Getting to know Edvard Munch

The Artist and his Model 1919-21

It is rare that an artist can transform a space such as the galleries at Tate Modern; rarer still to transform you, within it, into an entirely different state of mind; and even rarer to achieve these with purely 2D media. But Edvard Munch, along with the curators at Tate, has done just that.

The new Munch retrospective opened last week, following the extremely opportune timing of The Scream 1893 auctioning, which propelled the painter to the forefront of current public interest. Not that Munch has ever really been forgotten; The Scream is endlessly parodied across all art forms. It is a shame though to think of the many disappointed faces when they realise that neither the scream is on show, nor the Madonna 1894-5, another classic Munch. However I feel quite sure that any initial frozen smiles will soon melt to real furrowed brows of concentration and absorption as visitors get whisked away into Munch’s dreamlike world.

Initially, in this William Blake-esque setting, where pronounced yet unstable verticals abound and focus refuses to submit to standard optics, you feel somewhat comfortable; as if a traveller in a pastoral narrative. Then you notice that the couple you spotted kissing tenderly is named Vampyr 1893-4, and the mother and child sharing an embrace is titled The Sick Child 1885-7. As if in a dream, comfort and menace intertwine; contrasting versions of works are displayed facing one another with you suspended in the middle, caught up in a fundamental struggle which permeates the rest of the paintings.

Vampire 1893-4

The Sick Child 1885-7

One of the most fascinating elements of this show is the photographic experimentation and documentation of Munch’s interest in the new pioneering visual machines. Photography was relatively new at the time; Kodak had developed the first mass-marketed camera in 1901 – the Brownie. The sometimes transcendental effect of the photographs, created through over-exposure and double negatives, tied in with Munch’s own curiosity about spirituality as well as giving him an outlet for self-reflection. Munch dealt with an inner struggle, a fact which is well-documented due to his breakdown in later life, and threads of these issues do seem to shine through in his work. Looking through his photographs I felt a sudden concern that these images felt inherently personal. Much like the public/private battle of Gillian Wearing, I was torn between the fascination of voyeuristic intrigue and the moral inhibition around questions of personal privacy. Did Munch want these to be on show? Some show him in strange poses, and even naked; were they intended for public consumption or were they an intimate exploration of self?

Rosa Meissner at the Hotel Rohn in Warnemunde 1907

Self-portrait on Warnemünde beach 1907

One theme which repeats throughout his paintings is that of the outward gaze. I call it a gaze, when what I really mean is a stare. Often threatening, sometimes unsettling, but usually menacing. Rarely does a figure smile at the viewer from the canvas. Paintings such as Workers on their way home ’13-14 portray frightening and aggressive stances towards the viewer. Was this how Munch saw the world? Are we the figure in the painting or is he? This motif continues in The Artist and his Model ’19-21, Murder on the Road ’19 and Red Virginia Creeper ’88-89 and creates an unsettling tension between viewer and painting. In Street in Asgardstrand ’01, the figure is there, albeit not so seemingly malevolent; but its very situation and directness still set the viewer on edge. In the background, roads and pathways regularly appear, perhaps signifying ways to escape from his own state of mind. A group of people are often nearer to the path, but the solitary figure in the foreground remains, fixed and looking out from the frame; the way is there, but only in the peripheral.

Murder on the road 1919

Red Virginia Creeper 1888-9

Street in Asgardstrand 1901

Throughout the exhibition I felt the overwhelming sense of an artist ahead of his time. Despite the obvious influence of the Impressionist movement on his work, with its veritable myriad of conspicuous brushstrokes and deep variation of tone and colour, Munch’s ability to communicate tension through style and medium is sometimes reminiscent of very modern day artists. In Self-Portrait Facing Left ’12-13, he uses woodcutting to create a representation of self-image through a series of disconcertingly violent scratches. The composition of the piece I found reminiscent of Francis Bacon, creating form and raw emotion with fast movements. No wonder they named him an Expressionist. His Kiss in the Fields ’43 is intrinsically minimalist; the natural texture and grain of the wood contrasting against the sharp, imposed scoring of the suggested coupling. This piece could sit quite inconspicuously in a modern art gallery. Another of his pieces which could easily blend into not just a gallery, but a specific exhibition, is Yellow Log ’12. Anyone who saw the recent David Hockney exhibition at the Royal Academy could not fail to spot the extreme similarity between this motif and Hockney’s newer works; the comparisons are there in colour, form, style and technique.

Kiss in the fields 1943

The Yellow Log 1912

I hope that both Hockney and Bacon, as well as many other artists, would happily admit their debt to this great painter (Hockney for one could hardly deny it). His skill in conveying memories and emotions as almost lost in that moment between dream and wake; his ability to pick out the sharp points in those hazes, whilst still rendering the featureless forms in the background with inherent purpose. Towards the end of his life these nightmarish scenarios became reality for a period during his breakdown, in this period his paintings became less concerned with faceless shadows in the peripheral and more of a confrontation with solitary mortality. His work continues to fascinate us, and not just because he provides an insight into mental illness, but because we recognise his universal struggle with the human condition.

The Hockney Hype – was it worth the queue?

You may initially think, well, it depends on how long you spent queuing. I have heard stories of people waiting for 3 hours, 5 hours, 10 hours. From dawn ’til dusk. At one hysterical point it even gained that  legendary status, usually only afforded to super-brand Apple or the new World of Warcraft game, of people dragging their pop-up tents through the sweaty caverns of the Circle Line to camp out all night. All for a glimpse of the new work produced by an artist Brian Sewell calls a ‘vulgar prankster’.

So was it worth it? Without a doubt. If Brian Sewell hated it, it means it is certainly worth seeing. Mr Sewell (ever noticed how his name sounds strikingly similar to Sewer?) is rather like a compass pointing towards a bear pit in the dark. Whatever it says, generally go the other way. I personally had a rather extreme reaction to the show and was quite overwhelmed by the scale and colour, almost bursting into tears in front of the vivid A Closer Grand Canyon, 1998.

The exhibition puts you slap bang in those glittery red shoes belonging to Dorothy just when she arrives in Oz. Technicolour wonderland. You feel as if this is what the world should be like, with a hint of jealousy that he saw it first, that this is the way he sees the world. Not only that, but that he can convey it with such abandon. You are struck by an overwhelming sense that this man has mastered his craft. Yes he is technically superb, as you can see from the stunning charcoal preparatory drawings which intersperse the paintings and provide a crystal contrast, but he is also deeply and firmly rooted in his niche. His style is obviously still reminiscent of his much earlier and most well-known works, A Bigger Splash, or Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy, for example. But the awkwardness of that sterile utopia has been replaced with a hyperactive excitement at the natural world. The natural world as it is in Yorkshire, no less. The concept of a kid in a sweetshop comes to mind; it’s there, they’ve got it, they can’t get enough of it. It makes you smile. Well, it made me smile. A lot.

Aside from being a celebration of the beauty of nature, the works tell a story. They are a study, or rather, many studies. Hockney spent countless hours meticulously photographing, recording, collecting and painting, to capture the scenery across the changing seasons. Some say the British seasons are the most wonderful, as the extremity of change creates the most striking contrasts. I would certainly say they had a point after seeing these works. Hockney has often portrayed the same scene 3 or 4 times at different times of year and the effect is startling. No more so than in the Ipad room, where a spectacular headline piece entices you into the space. I strove to ignore it and to save it for last, like my favourite food on a dinner plate, and made my way round the room full of prints. Ever the  techno-geek, Hockney took it upon himself to learn to paint on the Ipad, using a Paint app. The resulting enlarged prints are primarily, for me, a visual representation of development and exploration. They were not visually my favourite pieces in the exhibition, but then I don’t think they were meant to be. Dated by when they were completed (generally one a day, which alone is pretty amazing), they traced a very visible learning curve which was fascinating to follow. It led me clockwise around the room and to the astonishing crescendo of The Arrival of Spring in Woldgate.

The debt to Van Gogh and Picasso is clear; the exploding colours, the multiple viewpoints. They complement the theme and have been used to his advantage, but the ethos is all his own.  I wait with baited breath to see what the next ten years will bring…