Composing for Decomposition
Composition is the foundation upon which all forms of art are constructed. An important aspect of composition is finding a balance, or even an imbalance, by which the desire to further engage with the work is instilled. This means the artist must engage with formal concepts of composition when creating the work. It is nearly impossible in the act of creating to ignore composition; even a method of ‘chance’ is composition because it is provides a structure by which a work is formed.
Composition occurs in painting in two places: 1. within the picture plane and 2. within the space in which the work exists. In traditional approaches to painting, the picture plane, the internal space, is where the painter’s attention to composition is focused. Here composition is controlled by the painter, what happens in the space beyond the framed edge is not. For painters who approach paintings as objects, the external space beyond the picture plane becomes an area of composition too. There the artist’s compositional control is often exercised through directives on a work’s installation, or less explicitly by ways in which the work is created to engage with the space in which it exists. Either way, the artist, when creating the work, is conscious of how the work will be composed within the space in which the spectator will engage with it.
Despite the impossibility of ignoring composition, what happens in the process of painting when the painter has chosen beforehand to ‘de-compose’ the picture plane after she has painted it and subsequently ceded control of its ‘re-composition’ to the spectator? This de- and re- composition, like chance, are methods of composition; and, like chance, they do significantly alter the relational dynamics of the process and the work.
It is not unusual for artists to paint sheets of paper or canvas, then cut or tear up and create a composition from the pieces. Although this method is generally deemed collage, the handling of the painted sheets surfaces which carry color is in many ways as close to painting with dabs of paint directly on the surface. There is no need for composition when painting paper or canvas a solid hue for this method anymore than there would be when mixing the paint blobs on a palette. It is also not unheard of for painters to give little-to-no instruction for the installation of multi-panel paintings. Yet, what I am doing with the Sonata for Psyche Tattooing painting fits neither approach.
The movements of Sonata for Psyche Tattooing are not composed out of bits of paper smeared neutrally with paint. From its origins in the photographs from the series Twinning, to their digital-manipulation, through the projections on sheets of paper and subsequent drawings on top of these projections, and finally by the references back to the photos in layers of acrylic and oil paint, composition within a picture plane has been a key element of each stage of the process.
The decision to cut apart the large painting on paper, began as a responsive drawing to a projected photograph during a performance, and mount the pieces onto birchwood panels, eventually to be re-composed by someone other than myself, came at a point in the process of painting the first movement, Sonata: Allegro [Das Ding Ansicht] when the composition of that movement of the painting in relation to the picture plane, the sheet of paper, was already resolved. For me, as the artist, the leap was the decision to cut apart a resolved composition, making it nearly impossible to re-compose in the way it was prior to cutting it. This, along with the decision for the work to be re-composed by others with no hint as to order or orientation of the panels, was an intentional act of surrendering control of the work to the spectator as a means of enabling the discovery of the work’s potential beyond that pre-determined by the artist.
With the second movement, Sonata: Adagio [an sich], it was impossible to take that same leap, instead a new leap was required. This leap was how I have approached the composition and the application of the paint, with the knowledge that the painting I am painting will never be looked at the way I am looking at it. Nor will I ever look at it the way the spectator who re-composes it will look at it. This leap really changes the dynamics when you’re standing in front of the wall with brush in hand.
If the relationship between the artist-spectator is reciprocal, occurring through the engagement of each via the object, what happens to the relationship when the conditions of the object’s conception shift, destroying the ability for this reciprocity as defined by others?
At this point, as the artist, I cannot answer this question, having created a situation where I cannot face the canvas as the spectator would. This has changed the way I look at the painting as I paint; the way I have applied, removed, and re-applied the layers of paint. I have become aware of the moments when I intuitively respond to elements within the painting, when I am building relationships, almost always compositional in origins, and suddenly I am pulled back from the painting by the knowledge that the relationships I am developing will, potentially, never exist in this form beyond this moment. I then choose whether to go on or stop, sustain or destroy. At this point in the process the choice is mine to make of it what I will; beyond this it is no longer mine. Eventually it is up to you alone to find the balance or imbalance, re-compose it, and make it your own.