The Dance of Machines
Back in the early Nineteen Tens, David
Bomberg was pretty much the bad boy of British Modernism. An East End
roughneck, it had been his undeferential attitude towards his tutors
which had seem him “asked to leave” the prestigious Slade school.
But that was pretty much analogous to his approach to art. Typically,
the lesson he brought away from the experience was to take things
further. He had soon fallen into the company of the Vorticists,
self-styled as the most avant garde group in Britain. (Whose antics
we looked at here.)
For reasons we'll come onto, the show
skates past this early era. But one paintings it does provide is
'The Dancer' (1913/14, above), a classically
Cubo-Futurist agitation of lines and shapes in the place of of a
fixed image. (On the continent Cubism and Futurism were not just
separate but pretty much opposing art movements. But often in
Britain, as with Russia, their arriving together meant they were taken
as one.) Perhaps what's unusual about the image is it's more muted
palette, with that salmon background, and - despite the title –
the way it's almost fully abstract. This is Bomberg absorbing his
influences, not yet painting like himself.
His most celebrated work, 'The
Mud Bath' (1914, below), isn't included here. But it was in
the Tate's Vorticist retrospective and now part of the permanent (and
therefore free) collection at the Tate Britain, so let's cheat and
drag it in. It's hard not to speak of. Not only
was it the best of his works from this era, almost everything else
subsequently seemed seemed preparatory towards it. And sometimes this
was quite literally true, with works like 'Vision of Ezekiel' (1912) and 'Bathing Scene' (1912/13) pointers on the path of reduction which
led to it - each time a bit more boiled down. After all, as Bomberg
said at the time “where decoration happens it is accidental. My
object is the construction of Pure Form. I reject everything in
painting that is not Pure Form.”
Famously, it was exhibited on the
street outside his first solo show, as if the gallery confines
couldn't contain its explosive force. He always maintained it stopped
the traffic. (Or scared the horses. The two still overlapped in those
days.) With it, Bomberg didn't just reach his apogee but
semi-abstraction reached its epitome. (In the same way that Munch's
'The Scream' is the epitome of Expressionism.)
That black column might initially look
incongruous. In fact it's literally and figuratively central. It's
like the monolith of Modernism, the totem pole of the dance, reducing
(or raising) the dancing figures into an undifferentiated geometric
mass of angled limbs. And this is perhaps emphasised most of all by
the boldly reductive use of colour, that block of bright red, the
strikingly solid lines of white and blue. And if it looks coloured
rather than painted, like he could have handed the job to a
sign-writer, then later artists would do precisely that.
The foot of one figure remains planted
on the ground (in the lower right), an attachment leading to it
casting a shadow. It probably won't be there for long, soon it'll be
caught up in the whirlygig along with everything else. But its
inclusion is important. The painting evokes the loss of self that
ecstatic frenzy can induce, but seems pitched at the last few seconds
before that sense was extinguished.
In has striking similarities to
Matisse's 'La Danse' (1909/10). However, it's probably the differences between the two
which are more instructive. It's more than Matisse's figures being
more humanised. Not just holding hands but twisting their bodies in
line with the gesture, the separate figures form a circle - become
one. (It's the companion to a piece titled 'Music',
reinforcing the idea of the figures as notes in a composition.)
And
with Bomberg the figures also cease to be separate parts. But at the
same time they are reduced to separate parts within themselves –
limbs detaching from torsos. While instead of being rounded and
semi-shapeless they're geometrically precise. They're become like
components of some greater mechanism.
Modernism championed the machine as the
epitome of the age. This is a dance where the machine is setting the
beat. And 'Mud Bath', not about finding the
individual in a portrait but reducing the human body to a set of
parts, makes that manifest. Bomberg had said “I want to translate
the life of a great city, its motion, its machinery into an art that
shall not be photographic but expressive”.
And if he'd given semi-abstraction it's
perfect form, his experiences of the Great War were similarly
archetypical. Not long after exhibiting 'The Mud Bath'
he'd enlisted. The painter of such striking colours was no shrinking
violet. From the wrong side of the tracks, Jewish in an anti-semitic
era, he'd frequently respond to racist abuse with his fists. But his
battle experiences, including at the Somme, understandably affected
him profoundly.
And not least artistically. Yes,
Modernist art had matched its times. Better than anyone had thought.
But that now became the problem. Reducing the human body to parts had
once seemed audacious and thrilling, now it too closely matched what
machine gun fire had done for real, in a war where men had been
merely components and collateral. In short war had proven the
machine's greater efficiency extended to the act of slaughter. As I said on encountering 'Mud Bath' in the flesh for the first time at the Tate's Vorticist exhibition, “it’s
depersonalisation is simultaneously seducing and alarming”.
Modernism's success had become its failure.
The Great War had acted like an
accelerator on the conveyor belt of human progress, whether artistic,
social or technological. But what hastened the pace of art shortened
the lifespan. When it was over the conveyor belt suddenly stopped and
artists were thrown off the end, tangled up in themselves, unsure
what to do next. Solutions usually involved some combination of
'back' and 'out'.
The Desert Years
At the Slade Bomberg had been part of the 'Crisis of Brilliance' group. Having been told by their
tutors to stay away from those continental Modernist exhibitions, the
bright young things had taken that warning as an invitation. And, to
varying degrees, the War induced the same crisis in all of them. And
once it was over, they all went somewhere new. (Though for Paul Nash
and Stanley Spencer that “somewhere new” was the English
countryside.)
Bomberg went to Palestine and took up
landscape painting. Given his previous avant garde reputation, these
works were at the time dismissed by critics as a retreat.
Figuratively, he was out in the desert. The bold blocks of colour,
the quest for pure form – all seemed gone. They even abandoned
those evocative titles for flatly descriptive names. (As a rough and
ready comparison, think of when Dylan swapped electrically charged
iconoclasm for crooning Country standards.)
But are they as conventional as this
suggests? 'The South East Corner, Jerusalem'
(1926, above), a sedate, recognisable landscape, is not an obvious
successor to 'The Mud Bath'. But then look at the
way it is painted – quite literally with broad
strokes. While it is clearly of somewhere, there
is no effort at all to disguise the fact it is made up of marks upon
a canvas. It's only the way the composition is so light in palette
(as the opposite of bright), and made up of gradations of tone, which
initially obscures this.
We all know that 'Mud
Bath' was inspired by life, it was a scene from public baths. But we know that because
we've been told it. The resulting work is universalised, sanded
smooth of any localising signifiers, part of a movement which saw
itself as internationalist. Whereas this post-war turn, as the title
of the show suggests, is back towards art which evokes a sense of
place.
And that place can be seamless.
'Jerusalem, Looking to Mount Scopes' (1925, below)
places at patchwork of terracotta roofs in the lower foreground which
are then echoed in the patchwork of fields in the upper background –
the city effectively blending into the landscape. (The roofs'
triangular formation virtually points up at the fields, with only a
couple of verticals in the composition as a counter-measure.)
While alongside place comes moment.
There's an attempt to capture time of day reminiscent of the
Impressionists. Look at the long shadows running alongside the
figures and down the building on 'Outside Damascus
Gates' (1923, below). Early morning, late afternoon and
bathing moonlight became his favoured times.
These works have been reappraised in
more recent decades, a process of which this show would seem a part.
Some then take this talk of place further, and suggest the Jewish
artist was returning to his homeland. (A question the show does not
weigh in on.) It may have been a factor in his choosing Palestine,
when others in his group picked Paris or New York. We're told he had
even originally planned a series of 'Jewish return' works. But these
were abandoned. The figures in 'Outside Damascus Gates'
are rare, and even they are reduced to incidental blobs and ciphers.
The truth is simpler. He simply painted
what he saw. And what he saw most, as ever, was what was unfamiliar
to him. Which explains the works' fascination with light. He'd joke
that, after an East End upbringing, it was something new to him.
Palestine was to Bomberg more muse than homeland.
”The Spirit in the Mass”
In 1929, Bomberg visited the Spanish
mountain town of Toldeo. The show suggests this became his new
'place', and by 1935 he'd moved to Andalucia. Certainly it
precipitated what Alexander Graham Dixon, in a BBC documentary shown
in the exhibition, called “a whole new phase in his art”.
Take 'Valley of La Hermida,
Asturias, Spain' (1935, up top). It's not just that the
vibrant colours are back. If 'Mud Bath' was pure
blocks of colour and the desert paintings made up of an elegant
sufficiency of marks, the brushwork here is a flurry of frenzied
strokes. This can reach such a fervour that the works almost become
semi-abstract all over again, take for example the blur of marks in
the lower half of 'Ronda Valley' (1954, below).
If the desert paintings in some ways
referred to the Impressionists, this time we're right back with the
Romantics and their evocation of the sublime – nature experienced
as an overwhelming force. And if the last great Romantic to get a British show was Turner, then
there seems something of a similarity. See for example, 'Sunset,
Mount Hilarion, Cyprus' (1948, below).
Except a frequent feature of
Romanticism is vertiginous scale, often achieved by incorporating
diminutive human figures. Whereas Bomberg leaves the works as
unpopulated as the desert paintings, while they are not physically
large (particularly compared to his often gargantuan early pieces).
Which then throws the emphasis elsewehere, onto the power of nature
as a set of forces. These forces are present in Romanticism too, but
they’re often depicted transiently – as Turner's sea storms, and
so on. Whereas Bomberg paints forces which are inherent, and
therefore unabatable.
If the distilled essence of early
Bomberg lies in the quote about “pure form”, there's another
which sums up this era - “our search is towards the spirit in the
mass”. What Bomberg really does is paint solid objects as though
they're not. Because of course they're not. Look
again to the hillsides of 'Valley of La Hermida',
they're not painted as something stable or steady, for walkers to
plant their boots upon, but by vigorous downward strokes.
David Sylvester, one of the first critics to rediscover Bomberg, commented “the scene under our eyes… shifts about as we
watch it. And we realize, with a sort of transport, how intuitively
true this is of landscape. It is not still. It has its own weird
anima, and to our wide-eyed perception it changes like a living
animal under our gaze.”
If the desert paintings are about
capturing a moment, tied to a time of day, these take things which
seem solid and immutable to us (as in expressions such as 'solid as a
rock') and portray them as convulsive and ever-changing. And those
geological forces are never at rest, they only seem solid to us
because we are so fleeting. Bomberg said at the
time that he found the past and the present indistinguishable.
And in this way, even if Toledo did act
as a kind of muse, they're not about place. Or at
least only in the sense that nature has to be instanced through
place. Place implies a presumption of permanence, somewhere that
could be departed from then returned to, which is being over-ridden
here. Bomberg only left Spain when the Civil War drove him out. But
he subsequently painted across Europe, notably visiting the Romantic
hotspots. In Britain for example, his favoured locations were Devon,
Cornwall and Wales. And the results are remarkably similar wherever
he roved.
It's easy to see how those concerned
with notions of linear progress in art, a frequent pitfall of
Modernism, would have been as tempted to overlook these works.
Furthermore, the Modernist notion that we have changed the world, or
even that we could, lies buried beneath his brushstrokes. But
chiefly, Modernism set itself the task of becoming universal, a
global reach whose spread left it uninterested in time. It's defining
value was 'now'. The longstanding genre of history painting was
effectively brought to a close. Cubism, as mentioned a huge influence
on the young Bomberg, was about flattening time into a single image -
as if taking to it with a blacksmith's hammer.
The past was gone, and I'm not sure
Modernism was all that concerned with how history would perceive it.
Some of its movements, such as the Futurists, explicitly stated their
fervent wish was to be supplanted by the still-more-modern, and then
forgotten. Whereas from Spain onwards, all of Bomberg's work is about
the inescapable force of time.
'The Mud Bath' could
be described as a hit single - a combination of “the most purely
distilled essence of something” and “the one everybody knows”.
But musicians will tell you a hit singles can become an albatross,
and indeed it came to overshadow Bomberg's later work. Few thought to
ask what the bad boy did as an adult. In this way, it's an advantage
it's absent from this show. An audaciously large work, it would
dominate over the others even physically.
Perhaps the desert paintings are not as
exciting as his early years, rating a very good rather than a great.
But with the 'spirit in the mass' works Bomberg finds a whole new
direction which is fully compelling. Alas, no-one at the time thought
so. He died in 1957 virtually forgotten, sidelined by Wyndham Lewis
in the Tate's Vorticist retrospective, none of his works in national
collections, his plans to resume art tutoring come to naught. Badly
malnourished, he effectively died of poverty. Only gradually was his
work rediscovered, first – perhaps inevitably – through Vorticism
and then the later years. Which in a sense is fitting. 'Mud
Bath' struck people there and then. The rest took us
time...
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