ART: A visit to remember
Oona Campbell at the Arndean Gallery, Mayfair
Of all the weird rituals performed by art critics, the studio visit is not only one of the weirdest, but also one of the most variable. At worst, it’s a nightmarish confusion of social call and professional evaluation culminating in a painful wrestling-match between the critic’s honesty and good manners. At best, on the other hand, honesty and good manners are all on the same side because the work on show is simply that breathtakingly good. The hours fly by and seem like minutes. The talk not only flows, but illuminates, too. And then back in the real world, afterwards, there’s the radiant sense of having been let in on a marvellous secret. It’s exactly the sort of experience, in other words, that makes the whole chequered art critic business seem, despite everything, refulgently worthwhile.
Needless to say, most studio visits fall somewhere between these two extremes, if for no other reason than that the circumstances of the meeting tend to encourage some faint surge of human sympathy, no matter how limited. Picture the scene: an artist turns up early to show you around, buys you a cappuccino or three, hauls out canvas after heavy canvas, provides some gossip about his colleagues – most of it gratifyingly unpleasant if not downright slanderous, requests advice in a flattering and doubtless sincere manner, correctly identifies your favourite Old Master and speaks knowledgeably about the light in a particular Venetian church, does not spare the professional jargon when it comes to pigments and solvents, and finally gets around to heaping praise on something you’ve written – all that, and you’re really supposed to tell him he’s technically incompetent, formally unimaginative and should probably seek out a different career? Actually, it’s more likely that you’ll simply pull your jacket tighter around you (studios are the coldest places on earth), maintain that fixed smile and struggle desperately to find something nice to say. Nice, but not too nice – ‘Yes, I see – I see what you’re aiming at there’ or ‘Hmm, interesting – that’s a very distinctive decision’. And you’ll definitely avoid putting anything in writing, too – or if, for some reason, you have to write something, you’ll obviously avoid signing it with your own name.
Visiting an artist for the first time is potentially a hellish experience – sort of like a blind date, but a special sort of blind date that takes place at 8.30 am in a freezing studio in Hammersmith under harsh artificial light, all self-conscious cleverness and fumbling attempts to impress. Actually, on reflection, sometimes even the attempt to set up the meeting can be hellish. A dealer friend once encouraged me to ring up an artist who was taking part in a group show for which I was supposed to be writing the catalogue essay. I rang up the artist. ‘Who are you?’ she barked in an alarming sort of fashion. It turned out that she not only wanted my name – which was obviously fair enough – but also a fairly extended curriculum vitae, an explanation of its relevance to this particular catalogue and a more generalised statement regarding my ‘approach to art’. Having duly supplied some scrappy approximation of most of this, I turned up on the day feeling more than a little apprehensive. Surprisingly, though, the screeching harridan I had expected turned out to be a very sharp-witted, slightly shy and wholly delightful artist who not only showed me some handsome paintings, but engaged in a long and interesting discussion of my own art-historical pet subject, which she later followed up by sending me an extremely interesting article about one of the painters we had discussed. All of which just goes to show that you can never tell what is going to happen as a studio visit unfolds.
Which is perhaps just as well. I suspect that somewhere out there, several of our newer universities offer modules in how to conduct a studio visit – what to do, what to say, what to wear – and perhaps even how to get linseed oil off the sleeves of paddock jackets and corduroy. But if the rest of us search for models and exemplars, we are simply thrown back upon the books that inspired us in our art-critical infancies. What should a critic be like when confronted with a real-life artist? Well, on a good day, ignorance of film and cricket notwithstanding, I suspect I can just about do an early David Sylvester, but nothing will ever confer on me charm of the quality and quantity to approximate even a mid-career John Richardson, while a fundamental dislike both of monologues and vodka – certainly at 10am – precludes probable development into a late-career Clement Greenberg. At one level these comparisons are, of course, frivolous, but the frivolity masks a tough core of aspiration. Deny it as we might, I imagine most critics secretly day-dream of being able to look back, decades later, and drop names with casual profligacy – to be able to punctuate memoirs and dazzle dinner-parties with the twenty-first century equivalent of ‘Pablo always used to say ...’ or ‘When I first knew dear Francis ...’. Because that, after all, is a part of the thrill that lies at the heart of the studio visit. For all the muddy daubs and pretentiously-titled pastiches, there is always the possibility of encountering an artist whose work really makes an impact – who has something distinctive to say, and who says it clearly and memorably.
Earlier this summer I made my way out to West London to visit thirty-something-year old London artist Oona Campbell. Oona’s work was first pointed out to me in the spring of 2000 when some of her paintings were displayed in the Friends’ Room at the V&A. Even then, there was a jewel-like quality in these small landscapes that stuck in the mind. A little later, I met Oona in her studio. I found her funny, alert and refreshingly down-to-earth, but first and foremost, she was robustly serious about her painting. In November 2000 I ended up writing the catalogue essay for a solo show of her work arranged by MacLean Fine Art. It was certainly not hard to find positive things to say about the paintings she was producing. Her work was increasing not just in size and range of subject-matter, but also in scale and gravity; she was gaining confidence; the emotive force of her imagery was growing alongside her technical proficiency. I knew that MacLean Fine Art was planning another solo exhibition of Oona’s work for September 2002. So when Catriona MacLean, the founder of MacLean Fine Art, suggested another studio visit this summer, I was quick to agree. ‘I can’t wait until you see what Oona’s been doing,’ said Cat. ‘I think you’re going to find it incredibly exciting.’
Cat, in keeping with her line of work, has flawless judgement when it comes to knowing what other people will like, and since my fondness for expressive brushwork is hardly a well-kept secret, it was no surprise to discover she was absolutely right. I turned up at 9 am on a bright June morning. The first surprise was the studio itself, which was packed almost to bursting with canvasses – everything from postcard-sized images to major works that dwarfed the two of us. She had obviously been having an amazingly productive phase. As ever, she seemed focussed, but also exhilarated. Painting by painting, she talked me through what she had been doing over the past year, pulling out new work and juxtaposing them with earlier work, answering my questions about colours and compositions and summing up the different experiences that had inspired the various paintings.
It did not take long to see that Oona was in the midst of a real breakthrough – one of those moments where an artist pushes through from one established way of working onto a whole different level of achievement. There was an astounding energy in the best of these works, but just as exciting was an obvious willingness – and it shines out in the less successful works as much as in the better ones – to take risks, to shrug off the habits of a very successful way of working in the pursuit of something more profound, more important. We drank coffee. We talked about Michael Andrews and James MacNeill Whistler. Oona, I learned later, had been out very late the night before. But most of all, we worked our way through many dozens of paintings, some of which were almost unbelievably impressive. A series of studies of the Thames were among the most covetable contemporary works I’ve ever seen in London. Eventually, feeling a bit washed out but absolutely over the moon – exhilarated by the whole experience – I thanked Oona for taking the time to show me her work, and went on my way. At the tube station I asked someone the time. It was 4.30 pm. I’d spent seven and a half hours with Oona. To me, at least, it had seemed like less than half of that.
Oona’s solo exhibition at the Arndean Gallery in Mayfair opens today, and runs until Saturday 28 September. Once again, I’ve written the catalogue essay, which is included on the MacLean Fine Art website, along with further information about the show. And once again, it was easy to write, if only because honesty is always the lazier option than polite prevarication. You can read my essay on the website if you are interested. Suffice to say, though, that I suspect many of ERO’s readers would like these paintings every bit as much as I do. The marvellous painterly effects that first attracted me to Oona’s painting – the loose handling, the surfaces built up through the accumulation of stains and glazes – remain firmly moored to the experience of actual landscapes and riverscapes, while at the same time carrying a powerful emotive charge. So there are affinities here with an empirical landscape tradition as well as with abstract expressionism. And anyone who still thinks that all contemporary art is something arid and conceptual and overhyped would certainly benefit from seeing Oona’s recent paintings. Oona can look closely, handle paint, and create persuasive illusionistic spaces. So far, so traditional. But there’s also something very fresh and immediate about what she’s doing. And here, no description is a substitute for seeing the work in person.
These are rich, complex paintings that grow more compelling the longer one spends around them. Indeed, if I had the money to buy art at the moment, there would certainly be a couple of Oona’s smaller Thamescapes on the wall of my study, right above my desk – and possibly one of Sabrina Rowan Hamilton’s almost brutally forthright compositions above the mantle, although that’s a contemporary art story for another day. Here’s the real point – over the past several years, Oona has gained a reputation as a reliably impressive painter, but the work she is showing today promises far more than that. Honestly, if you’re anywhere near Mayfair over the next few days, do pop into the Arndean Gallery and have a look for yourself. Of course it isn’t quite like being in the studio – it’s warmer, for one thing, and you probably won’t get linseed oil all over your clothes – but I promise you, it will be an experience to remember.
Oona Campbell, Progressions, will be at the Arndean Gallery, 23 Cork Street, London W1 from Monday 23 September to Saturday 28 September 2002. The show is open from 10am-6pm Monday to Friday, and 11am-4pm on Saturday. It is organised by MacLean Fine Art.
Bunny Smedley, September 23, 2002 12:38 PM