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Elizabeth McIntosh and abstract painting
by Adele Weder


“Done. Not Done. Might Be Done…” by Adele Weder, Summer 2010, pp. 58-62

“Done. Not Done. Might Be Done…” by Adele Weder, Summer 2010, pp. 58-62

Elizabeth McIntosh doesn’t believe in pat endings. On this March morning, the Vancouver artist is addressing the need to finish off a new body of work for a solo exhibition at Toronto’s Diaz Contemporary in May. She’s working on several canvases concurrently, paintings that to a casual observer look ready to go. But they already bear several undercoats of skilfully wrought imagery and might assume several more before they are dubbed finished.

“This one is done,” she pronounces, gesturing toward a huge canvas of yellow stripes swimming in a blue sea. “That one isn’t done,” she says next, pointing to a canvas of finely calibrated coloured squares. “And that one,” she adds, pointing to a third canvas, “that one might be done.”

The question of resolution lies at the heart of McIntosh’s work. The idea of a predetermined end point is antithetical to her method. “I know it’s finished when I sense there’s something new to me,” she says. “It has to be a bit of a surprise, but be compositionally resolved and balanced.” It’s an explanation that allows for an infinite number of possible conclusions.

McIntosh often begins a piece by priming the canvas with a base coat of white or occasionally black gesso, then progressively fills it in with coloured shapes, though every work is different and there is no set process. For one recent painting, she let the canvas lie fallow for a week or more between coats, so that the paint could dry and cure, and so she could reflect on how to proceed. It was a complex and lengthy process, drawn out even further by her frequent pauses to figure out as she went along what hue she should next apply, or reapply, and at what precise angle.

In some compositions she inserts floating rectangles that effectively create additional “paintings within a painting.” For her, the purpose of such a gesture is not to make a statement but to make it ambiguous where the bottom of the painting lies. Once again she’s muddying up the idea of resolution.

She works in oils, which are better suited to conveying depth and gradation of tone than the all-or-nothing opaque plasticity of acrylics. When the canvas is covered, she’ll return to the starting point, and recommence a slow path around the composition, overpainting all the shapes she so carefully rendered the previous week. What she ends up with are stratified paintings, several coats deep, that project sporadic and sometimes ghostly traces of their subcutaneous layers. In this corner, a silvery white looks like a scrim over a shadowy form; in that corner, a pinkish-brown hue brushed roughly over an indigo square reads like a miniature of the northern lights.

The paintings bulge with disarming, intriguing geodesic patterns. Most of them exude not the sharp regularity of hard-edge modernism, but a kind of soft and slightly wonky quality. You think of a handmade quilt, or, as one blogger enthused, crystalline candy.

“What is really intriguing about Elizabeth’s work is the way it blurs this boundary between abstraction and representation,” says Christina Ritchie, director of the Contemporary Art Gallery in Vancouver. “There’s always this sense of permeation going on.” For an upcoming exhibition at the CAG, McIntosh will present a selection of paintings in one large room, and use the other as an architectural container for a huge wall collage. The collage will become both the space and a representation of the space.

This boundary-blurring characterizes her paintings as well. In her studio is a work called Untitled (Table), a 2005 oil on canvas that portrays, or so it seems, a table. Specifically, it is a view of a table’s foreshortened underside as you’d see it when lying splayed out on the kitchen floor after a Saturday night gone awry. Or, from a different mental perspective, it is a purely abstract arrangement of coloured trapezoids and rectangular bands. McIntosh had the concept of a table in mind as she created this painting, though if it started to look too representational to her, she would refine it until it reached a Janus-faced balance, equally figurative and abstract. Some of her friends warned her it was starting to look too much like a table, that she should nudge the work toward pure abstraction, a notion she resists.

“Abstraction is a term that’s outdated,” says McIntosh. “It’s a hundred years old: what does that mean now? I don’t care that they’re ‘pure’ forms in the modernist sense, or whether they have referents. The forms can flip back and forth”—between abstract and figurative evocations—“and it doesn’t matter.”

McIntosh is accumulating a critical mass of attention this year. Her spring show at Diaz will be followed up by one at the Contemporary Art Gallery in November. A monograph from Emily Carr University Press has just been published. The National Gallery of Canada and, more recently, the Art Gallery of Ontario have both acquired her work for their permanent collections. (And, for good measure, so has Belinda Stronach.)

McIntosh has been exhibiting with Diaz Contemporary since its establishment in 2005, but she has been based in Vancouver since Emily Carr University of Art and Design offered her a tenure-track teaching position a few years ago. Her studio is in an industrial neighbourhood not far from the glossy new Olympic Village built for the 2010 Winter Games, and is shared with the artists Elspeth Pratt and Allyson Clay. It’s here that most of the contents of her upcoming exhibitions stand, stored behind walls or hanging and waiting for their next iteration. On this balmy March morning, she is preparing to rework a vast canvas that will be part of the Diaz show.

“I usually don’t measure things,” she allows, stepping up onto a plastic milk crate to assess her work-in-progress at close range. It’s a patchwork grid of gemstone hues and little regularity. “I want it to be wonky but it’s kind of gone too wonky. So I’m squaring part of it,” she explains. “I’m making some lines perfectly straight, so the wonky ones look obviously wonky, not like they’re slipping off the stretcher.”

Done. Not Done. Might Be Done...

With a white pencil crayon she marks up new edge positions for some of the squares, then spends the next few hours meticulously painting over the beautifully rendered grid of colours. Square by square, the first composition vanishes under sheaths of new pigment—it’s discomfiting to watch. But what begins to emerge promises to be even richer, embedded with streaks and residual brush strokes and other vestiges of the understory. And the composition will have a bedrock of regular shapes to support the irregular shapes within.

For McIntosh, art in general—and painting in particular—crept up on her from behind. Art was the family business; as a typical adolescent growing up in Simcoe, Ontario, she had no initial interest in entering it. When she was in her late teens, her mother, the artist Ellen McIntosh-Green, urged her to take a week-long painting workshop held in the surrounding countryside. She started painting and on the first day found, to her surprise, that she liked it. For the rest of the week, she painted past the scheduled finishing time, until the instructor gently and then firmly ordered her to pack up for the day. She has been painting relentlessly ever since.

As a student at Toronto’s York University in the 1990s, she found that painting was marginalized and considered a near-obsolete practice. Deferring to academic fashion, she created a series of performance-art pieces. Most were language-based, but others were cacophonous audio events incorporating ghetto blasters, tape recordings of clattering typists and an assistant who would improvise a knitting job with cassette tape. She trenchantly recalls how one prominent faculty member was quick to dub McIntosh’s performance art her “real work” and her painting a “sideline.”

The performances were popular—York provided a ready-made audience— but McIntosh found performance art nerve-racking. “It’s dependent on a venue and an audience,” she points out. “But I like the solitary nature of painting. So I thought: do I want to spend the rest of my life doing this? Or return to what I really like doing: painting in my studio?” When she stopped doing performance art to concentrate on painting, two other students—the class stars, as it happened—made their disappointment known. As McIntosh puts it, “They expressed outrage. They thought my paintings were meaningless.”

After York, McIntosh co-founded an artists’ collective called Painting Disorders, which also included Marc Bell, Angela Leach, Sally Späth, Eric Glavin and Nestor Krüger. In some ways, it was a typical art collective, consisting of members with similar interests and proclivities and providing a tight knot of mutual support. But it was also something of a tongue-in-cheek manifesto, allows McIntosh. Just as something as basic and primordial as eating could be pathologized, so could painting. “We were working in an environment that wasn’t seen as painter-friendly, where it was seen as a kind of disorder,” she explains.

In the mid-1990s, the master’s program she entered at Chelsea College of Art and Design in London, England, offered her carte blanche to explore any form of art she wanted to. With little formal structure and less pressure to conform to any one paradigm of practice, she devoted herself exclusively to painting. The artistic freedom was exhilarating, even though she had to peddle sandwiches in office towers every morning to afford the luxury of painting in the afternoons. While artistically emancipated by Chelsea, she couldn’t find a way to legally stay in the country and support herself, and returned to Canada in 1998.

Back at her Vancouver studio, she opens her laptop to show me a file of aphorisms on art, zeroing in on a statement made by Donald Judd in his 1965 essay “Specific Objects”: The main thing wrong with painting is that it is a rectangular plane placed flat against the wall. A rectangle is a shape itself; it is obviously the whole shape; it determines and limits the arrangement of whatever is on or inside of it.

McIntosh takes up the challenge. While Judd considers “actual space” to be “intrinsically more powerful and specific than paint on a flat surface,” McIntosh does not. “My view is that the rectangle of a canvas is an indefinite expanse,” she says. Like the concept of a finite universe, a fixed twodimensional space can be infinitely reworked, revisited and repopulated.

Her intuitive approach is the conceptual opposite of a research-based, heavily planned and precisely executed process. She works without a plan or script or theory, and the results exude no particular social or political exhortations. But her open-ended, literally self-effacing process comes at a price in terms of public acceptance, she feels. “People generally respect those who are really sure of what they’re going to do, because that sureness makes them feel comfortable,” she contends.

The scripted performance, the planned installation: these are sure things—preordained phenomena, once you’ve crafted the idea. But, says McIntosh in a conversation about teaching and students, “It’s not that hard to have a good idea.” With painting, on the other hand, “it takes years to slowly master the medium.”

And even once mastered, the medium isn’t conducive to broadcasting a message. “I don’t even attempt that,” she tells me. “Painting is a very clumsy way to go about things if you’re trying to say something direct. It’s not didactic. It’s not direct.”

Then she adds, by way of conclusion: “That’s the beauty of it.”

See other works by Elizabeth McIntosh at canadianart.ca/mcintosh

Done. Not Done. Might Be Done...

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ascetic” (adj.) derives from the ancient Greek term askēsis (practice, training or exercise).

Originally associated with any form of disciplined practice, the term ascetic has come to mean anyone who practices a renunciation of worldly pursuits to achieve higher intellectual and spiritual goals for himself or herself.

Lecture at Cornell University – Agnes Martin

I want to talk to you about “the work”, art work.

I will speak of inspiration, the studio, viewing art work, friends of art, and artists’ temperaments.

But your interest and mine is really “the work” – works of art.

Art work is very important in the way that I will try to show when I speak about inspiration.

I have sometimes put myself ahead of my work in my mind and have suffered in consequence.

I thought me, me; and I suffered.

I thought I was important. I was taught to think that. I was taught: “You are important; people are important beyond anything else.”

But thinking that I suffered very much.

I thought that I was big and “the work” was small. It is not possible to go on that way. To think I am big is the work is big.

The position of pride is not possible either.

And to think I am small and the work is small, the position of modesty, is not possible.

I will go on to inspiration and perhaps you will see what is possible.

As I describe inspiration I do not want you to think I am speaking of religion.

That which takes us by surprise – moments of happiness – that is inspiration. Inspiration which is different from daily care.

Many people as adults are so startled by inspiration which is different from daily care that they think they are unique in having had it. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Inspiration is there all the time.

For everyone whose mind is not clouded over with thoughts whether they realize it or not.

Most people have no realization whatever of the moments in which they are inspired.

Inspiration is pervasive but not a power.

It’s a peaceful thing.

It is a consolation even to plants and animals.

Do not think that it is unique.

If it were unique no one would be able to respond to your work.

Do not think it is reserved for a few or anything like that.

It is an untroubled mind.

Of course we know that an untroubled state of mind cannot last. So we say that inspiration comes and goes but really it is there all the time waiting for us to be untroubled again. We can therefore say that it is pervasive. Young children are more untroubled than adults and have many more inspirations. All the moments of inspiration added together make what we call sensibility. The development of sensibility is the most important thing for children and adults but is much more possible in children. In adults it would be more accurate to say that the awakening to their sensibility is the most important thing. Some parents put the development of social mores ahead of aesthetic development. Small children are taken to the park for social play; sent to nursery school and headstart. But the little child sitting alone, perhaps even neglected and forgotten, is the one open to inspiration and the development of sensibility.



It’s no wonder the world has fallen in love with these animals.

Mum? Can you come and get me down now?

I’m not coming out. You’ll have to come in and get me.

Kung Fu Panda…bring it on!

On the count of three…. lift!

Does this log make my butt look fat?

Betcha can’t see me…..

Oops! Slight miscalculation.

You go. I’ll just stay here and rest my head a little bit.

It wasn’t me! I didn’t steal this bamboo shoot!
It was just sitting here, I swear it!


I’ll give you 2 seconds to get off me or I’m calling Mom.

Pardon me but do you have a napkin?

Darn paparazzi! Could we have a little privacy please?

Dear Martha Stewart:
I have this brown stain on my nice, white, fluffy butt…


Shhhh! I’m reviewing…

I cannot believe that I’m stuck in this tree again.
What is the matter with me?


I’m sure there’s a way out somewhere.
I saw an ant go this way yesterday.


Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…

Pandas looking for lost earrings….

Absolutely nothing accomplished.
The perfect day for a panda…

Is it possible that emotional stress and negative thoughts manifest into physical disease?

According to Dr. Bach (pioneer in Bach flower remedies – using flower essences to heal mind-body imbalances), it is one’s emotional well-being that causes physical illness. Here are seven main moods which are the roots of all diseases that prevent us from being true to ourselves:

1) Fear

2) Uncertainty

3) Insufficient interest in the present circumstances

5) Loneliness

6) Despondency or despair

7) Over-care for the welfare of others

And there are in his words “seven beautiful stages in the healing of the disease:”

1) Peace

2) Hope

3) Joy

4) Faith

5) Certainty

6) Wisdom

7) Love

Dr. Bach stated: “Our fears, anxieties, greed, suppressed emotions, likes and dislikes are the initial causes of diseases.

Disease in reality, focuses our attention inwards, reinforcing the need to listen to our true selves. The Flower essences return us to our own path, not by attacking the disease, but by flooding our bodies with higher vibrations. The flowers are picked on a warm summer day in full sunshine. They are placed in a glass bowl with fresh spring water, if possible, taken from a spring close to where the flower was picked. The bowl is then placed in the sun for about three hours. According to Dr. Bach, the sun transfers the energy of the flowers into the medium of the water, becoming ‘energetically impregnated.’ After impregnation, the flowers are removed from the solution, and a small percentage of brandy is added for preservation. The Bach flower remedies carry charges from air, soil, water, and sun, as all the four elements are needed for proper growth and blooming. Here are some of the Back flower remedies and the symptoms associated with their proper administration:

1. Agrimony – mental torture behind a cheerful face

2) Aspen – fear of unknown things

3) Beech – intolerance

4) Centaury – inability to say ‘no’

5) Cerato – lack of trust in one’s own decisions

6) Cherry Plum – fear of the mind giving way

7) Chestnut Bud – failure to learn from mistakes

8 ) Chicory – selfish, possessive love

9) Clematis – dreaming of the future without working in the present

10) Crab Apple – self-hatred

11) Elm – overwhelmed by responsibility

12) Gentian – discouragement after a set back

13) Gorse – hopelessness and despair

14) Heather – self-centeredness and self-concern

15) Holly – hatred, envy, jealousy

16) Honeysuckle – living in the past

17) Hornbeam – procrastination, tiredness as the sought of doing something

18) Impatiens – impatience

19) Larch – lack of confidence and self-esteem

20) Mimulus – fear of known things

21) Mustard – deep gloom for no reason

22) Oak – the plodder who keeps going past the point of exhaustion

23) Olive – exhaustion following mental or physical effort

24) Pine – guilt

25) Red Chestnut – over-concern for the welfare of loved ones

26) Rock Rose – terror and fright

27) Rock Water – self-denial, rigidity, and self-repression

28) Scleranthus – inability to choose between alternatives

29) Star of Bethlehem – chock

30) Sweet Chestnut – extreme mental anguish, when everything has been tried and there is no light left

31) Vervain – over-enthusiasm

32) Vine – dominance and inflexibility

33) Walnut – protection from change and unwanted influences

34) Water Violet – pride and aloofness

35) White Chestnut – unwanted thoughts and mental arguments

36) Wild Oat – uncertainty over one’s direction in life

37) Wild Rose – drifting, resignation, apathy

38) Willow – self-pity and resentment

“All the diseases are like children of the diseased minds which make unhealthy decisions: envy, jealousy, selfishness, etc and a poisoned mind will slowly insert the diseased roots into the body and vital organs.”

“People want nothing but mirrors around them. To Reflect them while they’re reflecting too. You know, like the senseless infinity you get from two mirrors facing each other across a narrow passage. Usually in the more vulgar kind of hotels. Reflections of reflections and echoes of echoes. No beginning and no end. No center and no purpose.” – The Fountainhead.

https://i1.wp.com/www.stanford.edu/dept/cisst/avirtualspacetime.jpg

Chrono Synclastic Infundibulum: places where all different kinds of truths fit together as nicely as the parts in your daddy’s solar watch.

chrono = time

synclastic = curved toward the same side in all directions (like the skin of an orange)

infundibulum = what ancient Romans like Julius Caesar and Nero called a funnel

*Is your spaceship powered by UWTS? What is UWTS you may ask? Why it’s the Universal Will To Become. It’s what makes nothingness insist on becoming somethingness. Perhaps the beings in our solar system are not in possession of such technology as of yet. – The complete history of Mars

“When I ran my space ship into the chrono-synclastic infundibulum, it came to me in a flash that everything that ever has been always will be, and everything that ever will be always has been.” -Winston Niles Rumfoord, Sirens of Titan (Kurt Vonnegut).

https://i2.wp.com/userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/252/11077737.jpg

You started out, two winters past

time stood still, we were moving too fast
You ran away, April, May, and June
when you came back, I was over the moon

I was high, I was high, over the moon
You were there, you were there, midnight and noon oh
Bring it back, bring it back, we started too soon
I was high, I was high, over the moon oh oh

Then came fall, even we fell hard
bruised our bodies, skinned our knees and our hearts
Then I got sick, yeah but no one could tell
now I drink your love, drink it right from the well

And it’s good, and it’s good, right from the well
Wanna taste, wanna touch, wanna see and smell oh
And it feels, like it feels, heals me so well
Wanna drink, wanna drink, right from the well oh oh

Now here I sit, in my burning cell
summer sun, beating hotter than hell
I need your love, like the air I breathe
I need it more than you could ever believe

And you give, and you give, give it to me
And you give, and you give, all that I need oh
And I take, and I take, the blood that you bleed
And you give, and you give, give it to me oh

And you give, and you give, give it to me
And you give, and you give, all that I need oh
And I take, and I take, the blood that you bleed
And you give, and you give, give it to me oh oh

Pie Counter by Wayne Thiebaud.

There’s something very cheeky, musical and tasty about this painting. Your eye can freely navigate the picture plane, enjoying the various kinds of pie. Each line of pie slices reminds me of music; of a scale or piece of music where the individual pie triangle symbolizes a note or chord, subtly shifting in movement and perspective.

Richard Serra “Greenpoint Rounds” at Gagosian Gallery

by L. Ruano, April 11, 2010

richard serra greenpoint rounds at gagosian gallery 0 Richard Serra Greenpoint Rounds at Gagosian Gallery

American minimalist sculptor and video artist, Richard Serra, recently opened his latest exhibition, titled Greenpoint Rounds. The show featured eight new drawings, utilizing a paint-stick, heating it to a viscous and sometimes fluid state. He slowly builds up the dense and irregular form so that each drawing has its own unique surface that appears as a palpable structure rather than a mere surface. “Greenpoint Rounds” runs through May 15th, 2010 for those in town looking to visit.

Gagosian Gallery
Via Francesco Crispi 16
00187 Rome, Italy

richard serra greenpoint rounds at gagosian gallery 1 Richard Serra Greenpoint Rounds at Gagosian Gallery

richard serra greenpoint rounds at gagosian gallery 2 Richard Serra Greenpoint Rounds at Gagosian Gallery

richard serra greenpoint rounds at gagosian gallery 4 Richard Serra Greenpoint Rounds at Gagosian Gallery