...light of compassion?
(catalogue published at the occasion of Theo Voorzaat's solo exhibition,
November 6 - December 12, 1999, compiled and written by Koen Nieuwendijk)
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Given that his paintings are so full of themes, one of the greatest dilemmas
in writing about Theo Voorzaat would have to consist in striking the right
balance between withholding or proffering an explanation. (I realise that
this is a rather suggestive statement in that it unintentionally implies
that I can explain anything and everything, but there you are.) The best
remedy would be to ask oneself what it is that Voorzaat wants - is he
preparing us for the Apocalypse, the end of times, without glory, without
identity, the memory blanked out, the spark of inspiration dulled forever? I
don't know - on the one hand that would be too obvious an interpretation
while on the other the majority of his paintings simply do not give that
impression. Could it be that his work has something to do with the slightly
ironic bent of the Dutch as a nation, that funny combination of "what goes
around comes around" and casual tolerance which makes us such useful
contributors to development aid in spite of our natural tendency to gloat
over the misfortunes of others? For isn't it one of the extraordinary
aspects of Voorzaat's work that such an abundance of minutely detailed
misery, so much despondency and dejection basks in so much admiration, draws
in such huge crowds and entices so many buyers to part with such substantial
sums of money? There is yet another, more complex explanation. Many aficionados occasionally sigh that they could do without all those additional absurdities. My typical response is that it could well be that everything else is of no significance to Voorzaat - that perhaps motive, cause and inspiration blossoming into passion could be more important than the wistful aesthetics of his dilapidated structures. And yet here too a correction is in order, for it is the light, that most elusive factor of all, that is the leitmotif of virtually all of Voorzaat's paintings. Don't forget that it is the light which influences the mood we are in, the behaviour we display, the insights we have, the decisions we make ? A frequently asked question is that of which "school" Theo Voorzaat should be classified under. For obvious reasons this tends to trigger suggestions of clearly dated categories such as surrealism, magical realism or even fantastic realism. I would hasten to add, however, that in so far as such words communicate any sense of relativity at all, I myself would be loath to go any further than "contemporary realism" - a moniker which will continue for now to stand the test of time as we hurtle towards the 21st century. In an extreme scenario one could imagine communis opinio having been sufficiently worn out by the avalanche of 20th century innovations as to accidentally allow such a non-name as contemporary realism to slip into the 21st century - not that we'll be around to witness it, I'm relieved to note. Trust me to keep my audience occupied by dissecting the words into their registered definitions while eventually succeeding in listing a handful of characteristics which set today's anonymous realism apart from past movements which in outward appearance sometimes resemble it. This is comforting for me personally, taking into consideration that an internal monologue imposes quite different requirements on one's intellectual agility than the querying gaze of someone who is keen to know more, on condition that I insist on leaving intact the feeling that I speak the truth and nothing but the truth. Whenever I allow one of my querying fellow men to lure me out into virgin territory, I immediately put myself on the rack of reason - and the results can be quite surprising. Put in a nutshell, surrealism takes its inspiration from the subconscious whereas contemporary realists, like their assertive democratic fellow citizens, are generally pretty much aware of why a specific subject occupies their mind. I invariably add that it is a specific achievement of western intellectual man that plays a crucial role in this scenario, i.e. the awareness that objectiveness is an illusion as well as the appreciation of being able to shoulder the load of awareness where the inability to understand the meaning of life does not necessarily lead to a feeling of absolute futility or, more extremely still, where the lack of answers to life's fundamental questions by no means keeps us from eagerly continuing to look for them. By sheer necessity I include as a final note that statements such as these are primarily intended to spark an associative process which is primarily geared to highlighting the special qualities of my artists while providing an interesting insight into the evolution of the Northern European view of the world at the same time - I've been known to put it differently. Back to magical realism. Denying myself the option of consulting the relevant reference works, I would go for a form of social historical interpretation, which I like to base on Willink's response to the question as to whether he could empathise with the dramatic association of Oswald Spengler's book "Untergang des Abendlandes" as a leitmotif for his paintings: he said all he was interested in was in painting a nice-looking house, or words to that effect. I would go on to explain that this as such means nothing much as events can have an impact on people's subconscious as well; the longer ago something happened, the less burdened one is by all kinds of side issues which have since been lost in the mists of time, so that it becomes relatively easy to side-step science and formulate one's conclusion, or words to that effect. The real problem is that ever since names of the boys' book variety such as Cobra, Pop Art and Land Art (as a boy I too used to play with my friends that we were the rulers of a country the name of which sadly enough never featured even one or two of the letters making up my first name, so that I ended up the inveterate loner that I am), the whole world has gone mad about classifying things to the point where they will not take any art form seriously if there is no unambiguous label on hand which they can affix to it. But this is an opinion I usually keep to myself. Although the themes in Voorzaat's work are not particularly uplifting, the artist himself derives a great deal of gratification from his work. He also prefers ruins to restored or well maintained monuments - and yet it always fills him with sadness to see a building he had been busy painting being torn down, go up in flames or simply collapse. He also sees the world as a pretty dismal place; however, the counter-argument that he has at least succeeded in making it his living does not faze him. The diabolical motor cyclist is Voorzaat himself, with the raging typhoon in his mind using oils to project itself onto our retina and dislocating our straightforward doom mongering into the sense of obligation to save the world on the one hand and the tendency to lean back and relish the blazing spectacle on the other. This is what keeps the media in business, with us as its army of subscribers. And yet there is more to it - but how to put it into words? There is a certain parallel with still lifes. In the best still lifes the objects are of secondary importance, no matter how gloriously they have been painted: they enable the light to wander from the magic to the secretive. The same applies to Voorzaat's work: in between man's shenanigans the artist leaves plenty of room for his magical light, softening the cruel drama with what could be seen as a compassionate blessing. |