The language of abstraction is in many
ways the language of the Twentieth Century. For some of us, it has been
a difficult one to learn, for others, it has been a godsend. Much of the
beauty of this language lies in a very simple paradox, one that is for
the most part unappreciated. The beauty is this, because abstraction offers
the artist a chance to conceal their expression in what is called pure
form, the artist is then free to unleash the depth and intensity of their
being without the fear of being made completely naked and vulnerable by
their expression. I don't think anyone can deny, using the old analogy
about abstraction and music, the way that a Mozart can lay every particle
of his being out on a plate for us to eat, and yet the contents of his
expression remains for the most part intangible, and open to interpretation.
In some ways it is a little game. Hide and seek. The artist calls it pure
form, and the viewer agrees to play along. Both benefit. Both have complete
freedom, the artist to express, the viewer to interpret, and together they
can ignore this aspect of the work entirely if they choose, and concentrate
on the form. Nice lines. So, the gist is this, the artist can commit bloody
murder because everyone is looking the other way, away from content, emotion,
meaning, and toward pure form as a meaning all its own. Jackson Pollock
could have and probably was just pissing on the world in his not-accountable-for-his-action
painting, who knows? Such is the upside and downside of so much freedom,
it demands equal responsibility and invites equal corruption.
Of course I don't think anyone can really buy this pure form stuff anymore,
but it is a convenient and agreeable arrangement, so we pretend. It's pretty
stupid though, someone's pouring their guts out in paint and we marvel
at the juxtaposition of lights and darks. Still, I think it is worth noting
why this can happen. The language of abstraction precedes conscious thought;
it is preverbal. That is not only important, it is imperative, for without
the numbing of the chatterbox brain can we be allowed to descend or ascend,
as the case may be, into the larger and more remote expanses of our being.
The critical mind is a spoil-sport, it must be ditched. So you see that
the artist is also concealing their expression from themselves.
This last little bit of information explains all the confusion surrounding
abstraction; why no one, including the artist, ever comes clean about what
is going on in the work besides the pure form. The process of abstract
expression is one of enlightenment, especially for the artist( in case
anyone was wondering why a person would risk so much to make art). It has
to do with where they get to go, and what they are able to find. For this
they are that much richer, and so is the viewer by virtue of being able
to tag along.
It has ocurred to me, part observation, part intuition, that there is a
difference between the way men and women come to abstraction. It may only
be the result of conditioning, I don't pretend to know. Still, I see a
difference. Women in abstraction.
So what evidence do I have to support such a bold and dangerous assertion?
None, really. I would have had to include men to make some silly attempt
at an arguement. What I have is a hunch, some experience looking at and
writing about the work of both, and some ideas about things I've noticed.
Mostly I'm interested in how women use abstraction to fulfill a need they
have. I'm not interested in making comparisons between genders. I just
can't help but notice that something happens, and that that something is
very important.
I call it "the way women artists immerse and reveal themselves in
the language of abstraction." I can hear the objections. Fine. Just
bear with me. This is by no means a feminist thesis, and I am not a feminist.
Just another artist, critic, and curator and what fascinates me is the
way that women artists have carved out what I consider to be a considerable
and significant domain in contemporary art thanks to the power of abstraction.
Only women artists flourish in the area of expression these days, it seems
particularly to suit some part of their nature. My cynical partly ignorant
partly threatened friends call it touchy-feely. I find it a failing on
their part, and a loss, to which they seem stubbornly committed or resigned.
But you get the picture. The point is that women seem willing to go places
that men, like little boys, find yucky. Women seem willing to get messy
with emotion, passionate about love and heartbreak, brave about what is
happening inside them. Maybe they have no choice. Maybe they would shrivle
up and die if they didn't.
Don't get me wrong, this is by no means male bashing, anything but. I won't
hear of it, thank you. The Jackson Pollocks of the world have their own
kind of courage without a doubt, courage I admire. They make things, big
bridges and buildings and that sort of stuff. A lot of good stuff, not
just violence, fast cars, and destruction. But this is my contention, that
the veiling that is abstraction makes the Joan Snyder's
of the world just as brave, just as fierce, just as powerful. It gives
them an edge, a jump, a chance. It says, here's the benefit of the doubt,
go for it.
That's the thing, I find, it is the women abstractionists who for my money
are doing the telling, like there is no tomorrow.
ADDISON PARKS, WOMEN IN ABSTRACTION, 1995, Catalog essay
for an exhibition at Gallery 28, Boston, Ma.
