Easily Abstracted
Or, How to Love a Painting of Nothing Recognizable
Stephen Brophy’s early career as a painter brought to the canvas the observable life. But his late career was almost exclusively abstract: sometimes very gestural — as in this beauty from the mid-1980s — and sometimes cooler and flatter, as in the geometric abstractions that came later.
In these paintings, there’re no buildings to recognize, no landscapes to admire, no vintage autos to delight in. Just a set of brush strokes coalescing on a canvas.
With this painting, I see my Steve. So I feel close to him in talking about it.
I recognize that there are many people who struggle to appreciate abstract art. So I would like to do something a bit different here: ask you to try to give it a chance.
And, by that I mean you have to give abstract or “non-objective” art the time it requires to really see it. What’s there has to reveal itself to you s.l.o.w.l.y., so you get to know it.
Getting to know it is key to getting to like it.
It’s not that different from becoming familiar with any new thing. How about the first time you ate sushi as compared to your Japanese takeout last night? Or, when a stranger’s face became more recognizable as you became better acquainted.
The more familiar you become with an abstract work, the more likely you will be rewarded with a great experience, or perhaps an edifying one. You learn to trust your instincts like you do in seeking a deeper connection with a friend, a special dining experience or a weekend adventure in nature.
Look under the painting’s hood.
Scroll back up to the black-and-white painting and stare at it for awhile. Now, take a look at the center left brushstrokes, where white lines weave under black ones, that then gather force before fracturing and disappearing into expanding blackness. Just like the universe, say.
Then look more closely at the barely visible reds underneath the whites and grays that provide a glow, much like a sunset does to the surrounding sky.
Now, imagine a wholly new and different painting beneath the surface of what you see.
That’s when I locate Steve.
I picture him. Standing there, standing back, brush in one hand, cigarette in the other, studying that painting just as you’re doing now.
He looks over his work-in-progress, takes a long drag of cigarette dangling from his lips, dips his brush in paints squeezed onto his palette, and goes back at it. He covers up some of what wasn’t quite working or heightens other parts that are starting to make sense.
There’s momentum now. He makes more gestures on the canvas. Rubs out a section of white with a rosy taupe color or a gray. Wipes away an area to create a smudgy backdrop to that same color in its more pure state, so the contrast is subtle but there.
It’s as beautiful as a landscape or a night sky or a city block seen from a plane coming in for a landing.
Yes, this is done.
Steve pauses again. Gets another cup of coffee, lights another cigarette and surveys the canvas. He told me part of the process of artmaking is knowing when it’s finished. You have to walk away and let some time pass before you determine, yes, this is done.
Abstract Appreciationism.
Here are a few more Brophy abstractions arrayed from the small to the large to the mega-large:
The Small
In this work from a few years later, the lime greens and deep reds seem to be forming into something recognizable. But, the ingredients don’t quite morph into that landscape of rushing water or that red barn amid a field of wild flowers.
Instead, the ingredients stubbornly suggest and provoke, not resolving to something recognizable. I’m okay with this. You?
In another painting of the same year, I see a different kind of abstraction. A more unusual palette, with its cobalt blue, violet and mustard yellow. I also find the shapes to be strange and funny. Cheerful, even. They just seem to elevate from flat plains of color like they were on an acid trip.
Hah, like the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour. Now I’ve dated myself.
The Large
The picture below from the late 1970s did not move from a dark corner of Steve’s house — so I actually never saw it in good light. He promised the painting to our son, Jake, and when we brought it outside I felt like Heinrich Schliemann in discovering the lost city of Troy. All the gold! The color! Absolutely magnificent.
Given that I’ve taken to making up names of paintings, I need to state for the record that Steve titled this one. So, taking a cue from Marcel Duchamp’s iconic Nude Descending a Staircase, №2 (1912), this Brophy painting offers tall vertical shapes that take on the proportions and attitudes of people and, in this case, people getting married.
Also: I always saw the big shape on the right as a giant peephole. What that has to do with marriage, I’m not sure.
The Mega-Large
In this also titled-by-the-artist work, I’m given a clue. Backfield is no doubt referring to the land behind Steve’s house and studio. So, in that, I feel confident that this painting is abstracted from nature, meaning it’s a giant landscape. There’s green on the ground and blue in the sky. And if you squint you’ll see exactly where the horizon line is. Having said that, the lack of representational detail, the sweeping palette, the energized composition — all demand that this be placed in my Easily Abstracted story. And, while it looks like it’s a similar scale to the others here, it’s not. Measure off the dimensions in your living room to get an inkling. It surrounds you in a warm embrace.
Note: All the other paintings in this story were titled by me. I also guessed at the dates (I know I’m close). Finally, a plug for looking at paintings in the flesh — so get yourself to the nearest museum immediately! It’s more than form and color, it’s texture and scale: a physical presence that photo reproductions (especially ones taken on my cell phone) just miss. I was not paid by your local museum to make this announcement.