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Realism,
Surrealism and Celebration:
The Paintings of Alex Colville in the
Collection of the National Gallery of Canada
by Patrick A. E.
Hutchings
Senior Lecturer in Philosophy
University of Western
Australia
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Notes
12 From 'Heaven-Haven', in Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins (Oxford,
third edition, 1948, p. 40). It would be more exact to say perhaps
that both Hopkins' poem and Colville's picture can be read against a
background of a certain understanding of Pauline and Augustinian
notions of concupiscentia, than that either was consciously
intended as a concrete image of 'human nature wonderfully dignified
and still more wonderfully restored'. The 'occasion' of each is
consonant with this kind of ultimate reading, but neither demands it
at the simple level of its anecdote.
The particular interpretation of St Paul would be available to
Colville, implicitly if not explicitly, in a country whose religious
tradition has been influenced so strongly by the double streams of
Calvinism and Jansenism. The merits or shortcomings of these
particular traditions of Pauline exegesis aside, there are good
psychological reasons why we should identify innocence and the
freedom of innocence with freedom from libido: see, either St
Augustine's Confessions, or Freud's Beyond the Pleasure
Principle. (See also 'The Theological Concept of Concupiscentia'
in Karl Rahner's Theological Investigations, Vol. I,
Baltimore, Helicon Press; London, Longman, Darton and Todd, 1961).
13 Not that the logical way of doing things is unsatisfactory, on
the contrary; and one is not suggesting here that we should all be
extreme Romantics, and 'think with the blood'. Far from it. It was
simply the case that the logical formulations of the Absolute
Idealists were extremely unsatisfactory, pseudological rather than
logical, and not really at all the kind of thing they purported to
be. One of the great paradoxes of philosophical history lies in
this: that these soi-disant Rationalists and soi-disant ultimate
Rationalists were in fact the most dangerous Romantics of all.
A Romantic knows, very much from experience, that 'the heart has its
reasons...' and well enough: the dangerous Romantic is the one who
takes these reasons of the heart for reasons of the head.
14 This is the only picture of Colville's which seems, in even the
remotest way, to be about art. His painting is, otherwise,
essentially about the object and not about painting itself. But we
may if we choose see Four Figures as a picture about
pictures, not in the same way of course as Magritte's Condition
humaine Il is about pictures, or Rauschenberg's Studio
Painting 1961 is about them and their visual balance, but about
picturing itself and its relation to the forces beyond the ego. As
an auto-critical comment on Colville's oeuvre it might stand
very well: there is no need to commit one self to the
depths when there is so much splendour on dry land. References:
Waldberg, Surrealism, plate at p. 82, and Robert
Rauschenberg, Catalogue of an Exhibition, Whitechapel Gallery,
London, 1964, pl. 29.
15 Though I maintain, in the body of the article, that Colville
cannot be grouped with the surrealists I am very sensible of the
phenomenological reasons which might make people want to do just
that. (See for example Paddy O'Brien, 'Surrealism'; Canadian Art,
November / December 1963, pp. 348ff.) In the last resort one must
simply put, as exactly as may be, one's own experience of
works of art in such a way as possible to persuade, or at least
enable, others to see the works in the same way. If they take up the
specified point of view, then they may see the same things as
one sees oneself. Though I do not see Colville as a
surrealist, and so do not classify him as one, I must quote a
splendid sentence or so written by a colleague whose reactions to
the painter's work are obviously quite different from mine: 'I do
find Colville terrifying, and had taken for granted everyone would.
A comparable experience is surprising (or imagining) a look in
someone's eye which is suddenly menacing, sinister, then back to
natural...'
16 André Breton, Manifeste du Surréalisme et Poisson
soluble, nouvelle édition, Paris, Kra, 1929, pp. 27 -28.
17 Breton's own accounts of the synthesis, though numerous and
passionate enough, are in the end rather thin and unsatisfactory:'...
il s'agit aujourd'hui de 'travailler à ce que la distinction du
subjectif et de l'objectif perde de sa nécessité et de sa valeur'.
(In Qu'est-ce que le surréalisme?, Paris, René
Henriquez, 1934, p. 26.) In the 1960's this distinction seems to us
one of the utmost value; if the world is to be dealt with, we must
be quite clear about the differences which may be made by
manipulating it, and the differences that will follow
from changes that we may bring about within ourselves.
18 The critic's first impulse to label Colville a surrealist
might have either or both of two roots, a phenomenological one, and
a politico-cultural one, and while the phenomenological option
remains open still, one has doubts about the other. Seen in terms of
the statement of the surrealist position which Herbert Read set out
in his Introduction 10 Surrealism (1936), the argument of the
present article would be extremely paradoxical. Colville is called classical
here in some sense of classical, and democratic: but, the
equation is, or was, Romantic=Democratic, And one argues here
against his being a surrealist but the equation was
Surrealist=Romantic=Democratic. How then could anyone who wanted to
insist on the social significance of Colville deny his surrealism
and stress his classicism?
The intellectual climate has changed altogether since 1936, and what
Read said then binds no body now, himself included.
Even if we take Grierson's account of classicism as a norm, as Read
did, it still makes sense to call Colville at once a Classical and a
Democratic painter: 'a classical literature, 'Grierson writes, is
the product of a nation and generation which has consciously
achieved a definite advance, moral, political, intellectual; and is
filled with the belief that its view of life is more natural, human,
universal and wise than that from which it has escaped. It has
effected a synthesis which enables it to look round on life with a
sense of its wholeness, its unity in variety; and the work of the
artist is to give expression
to that consciousness; sense the solidity of his work and
sense too its definiteness, and in the hands of great artists its
beauty..: (Sir Herbert Grierson, The Background of English
Literature, London, 1925, pp, 226, 287 -8, quoted in Surrealism,
ed, Herbert Read, London, Faber, 1936, p. 24.) This is precisely
what Colville does: he expresses the consciousness of a definite
moral and political advance, and why not? This is a society which
has achieved a great deal, though indeed more must be done in the
future, much more no doubt: but Colville's paintings do not deny
that for a moment.
Many of the writers of the 30's suffered from a fashionable and
disastrous misconception. They thought that 'classical' views of the
world were fixed, immutable and closed; and as they presumed that
these views could not allow for any change at all, they supposed
that they could not a fortiori, allow for progress' thus Classical
became the direct antithesis of Progressive.
In the European context there was some excuse for this
misconception. But it should have been obvious to North Americans,
then as now, that there can be a kind of Classical outlook which
though it may be closed to the past is essentially open to the
future, There is the classicism of: 'here is a total and
incorrigible world view'; and this classicism is sterile, But there
is also the dynamic balance of a society which says: 'we have
achieved this so far; these are the values which we
will never go back on, any future progress must embody these: This
is democratic Humanism, and it is entitled 10 its own kind of
classicism of outlook and of expression, whether in Jefferson's
prose, or in a painter's style and proportion.
The Jeffersonian ideal, to take it right back to its North American
roots, was at once classical and open towards the future' wherever
we go on from here, we do not go back to the past or back on our
'evident truths'; but the future is open, Life and liberty
are fixed and immutable, but the pursuit of happiness always
looks forward, and is always and essentially radical and
challenging.
Read's mistake in 1936 lay, as he himself seems even then to have
sensed, in joining battle with the Classical ideal on the side of
certain Romantics who were out to fight a war of extinction:
'So long as romanticism and classicism were considered as
alternative attitudes, rival camps, professions of faith, an
interminable struggle was in prospect, with the critics as
profiteers. But what in effect surrealism claims to do is to resolve
the conflict - not, as I formerly hoped, by establishing a
synthesis which I was prepared to call 'reason' or 'humanism'
- but by liquidating classicism, by showing its complete
irrelevance, its anesthetic effect, its contradiction of the
creative impulse.' (pp. 22-23)
This liquidation of classicism is an illusion. And the synthesis of
humanism is a regulative principle of any understanding of culture;
Read has since come to realize both these things, and the greater
part of his subsequent work has been directed towards a realization
of the synthesis. When he wrote in 1936:
'Classicism, let it be stated without further preface, represents
for us now, and has always represented, the forces of oppression.
Classicism is the intellectual counterpart of political tyranny. It
was so in the ancient world and in the medieval empires; it was
renewed to express the dictatorships of the Renaissance and has
ever since been the official creed of capitalism. Wherever the
blood of martyrs stains the ground, here you will find a doriccolumn
orperhapsa statue of Minerva.' (p.23)
Read's tone was uneasy; this was the vociferousness of the convert
who is still arguing with himself. And he forgot that classicism is
at once the natural idiom of ancient republics and the official
fashion of modern ones. No doubt, to a radical of the kind that Read
then was, 1776 and 1789 would have seemed very partial revolutions,
but they were revolutions none the less.
The creative impulse, political and social reform, and all desirable
things whatever seem to us, now again, quite compatible with the
grace and measure of classicism, a classicism which holds what it
has, and keeps itself open to an ever greater expansion of humanism,
political, social - and artistic.
As for the humanistic synthesis of classicism and romanticism, it
may be put as well perhaps as it can be put, in this image from
Yeats:
'... I have a ring with a hawk and a butterfly upon it, to symbolize
the straight road of logic, ...and the crooked road of intuition...'
(Yeats' note in Collected Poems, p. 534.)
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