BK MFA

I got into a discussion with a friend about David Reed’s work last night. The uh-huh consensus is that he is limited in scope, but within the realm of hardcore formalism, he’s a total genius. After coming to an agreement on that point, this friend, whom I respect and love, then confidently asserted that there is nothing philosophical to the work beyond its amazing formal qualities and challenging aesthetics.

A day later, I’m not sure about the truth of that last sentence, although I’ll admit that last night I nodded, smiled and softly agreed. Because it is kind of agreeable, and it’s sort of true. On the face of it, that argument makes sense, but it turns out, now I feel like there is something wrong with it because there is something challenging about Reed’s paintings that feels like real depth to me. This Bridget Riley quote brings me closer to the meaning of this kind of work – it’s from a lecture she gave in 1996:

‘When Samuel Beckett was a young name in the early Thirties and trying to find a basis from which he could develop, he wrote an essay known as Beckett/Proust in which he examined Proust’s views of creative work; and he quotes Proust’s artistic credo as declared in Time Regained – “the tasks and duties of a writer [not an artist, a writer] are those of a translator”. This could also be said of a composer, a painter or anyone practising an artistic metier. An artist is someone with a text which he or she wants to decipher.

‘Beckett interprets Proust as being convinced that such a text cannot be created or invented but only discovered within the artist himself, and that it is, as it were, almost a law of his own nature. It is his most precious possession, and, as Proust explains, the source of his innermost happiness. However, as can be seen from the practice of the great artists, although the text may be strong and durable and able to support a lifetime’s work, it cannot be taken for granted and there is no guarantee of permanent possession. It may be mislaid or even lost, and retrieval is very difficult. It may lie dormant and be discovered late in life after a long struggle, as with Mondrian or Proust himself. Why it should be that some people have this sort of text while others do not, and what ‘meaning’ it has, is not something which lends itself to argument. Nor is it up to the artist to decide how important it is, or what value it has for other people. To ascertain this is perhaps beyond even the capacities of his own time.’

Reed’s internal text has something to do with the primal meaning of touching and mark-making. And when abstract painting becomes self-aware and is okay with the fact that the making of brush marks is a mannered movement, it can ask questions about the boundaries of the meaning on mark-making on a flat surface. Reed and Jonathan Lasker both make these kinds of marks, and they’re both kind of awesome. There is some philosophy of touch, some kind of metaphorical marking-up behind all of this. It’s true: this kind of work is a formal parlor game that ultimately means nothing, and that will not save us from imminent cannibalism and self-destruction. But, it helps pass the time in a lovely, stimulating way, no? And it can be exciting to see a new way of thinking about making a picture, when the whole idea seems so exhausted.