There was a disconnect between the idea and the making.

In contrast, the drawings and paintings from NYP offered something more immediate, more felt. I was really pursuing not form for its own sake, but presence, a surface that feels like it’s holding something back, inviting yet withholding.

Coming into Investigate, I decide to move away from sculpture. This isn't a rejection, but a narrowing. I wanted to go deeper rather than wide. I’m focusing now on painting and drawing, especially through processes that evoke ambiguity, estrangement, and the edge of recognition.

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We were asked to write a series of words, then a poem , and then work within a group to make a product based on each other’s work.

Emilio, Benedicte and I read each other’s poems and then crested the above composition by taking turns on each paper.

This exercise emphasised the following:

1. Thinking through making (not overthinking the poem, the words, etc)

2. The power of collaboration as a means of developing and exploring one’s own work.

Important to keep both in mind as I delve into new project.

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Research

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Results of experimentation and creative explorations. Final outcomes and tests.

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Quick research session at lunch - how to make pigments.

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Quick research session at lunch - how to make pigments.

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Making pigments from earth involves a few basic steps:

1. Gather Soil: Collect soil or clay with the desired color from natural sources.

2. Clean and Sift: Remove debris (stones, roots) by sifting through a fine mesh or cloth.

3. Wash: Mix the soil with water, stir, and let it settle. Pour off the water to separate fine particles from heavier impurities.

4. Dry: Allow the cleaned, fine particles to dry completely.

5. Grind: Crush the dried material into a fine powder using a mortar and pestle or a grinder.

6. Mix with Binder: Combine the powdered pigment with a binder like oil, egg yolk (for tempera), or gum arabic (for watercolor) to create paint.

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I would like to make acrylic because it seems that this type of paint is best against yellowing and decaying especially when made yourself.

I am concerned about the plastics of this. I email the technical team to see if there are alternatives.

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we fold paper and recontextualise shape created.

Main takeaway:

1. Thinking through making

2. Recontextualisation (i.e. seeing the subject through different lenses) will change its purpose, meaning, message.

To keep in mind when entering new project.

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This was a first, FAILED experiment in making pigments. All I did was pick some earth from a potted plants and mixed it with acrylic medium.

The final effect was spread out didn't create any colour and the medium merely functioned as glue. The type of earth is wrong.

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This was an attempt at a painting inspired by some of the works I’d been researching online...an object or shape (echoing ones I made last semester) veiled in a kind of fog. In the photograph, it actually looks intriguing. I can see now that it might’ve worked. But at the time, I wasn’t happy with it, and I erased it. A shame.

I think what bothered me was the feeling that I was covering something up, rather than letting the form dissolve from within. Though honestly, that’s just conjecture.

This was a hard week. I wasn’t happy with anything I was making. It’s a reminder of how much my mental state shows up in the work, even when I think I’m pushing through.

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I watched The Complex Abstractionism of Pierre Soulages because I wanted to better articulate my constant use of black—a color I am deeply drawn to but perhaps don’t fully understand. What struck me most was how Soulages isn’t solely focused on black but equally on light. Alan Badiou’s commentary resonated with me, especially when he explained that we often think of black as an interruption or a negation, as though darkness merely falls over the light of day. Soulages, however, inverts this relationship, reminding us that it is from darkness that light emerges—that light comes first from within the black. This idea has made me reconsider my use of black, not as an endpoint but as a medium through which light, and by extension understanding, is revealed.

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The Complex Abstractionism Of Pierre Soulages (Full Documentary)

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I tried mixing earth and charcoal into acrylic medium to make paint.

Last term I discussed at length subjects that hold a kind of primal presence i.e. things that exist before language, that don’t need to explain themselves.

Collecting soil and charcoal from the ground felt like a way of collapsing the distance between the internal and external; between the act of seeing and the experience of being in the world. It wasn’t about symbolism, but about anchoring. About using matter that already belonged to the earth, and asking what happens when it’s folded into a mark. It was an intuitive gesture, but one that echoes the questions I’m still asking: What can a material hold? What does it mean to make something speak without it ever saying anything?

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So I created a painting. I was inspired by a documentary I watched on Pierre Soulages, where he spoke about light more than black, which I found fascinating given that he only paints in black. I thought it would be an interesting experiment to create depth in the shapes I often depict.

What I ended up painting was somewhat inspired by the sticks I found in the woods, put together to make a hut. However, they’re painted in such a way that it feels like we’re only seeing a fragment of a larger structure. My intention was to create tension within the viewer because it’s unclear what is being depicted....is it a creature? Is it natural or mechanical? That ambiguity was the idea, to evoke mystery and invite interpretation.

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I used oils (which is unusual for me), but acrylic dries too quickly and doesn’t allow for the proper blurring and blending of colors that I wanted to achieve. There’s also the fact that acrylic is fundamentally plastic, which feels at odds with my ideas and inspirations.

I must say, I really thrived working with oils. They were a genuine pleasure to use. While it’s not my first time using them, I’ve never fully committed to the medium before. For some reason, this time felt different, like I had finally unlocked their potential.

When I mentioned it to my mother, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Oils? Aren’t they too difficult?” I suppose that’s part of why I’ve avoided them. Even though my mother doesn’t paint, she somehow manages to influence my choice of materials all the same.

That said, I don’t think I’ll be going back, despite the toll it might take on my wallet.

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With all these thoughts in mind, I started exploring the idea of the sublime as a bridge between the emotional and the conceptual. The ecological sublime caught my attention, particularly its capacity to evoke both awe and fear simultaneously, a duality that aligns with the sublime’s traditional definitions.

I’ve been reflecting on this in relation to the upcoming essay, where I want to engage with ideas from the Decarbonising Practice lecture.

An article on Barnett Newman’s “The Sublime Is Now” resonated with me, especially his argument that modern art can evoke the sublime without relying on past conventions of beauty. Newman’s use of scale and simplicity to create overwhelming emotional intensity feels particularly relevant to my current work. I’m curious about why his ideas keep reappearing in my research and how they might inform my exploration of concealment and revelation within the ecological sublime.

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Michelangelo knew that the meaning of the Greek humanities for his time involved making Christ-the man, into Christ-who is God; that his plastic problem was neither the mediaeval one, to make a cathedral, nor the Greek one, to make a man like a god, but to make a cathedral out of man. In doing so he set a standard for sublimity that the painting of his time could not reach. Instead, painting continued on its merry quest for a voluptuous art until in modern times, the Impressionists, disgusted with its inadequacy, began the movement to destroy the established rhetoric of beauty by the Impressionist insistence on a surface of ugly strokes.

The failure of European art to achieve the sublime is due to this blind desire to exist inside the reality of sensation (the object world, whether distorted or pure) and to build an art within the framework of pure plasticity (the Greek ideal of beauty, whether that plasticity be a romantic active surface, or a classic stable one). In other words, modern art, caught without a sublime content, was incapable of creating a new sublime image, and unable to move away from the Renaissance imagery of figures and objects except by distortion or by denying it completely for an empty world of geometric formalisms-a pure rhetoric of abstract mathematical relationships, became enmeshed in a struggle over the nature of beauty; whether beauty was in nature or could be found without nature.
I believe that here in America, some of us, free from the weight of European culture, are finding the answer, by completely denying that art has any concern with the problem of beauty and where to find it. The question that now arises is how, if we are living in a time without a legend or mythos that can be called sublime, if we refuse to admit any exaltation in pure relations, if we refuse to live in the abstract, how can we be creating a sublime art?
We are reasserting man's natural desire for the exalted, for a concern with our relationship to the absolute emotions. We do not need the obsolete props of an outmoded and antiquated legend. We are creating images whose reality is self-evident and which are devoid of the props and crutches that evoke associations with outmoded images, both sublime and beautiful. We are freeing ourselves of the impediments of memory, association, nostalgia, legend, myth, or what have you, that have been the devices of Western European painting. Instead of making cathedrals out of Christ, man, or "life," we are making it out of ourselves, out of our own feelings. The image we produce is the self-evident one of revelation, real and concrete, that can be understood by anyone who will look at it without the nostalgic glasses of history.

* Excerpt from "The Ides of Art, Six Opinions on What is Sublime in Art?", Tiger's Eye (New York), No.6 (15 December 1948), pp. 52-53.

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Barnett Newman, "The Sublime Is Now," 1948*

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Michelangelo knew that the meaning of the Greek humanities for his time involved making Christ-the man, into Christ-who is God; that his plastic problem was neither the mediaeval one, to make a cathedral, nor the Greek one, to make a man like a god, but to make a cathedral out of man.

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Sublime Destruction: Barnett Newman’s Adam and Eve

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Sublime Destruction: Barnett Newman’s Adam and Eve

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https://www.tate.org.uk/art/research-publications/the-sublime/philip-shaw-sublime-destruction-barnett-newmans-adam-and-eve-r1140520

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Philip Shaw, ‘Sublime Destruction: Barnett Newman’s Adam and Eve’ (The Art of the Sublime) | Tate

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New Socialisr - Ec-politics of the sublime

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New Socialisr - Ec-politics of the sublime

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https://www.newsocialist.org.uk/eco-politics-sublime-nature-environmentalism-and-covid-ecology/

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The Eco-Politics of the Sublime: Nature, Environmentalism, and Covid-Ecology

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by Enis Yucekoralp // A conception of the sublime, liberated from its racist, sexist and domineering classic form, should form a part of any ecosocialist imaginary.

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https://www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/20057557.pdf

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Christopher Hitt, Toward an Ecological Sublime, New Literary History, Vol. 30, No. 3, Ecocriticism (Summer, 1999), pp. 603-623

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What tipe would you give yourself as a note taker?

prioritise flexibility and versatility in whatever system you evolve

Apply layers of intervention - revisit, revise, extend…

Develop a system of personal coding to suit your purposes

Realise that your notes are a launchpad for writing

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Actually take notes.

Focus on one method - it’s insane how many notebooks/chats are ongoing. No idea where anything is.

Perhaps think about noting immediate responses without worrying for them to be fully developed thoughts.

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For the Epic Fail lecture, I brought in my painting with the tentacles. Honestly, it feels like a failure because I spent over six hours putting it together, and it just doesn’t work. First of all, it feels flat, which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to achieve. Compositionally, it doesn’t scratch that part of my brain I need it to; there’s no sense of satisfaction or resolution. Aesthetically, it feels off, and that’s such a hard thing to deal with. How do you even begin to address something that just feels wrong?

I’ve been thinking about the lecture led by Wiebke, where we looked at how paintings tell a story and convey a sense of temporality. This painting feels so "even" that it nearly resembles a pattern. There’s no evolution or progression within it...could that be why it feels unsatisfying to me? It’s frustrating, but maybe this lack of narrative or movement is what I need to explore further.

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Last weekend, I traveled outside of London and unfortunately missed Monday’s session, during which the class visited a former Grad Dip student’s exhibition. To catch up, I made a point to see it on Saturday.

I found the work compelling, as Amy uses organza as a canvas in a way that resonates with my own approach last semester (i had picked Voile as a material). However, while I focused on layering, her work seems to emphasise the inherent qualities of the material itself; its delicate nature, fluidity, and susceptibility to tearing. I especially appreciated the contrast created by the canvas structure at the back, which established a striking dichotomy between hardness and softness.

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Although these paintings weren’t to my taste, they were thought-provoking and made me question aspects of my own practice.

I’ve been focused on creating shapes that feel like fragments of a larger, unseen structure, designed to evoke mystery, curiosity, and perhaps even frustration in the viewer. Kevin’s work seems to explore a similar approach, yet I didn’t experience the emotions I aim to elicit through my own pieces. This has left me uneasy, as I can’t help but wonder if these paintings are exposing a weakness in my conceptual framework.

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Francis Bacon,Portrait of John Edwards, Oil and aerosol paint on canvas, 1988

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Francis Bacon - National Portrait Gallery

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Francis Bacon - National Portrait Gallery

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I went to see the Francis Bacon exhibition, mostly because I felt like the last person in London who hadn’t, but it affected me more than I expected. The use of colour (red, black, dark blue, and strikingly, green) really stuck with me this time seeing Bacon. What struck me most, though, were the "boxes" in his work: boxes around heads, black door-like boxes framing his subjects. These, juxtaposed with the blurred faces and bodies, emphasised the mental states of his figures, capturing the tension between confinement and distortion.

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Soulages, Peinture, 23 mai 1953, 1953 Oil paint on canvas (photo taken in Tate modern)

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...In the context of mystery and perception, black becomes a metaphor for the unknown, the hidden layers of experience and truth, waiting to be illuminated. It reminds me that what we seek to understand often begins in obscurity, and it is through this obscurity that clarity is born.

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This work in progress emerged through a process of applying materials to the canvas and then erasing them. Technically, the canvas is empty, yet I keep returning to it, drawn to something unresolved within it. I find myself wishing I hadn’t changed it. The way the turpentine settled...falling from the top and pooling in the centre...unexpectedly suggests the presence of a cube. This illusion fascinates me; it wasn’t intentional, yet it holds my attention. I keep coming back to it. Should I explore this further?

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https://gallery.jrileystewart.com/the-power-of-mystery-in-images/

J. Riley Stewart’s article highlights how mystery in images captivates viewers by engaging their imagination. Mystery balances familiarity and novelty, inviting curiosity without becoming unrelatable. Artists can evoke mystery through techniques like shadows, unique perspectives, or archaic processes, encouraging deeper emotional and intellectual engagement. This approach makes art more compelling and memorable.

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Mystery is inherently tied to the sublime, as both deal with the limits of human comprehension and the tension between what is known and what remains hidden. Immanuel Kant, in his Critique of Judgment, describes the sublime as an encounter with something so vast or powerful that it overwhelms our sensory and cognitive faculties, leading to a mixture of awe and fear. Mystery, in this context, serves as a catalyst for this experience by withholding full understanding and forcing us to grapple with the unknown.

Edmund Burke, in his Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, emphasizes the importance of obscurity in evoking the sublime. He argues that when something is not fully revealed, it stirs the imagination and heightens the emotional impact. Mystery, therefore, becomes a key element in creating the sublime, as it leaves space for the mind to fill in gaps with its own interpretations, amplifying the sense of wonder and terror.

Martin Heidegger also touches on the role of concealment in his concept of aletheia, or truth as unconcealment. He suggests that what is concealed, what remains mysterious, can be just as significant as what is revealed, particularly in our experience of being. This idea resonates with the sublime, where the unknown becomes a profound and transformative force.

In these philosophical frameworks, mystery is not simply the absence of clarity but a powerful mechanism that deepens our engagement with the sublime, inviting us to confront the limits of our perception and understanding.

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Prep sketch which developed in painting -->

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Prep sketch which developed in painting -->

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While watching the Soulages documentary in, I was struck by this black painting presented as the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Having just explored the monolith in Artefact, this moment felt like a confirmation, that I was still circling the same mystery, but through a new language.

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Phanton (2025) Oil on canvas, 60 x 90cm 

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This painting feels like a genuine success; a culmination of my recent experiments with new methods and materials. Like the subjects I explore, it functions as a kind of portal, opening into a new visual language that I’m eager to develop further.

Building on my experiments with soft pastels, I decided to pick up a paintbrush again because, ultimately, I love to paint. But this raised a question: should I treat soft pastels as a medium worthy of its own exploration, rather than just a preparatory tool for painting? That thought lingers, yet for this work, I turned to oil paints.

The idea of using acrylics (what Ive used thus far) feels completely foreign to me...almost incompatible with my process. Acrylics dry too quickly; they don’t allow for the fluid, evolving nature of thought and feeling that accompanies my painting. Oil, on the other hand, is slower, more demanding, more nuanced...qualities that, in many ways, mirror my own sensibilities. In this sense, oil is not just a material choice but a conceptual alignment; it accommodates uncertainty, revision, and the passage of time in ways that resonate deeply with my practice.

The composition emerged rapidly. So quickly that I didn’t even have time to document its evolution. What excited me most was the realization that oil paint could translate the same emotions and sensitivities I had been discovering through soft pastels. This was the first time I truly proved that to myself, and in doing so, I confirmed something essential: medium is not just a vehicle for expression, but an active participant in shaping meaning.

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What makes this painting feel even more significant to me is the presence of my own handprints...ghostly imprints left behind in the process, like echoes of my body within the work itself. They are neither intentional nor accidental; rather, they exist as remnants of touch, traces of my presence that dissolve into the surface yet refuse to disappear entirely. This physical mark-making feels deeply tied to the act of painting as both a gesture of presence and an acknowledgment of absence...something left behind, yet no longer fully there. It’s fitting, then, that I named this painting Phantom. The handprints act as spectral reminders of the body’s interaction with the medium, blurring the line between creator and object, between the ephemeral and the permanent. They carry the idea that painting is not just about what is depicted, but about what is felt...what lingers in the layers of material and memory.

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Prep sketch which developed in painting -->

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Prep sketch which developed in painting -->

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After the joy of creating Phantom, I quickly moved on to a second composition. Without much deliberation, I chose one of my sketches as a starting point. Last semester, I spent a great deal of time thinking about portals as anchors for interpretation and imagination, and I can see echoes of that thinking in this sketch. In many ways, it reflects my earlier fascination with the symbology of divination, though I have noticed that this interest is gradually fading. I am not entirely sure why, but I wonder if it is less a matter of abandoning divination and more about integrating its underlying logic into my process in a more organic way. My focus remains on visual anchors—forms that invite meaning without dictating it—which, in a sense, mirrors the function of divinatory symbols.

This painting, unlike the previous one, was a slow and demanding process. I worked on it extensively, reworking areas repeatedly. At one point, I became fixated on the way the image resembled a pillow, not because I take issue with painting a pillow, but because I do not want my forms to resolve into recognizable objects. I want them to remain as suggestions, hovering between presence and ambiguity. To counter this, I focused on dissolving certain sections, creating moments where the object seems to emerge and disappear, revealing itself while simultaneously retreating. I am not sure I fully achieved this—the form still reads as a pillow—but the piece has received a lot of positive feedback, so I am not inclined to discard it.

In this painting, I also revisited some of my earlier methodologies around auras, using points of light from behind the form to imbue it with a sense of significance or even divinity. This technique subtly signals to the viewer that there is value in the object, drawing them into a space of contemplation. It suggests that meaning is present but not explicitly defined, inviting interpretation through the act of looking itself.

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J. M. W. Turner
Snow Storm - Steam-Boat off a Harbour's Mouth, 1842

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Turner’s use of smudged and blurred paint strokes was revolutionary for its ability to convey movement and emotion rather than precise detail. By dissolving clear boundaries in his compositions, Turner captured the ever-changing qualities of light, atmosphere, and motion.

This approach broke from the traditional emphasis on realism and instead evoked a visceral emotional response in the viewer. His innovative technique paved the way for Impressionism and modern art, transforming how artists could use abstraction to express the sublime and the ephemeral.

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Michaël Borremans, Red Hand, Green Hand, 2010. 

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Michaël Borremans - artist reference - EXCITING!!!

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Michaël Borremans - artist reference - EXCITING!!!

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Through my research, I came across Borremans recently, and my mind was blown. His paintings feel like glimpses into a world where something inexplicable is unfolding, rituals that seem both familiar and alien, tethered to reality yet detached from it. His figures inhabit spaces that feel staged, their gestures hinting at purpose without revealing intent, creating an atmosphere of quiet unease. There is a sense that meaning is just out of reach, existing in the space between recognition and enigma. This is precisely what makes his work so compelling...his ability to construct a visual language where mystery and suggestion do the heavy lifting.

I think what excites me most about Borremans is how he fabricates meaning through distortion and ambiguity. While he operates within figuration, I want to achieve something similar through abstraction. I want to evoke that same sense of a ritualized, unknowable world, but without the tether of the human form. His work shows that even in figuration, what is left unsaid, obscured, or uncertain is often what resonates the most. My challenge is translating that effect into abstraction, creating spaces where presence, concealment, and transformation work within form itself rather than through recognizable figures. There is something incredibly exciting in that pursuit, and his work has only sharpened my sense of what I am trying to do.

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Michaël Borremans, Mercy, 2017. Oil on canvas – 280 x 205 cm. 

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Michaël Borremans - artist reference - EXCITING!!!

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Michaël Borremans - artist reference - EXCITING!!!

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Lately, I have been thinking about Michaël Borremans’ use of the cone and how it exists somewhere between reality and abstraction. It feels like a tangible object, yet it resists clear meaning, almost like a prop in an unknown ritual. This has made me question whether I could explore something similar in my own work. I am interested in the idea of introducing a recurring form that serves as an anchor within my compositions, something that suggests presence but remains elusive. Given my ongoing exploration of portals, concealment, and transformation, I am considering how a shape could shift across different works, appearing in new contexts and taking on different meanings through repetition and variation. This could be a way to bridge my interest in abstraction with the kind of eerie familiarity that Borremans achieves.

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other artists - 'engaging with discipline'

don't worry about mentioning theories/authors in passing so long as they are 'explained'/referenced.

see the writing as part of practive / see it as an extension to the portfolio

idea: shift from 'rigidity to fluidity' VISUALLY in indesign

don't forget word count on pdf

1350

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revisiting prime ideas to define the project

reengage and define

In Loving Memory of Work - charcoal

remember that you will nor bring everything forward within the statement of intent

if you would see your work somewhere today - where would it be? Look at their visual language.

ill ford photographic paper

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Blind Time IV (Drawing with Davidson), 1991

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This lecture was very enjoyable and in line with my ongoing artistic enquiries. We were prompted to make compositions with our eyes closed, an exercise that felt relevant to my interest in intuition, concealment, and revelation. I found the process fascinating, not only because of the unpredictability it introduced but also because it heightened my awareness of how perception operates beyond sight. At first, I instinctively translated the shifting colours I could see behind my eyelids into marks on the page, as if my body were responding to a residual visual field. When I became aware of this, I deliberately shifted my focus towards my emotions, allowing them to guide my gestures instead. This shift interests me because it connects to my broader exploration of how internal realities, whether subconscious impulses, bodily memory, or deep-seated truths, manifest in physical form. It also speaks to my ongoing engagement with the tension between control and surrender, presence and absence, materiality and the unknown. The exercise reinforced my belief that there is something primal and real within us that operates beneath intellect, an internal world that can be accessed through process and making. This is something I want to investigate further.

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Night as Time to unfold other sensations beyond vision

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Night as Time to unfold other sensations beyond vision

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we should would even try and write, we should all do it for ourselves, its very healthy, because its the only place where we never lie. At night we don't lie.

Now if we think that our whole lives are built on lying- they are strange buildings- we should try and write as our dreams teach us; shamelessly, fearlessly, and by facing what is inside every human being-sheer violence, disgust, terror, shit, invention, poetry.

In our dreams we are criminals; we kill and we kill with a lot of enjoyment. But we are also the happiest people on earth; we make love as we never make love in life.

Helene Cixous

Fiction and its Phantoms: A Reading of Freud's Das Unheimliche

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I’m including this quote by Hélène Cixous which was shared with us at our lecture on the senses because it touches on something I’ve been circling in my work: the idea that darkness (whether emotional, psychological, or literal) is not something to be avoided, but a necessary space for truth, release, and transformation. Her words align with my thoughts around divination and the unseen, and remind me that 'night' is not just absence, but presence. This connects with the visual and conceptual darkness that runs through much of my recent work, where I’ve tried to hold space for the unknowable and the unspeakable.

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Although I abandoned the idea of divination in my most recent update, I had an unexpected thought in the middle of the night. I remembered something from my childhood, an encounter with a woman who taught me how one could read the future by throwing oil into water. I later learned this practice is called Lecomancy. She was a local of Calabria, someone who worked on the land, deeply connected to the rhythms of nature. There is something in this memory that feels significant, something I can’t quite shake.

That night, lying awake, I wondered what if I could capture the movement of oil on paper? Could I preserve its ephemeral patterns, the way it disperses, shifts, and forms uncanny shapes in water? The thought compelled me to experiment. I started playing with materials, eventually developing a small recipe: water, a bit of Zest it, and a drop of oil color. The results were unexpectedly compelling. The oil moved in unpredictable ways, forming marks that felt organic, almost like traces of a hidden language. It wasn’t just about the material reaction, it was about the act itself, the process of watching something unfold, as if nature were divining its own meaning.

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This is a relatively large painting (100 x 100 cm). The image emerged naturally through the process of painting, revealing itself as I moved the brush across the canvas. Looking back at my sketches, I can see traces of a drawing from my walks in the woods last week, as well as the sense of freedom I explored during the Blindfolded exercise.

What’s particularly interesting about this work is my use of charcoal to define the image. I then manipulated it with oil paint to create a more unified surface, something I hadn’t tried before. Using an oil stick might have been an alternative, but I’m working with what I have, and charcoal was at my disposal. It turned out to be a fascinating material in this context. It allows me to smudge the lines while still preserving their original marks. It’s an incredibly intuitive medium, and I became so absorbed in making lines that I didn’t want to stop.

I consider this painting successful for several reasons:

1. It works propositionally. This is especially important because the canvas is square, and I find that achieving the right proportions on a square surface is unexpectedly complex...for reasons I can’t quite explain (some kind of black magic, perhaps).

2. The figure appears organic but remains unidentifiable.

3. The figure draws the viewer in. Is it an entrance? Is it simply a shadow?

Each of these elements feels significant in the development of my ideas, particularly in how I navigate the balance between control and intuition, material constraints and discovery, and the interplay between presence and ambiguity.

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Wraith, oil and soft pastel on canvas, 100x100

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Interesting outcome which I foolishly destroy

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Interesting outcome which I foolishly destroy

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'wraith' came to me so quickly I didn't even make any photos of it coming to life - in conjunction with it I came up with this composition.

I created a circle of sorts (in an attempt to reproduce the 'portals' from last semester) and then, changing my mind, tried to erase it and ended up with this...

For some reason I ended up destroying this piece. What a shame. Looking back, I think its very powerful. why did I do that?

I am still attached to the idea of needing to have 'object' in my work - never quite able to let of it completely.

Erasure becomes central in the technique process.

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While passing time on campus this Monday, I decided to experiment with cyanotypes. I had a faint memory of this process producing interesting, diffused images, so I approached the UV machine with that in mind. Nearby, I noticed a pile of textile scraps and instinctively gathered some. Rather than overthinking composition, I wanted to embrace chance...simply scattering the objects and seeing what would emerge.

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The element of chance in the cyanotype compositions was compelling. I didn’t initially recall the precise machine settings, so my first attempt was made without the vacuum. Ironically, this produced the most intriguing results. Without the pressure holding the objects tightly in place, a subtle halo effect emerged around them...a kind of 'light shadow' that blurred their edges. This quality resonates with something I have been seeking in my paintings, the sense of an object simultaneously present and dissolving, both fixed and elusive.

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Using the print as a starting point, I developed the following composition. Yet, I still feel a certain unease with my methodologies, as though my process remains somewhat contrived. There is an awareness of intention in the making that I have not yet fully reconciled. I am unsure whether this stems from self-consciousness, the weight of decision-making, or a deeper negotiation between control and surrender. But there is something fascinating in how an ordinary thing (something tangible and immediate) becomes mysterious when transformed through process. It is as though the act of creation distances it from its original reality, allowing it to slip into a more ambiguous, almost unknowable state.

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This was a series of experiments where I tried pushing further into abstraction, seeing how far I could go before the image lost its hold. I was interested in what happens when form dissolves.

how much structure does a painting need to keep the viewer inside it?

Using soft pastels, I let the marks emerge spontaneously, but I kept questioning whether they were enough.

Without an anchor (something for the brain to latch onto) the work risked feeling like pure gesture rather than an invitation into ambiguity. Through making, I realized that I don’t want my work to be just abstraction; I need that balance between dissolution and recognition. Even when pushing things to the edge, there has to be a threshold, a point of entry. This way of thinking has stayed with me...how much can I take away before a painting stops feeling like a space of tension and just becomes surface?

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Unanchored 1, 100 x 100 cm, oil and soft pastel on canvas

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This painting is "good" in the sense that it satisfies me aesthetically, but it doesn’t fully meet my conceptual needs and that in itself is exciting. At times, I’ve questioned whether my conceptual framework was substantial enough or if it was too arbitrary, but working through these pieces has reaffirmed that I am actively engaging with a real and ongoing conversation within my practice.

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After working on these pieces, I revisited Cy Twombly, drawn to how he engaged with similar methodologies. scratchy, seemingly random marks on canvas. What struck me was learning that his work wasn’t just about spontaneity; many of his paintings are direct parallels to classical depictions of war and history. He wasn’t just making marks he was trying to capture the energy of those subjects in a way that bypassed literal representation.

This made me reflect on my own work: if I’m resisting purely gestural abstraction, then what is the energy or subject I am trying to capture? How does something abstract hold weight beyond the aesthetic? Looking at Twombly through this lens made me think differently about my own impulses maybe abstraction isn’t just about dissolution but about distilling something essential.

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After revisiting Cy Twombly, I became more aware of how abstraction can hold historical weight. This led me to look at classical painting myself, returning to Caravaggio, my favourite, and reflecting on his use of shadow. As I explored further, I came across TENEBRISM, and I began thinking about its role not just in creating drama, but in structuring perception and engagement.

Tenebrism isn’t just about light and dark; it’s about what is revealed and what remains obscured. I see a strong parallel between this historical use of shadow and my own interest in ambiguity, concealment, and perception. The darkness in my paintings isn’t empty but charged with potential (hopefully) inviting the viewer into an image that resists immediate comprehension.

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Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, The Calling of St Matthew, 1599–1600
Contarelli Chapel, San Luigi dei Francesi, Rome, Italy

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I’m drawn to how tenebrist paintings are filled with symbols that require deciphering, creating a tension between what is perceptible and what is just out of reach. This aligns with my own approach, where objects and forms hover between recognition and mystery, where meaning is suggested but never fixed. In a contemporary landscape where everything is over-explained, hyper-visible, and instantly retrievable, I find myself thinking about mystery as a form of resistance. Like tenebrism, my work doesn’t hand over its meaning immediately; instead, it asks the viewer to linger in a space of uncertainty. I am interested in how the act of looking itself can be active rather than passive . By exploring darkness, ambiguity, and partial revelation, I’m thinking about how painting can reclaim the power of the unknown in a time when so little is allowed to remain mysterious.

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I started thinking about USE. whether an image that suggests function or purpose can add another layer to my work, beyond what is already embedded in the mode of painting Itself.

Rather than relying solely on ambiguity to generate interpretation, could the suggestion of an object create a more complex dialogue between form, perception, and recognition?

I made two drawings; one of a chair, one of a cube. The chair felt like a particularly strong symbol, possibly because of its inherent associations with presence, absence, and use. It also brought to mind J oseph Kosuth’s One and Three Chairs, where a chair is presented as an object, an image, and a definition forcing the viewer to consider which representation carries the most ‘truth.’ In my case, I’m interested in what happens when an object is only suggested rather than fully depicted. does it still function as a stable reference, or does it dissolve into something more abstract?

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The cube on the other hand, carries a different kind of ambiguity. It’s loaded with suggestions of space, containment, and orientation.

These questions bring me back to my ongoing concern with perception, concealment, and instability. how much do we infer from the suggestion of an object alone?

This feels like an important moment in my practice, where I’m questioning whether abstraction needs a foothold in the suggestion of something functional to hold space for deeper engagement.

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This line of thinking led me to this piece, and I love it. I think the work is strong. The tension between the emergence of shape and volume and its simultaneous disintegration within the same space feels fully aligned with my conceptual concerns.

This piece satisfies both the need for structure and the need for dissolution, holding them in balance.

I’m also becoming increasingly proficient with this methodology of painting (a combination of soft pastel, oil, and the deliberate use of a large, heavy paintbrush (visible in the image).

The weight of this brush isn’t incidental; it’s essential to achieving the effect I’m after. The physicality of the tool allows me to manipulate the surface in a way that feels intuitive yet controlled.

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Robert Motherwell
Elegy to the Spanish Republic No. 110

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Motherwell - Artist and Theory reference 

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Motherwell - Artist and Theory reference 

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I am intrigued by Motherwell’s ability to create shapes that remain entirely abstract yet evoke a sense of 'story' and 'language.' The recurrence of certain visual motifs in his work makes me question whether their repetition suggests meaning beyond mere form. Could repetition itself function as a kind of language—a way of constructing significance through recurrence rather than direct representation? This is something I find worth considering.