Selected reviews, interviews and text



Saul Ostrow, review of Aletheia, High Noon Gallery, New York. The Brooklyn Rail, February 2024

 

Though at first David Rhodes’ paintings appear to be reductive, repetitive and formulaic, with time one may come to the conclusion that his works are refreshingly deceptive in that he makes paintings that inform thought rather than ones that illustrate soundbites, or are displays of subjectivity, and taste. For two decades, Rhodes’ paintings have consisted mainly of ever-so slightly inflected black grounds articulated by raw canvas bands of varying widths and lengths. This exhibition of recent works titled Aletheia, follows suit. The press release accompanying this exhibition informs us that the title refers to a core concept of Martin Heidegger, and the term translates as “unconcealedness”, “disclosure”, “revealing”, or “unclosedness”. Aletheia is the Greek goddess of truth.

The press release goes on to describe Rhodes’ rigorous methodology as well as his many philosophical musings as to how Truth is a form of “disclosure” fundamentally accessed through one’s everyday existence, and the idea that time is an index of labor. Relative to the paintings presented here, we can only imagine that the title is meant to signal that these fields of mat black and their compositions of parallel lines that terminate in such a way as to indicate a vertical band running down the center of the canvas, are meant to be truthful and revelatory. From this, one may generate numerous analogous musings concerning the existential and phenomenological speculations embedded in Rhodes’ works.

Let’s suppose that Rhodes does put his philosophical reflections to use so as to manifest a “truth” —perhaps it is what Jacques Derrida identifies as the truth in painting — what is meant by this is: art with differing degrees of accuracy can call into question the varied ways that we understand the world—it can challenge our presumptions/assumptions. If this is true, then my first task as a viewer is to make sense of what is concretely presented to me and then as a critic to do so in a self-reflexive manner. In Rhodes’ case as a viewer what I’m dealing with is various vertical rectangles of differing dimensions, each covered in a substratum of canvas upon which he has applied a mottled black ground inscribed with patterns of raw canvas stripes of differing widths and lengths. These lines do not align — as such Rhodes’ compositions are asymmetrical. Each painting is a variation of this format, what differs is the arrangement of the stripes — in the case of these, they abruptly terminate to indicate a vertical stripe. Optically, the patterns of stripes appear to shift as if they are at one moment both on the same plane and then on different ones. Occasionally, Rhodes lines give the illusion of cutting into this central boundary to form a silhouetted shape where previously there was only a pattern of stripes. As a result of the stark contrast, another effect is a secondary black retinal after-image of the stripes float before one’s eyes. As a critic what comes to mind is Bridget Riley’s early works: black lines appear to oscillate or pulsate, fooling viewers into seeing movement and change within what is a static painting. In doing so she demonstrates that vision is not neutral.

Continuing this dialog with my selves, we move on to the geometry of the black areas, which is determined by the asymmetrical patterns of the stripes that cut into them from the stretchers edge and abruptly terminate at an undemarcated vertical, which most often runs down the center of the canvas. The varied widths of the stripes are determined by the widths of the tape Rhodes uses to mask-off these unpainted areas of raw canvas. The pattern of these bands varying thicknesses do not appear to be systemically determined, but instead intuitive — perhaps they are determined by eye. The introduction of such an element is where Rhodes retains aspects of his pre-minimalist roots, in that while his work is pared down to a limited number of elements, it does not partake of minimalism’s essentialist logic and industrial (machine) aesthetic.

If this reading is correct, Rhodes permits himself to introduce into his reductive, rule oriented vocabulary, non-systemic variables as a repressed trace of his presence. From this it might be safe to conclude that Rhodes’ paintings are not only optical, or compositionally systemic but also indexical — and as a painter he is concerned with materiality, process, and the effects of shifts in scale. Therefore, countering what is taking place pictorially, his images stop at the edge of the stretcher bar — there are no drips, splatters or bleeds. To emphasize his paintings’ frontality the sides of the stretcher were apparently masked-off during painting. Another condition Rhodes acknowledges is that the thick weave of the canvas produces a slight bleeding along the stripes’ edges. Meanwhile, the mat black paint, which at first appears to be a continuous uninflected surface, reveals itself to be in actuality irregularly applied which becomes apparent as one moves about. Both of these chance elements — the bleed and the paint application disrupt what might otherwise give Rhodes’ paintings an industrial look. In this manner, though accepting the notion of repetition and variation as unavoidable, he resists the draw of standardization, and the Readymade.

What differentiates Rhodes’ paintings are his phenomenological and cognitive concerns– they are encountered as temporal events that require the viewer to actively filter out information and make conscious decisions so as to create a stable though not necessarily a singular, fixed image. Obviously, this complexity is not communicated in the photographic reproduction of Rhodes’ works which reduces them and replaces their variable surfaces with that of the paper or screen they are presented on. Likewise, by reducing them to an image of white stripes on a black ground, gone are the subtle bleeding of the edges and imperfections of the black ground. In this manner they are made decorative. This loss of the embodied real to its image — the displacement of the thing by its representation — is central to Walter Benjamín’s discourse on reproduction and Jean Baudrillard’s on the simulacrum. This long-fought battle to sustain the experiential dimension of art is another aspect of Rhodes’ works.

To my mind, Rhodes works are an assemblage of a number of forgotten, though once significant 1960s’ tendencies — the three most substantial are Systemic Painting, Art Concrete, and Op Art all of which provided components to what would become Minimalism. Given these sources, Rhodes’ works are neither nostalgic, derivative nor are they part of an endgame strategy, just the opposite. His is not some academic exercise or purist pursuit, instead it is a serious attempt to both sustain and expand upon the unfinished projects of his source materials. I raise this point about Rhodes’ sources because in this day and age, what abstract painting there is, is for the most part characterized by eclecticism, novelty, irony and despair. This state has been brought about by an ever more limited gene pool, and a lack of critical discourse. Rhodes works reminds us that there are paths to follow beyond those tendencies that result in Pop-ish mashups of quotes taken from the canon or assembled to nostalgically reproduce the look of the authentic. There are, as Rhodes’ works remind us, paths less taken, less opportunistic that are in the present marketplace less financially rewarding, though culturally much more significant than art brought into line with corporate standards.

Given the sources Rhodes deploys can’t be found by scrolling though Instagram and many of the art magazines from the 60-70s, cannot be found on-line it is important here to note some key moments in what I hold to be Rhodes’ minor history. I propose it includes the discourses concerning abstract painting that are part of post-1945 European modernism as well as such US exhibitions as Hard-edge Abstraction (1959) curated by Californian art critic Jules Langsner, Second-Generation Abstraction at the Jewish Museum(1963), William C. Seitz’s “The Responsive Eye”(1963) at the MoMA, Lawrence Alloway’s Systemic Painting (1966) at the Guggenheim and E.C. Goosen’s “Art of the Real” (1968) at MoMA. The developments in France, Italy and Germany, along with these now near forgotten curators, critics and historians and their exhibitions in the States were central to determining the course of abstract art in the 1960s, before Minimalism came to critical and art historical dominance, and thus creating the illusion that there were no other alternative approaches to be taken. Today, though not readily available, it is important to be aware that there are alternatives to the heritage of US modernist art history and reductivism formalism, which made abstract art in the main a formulaic and dead-ended pursuit.




David Cohen, Schwarzwälde at Hionas Gallery, Artcritical, New York, 2013


The range of effects and the nuances of affect presented by the paintings of David Rhodes would be remarkable enough in an artist who set himself few restraints. And yet – initially at least – the defining characteristic of this New York debut exhibition of the Berlin-based British painter is the stringency and starkness of its pictorial system.

On raw canvases that follow the same tripartite division, in a deadpan application of one acrylic black, Rhodes arranges three sets of parallel stripes. These vary considerably in thickness but – in the painting process – the black is clearly worked against strips of masking tape of maybe just two or three widths. And as (rather like a woodcut) it is the exposed raw canvas rather than the acrylic strokes that registers as the signifying stripe.

Reading from left to right, the three sets go top left to bottom right, back to top right, down to bottom right. In one or two paintings of sparse population and thin exposed stripe we can almost read “VA” allowing for the absence of the A’s crossbar and the doubling of its and the V’s shared inner diagonal. But generally his hieroglyph eludes the Latin alphabet, while seeming alphabet-like – a kind of semiotic reverse, in this respect, of Al Held’s Alphabet series, seen last spring at Cheim & Read.

Art historically the most striking resemblance is to Frank Stella of the period of The Marriage of Reason and Squalor although, again topically, the early grid works of Sean Scully (on view at the Drawing Center) are another apt point of reference. Rhodes actually occupies expressive territory closer to the later works of both those artists while retaining the formal rigor of their earlier efforts. Thinking about him this way helps us locate his “minimalism” as proto, or post, in the sense that the restraints of his system serve emotional rather than purely cerebral ends. His art is one of economy rather than reduction per se (is modernist not minimalist as some might put it).

There is unmistakable warmth to the paintings, despite their pared-down qualities. This results from what could be dismissed as studio contingencies and yet feels intentional, possibly even integral. Tolerated rub and burr lend surfaces the feel of (again) woodcut despite the undisguised materiality of canvas and absented tape. But even if Rhodes were able to program a Roxy Paine-like robot to dispatch his paintings for him, several ensuing perceptual phenomena would continue to enrich – to mitigate and complicate – his streamlined modus operandi.

There is the effect, for instance, of proximate bands of black triggering retinal sensations of other colors so that in one painting there might seem to be alternating black and blue. Then there are the disconcerting twists and tapers, in multiple possibilities, where one set of diagonals jar with another in what New Yorkers might want to call the Flatiron effect. The differing canvas sizes seen in the close quarters of Hionas’s Lower East Side gallery and the inclusion in the back room of a couple of works on paper bring home the crucial variables of scale and support in determining the impact of this reduced vocabulary. There is a lot that can be said within strict adherence to a format.

It’s instructive to compare Rhodes with fellow Brit Ian Davenport whose current show of sumptuous stripes at Paul Kasmin is itself fortuitously timed with Ameringer McEnery Yohe’s overview of the perennially scintillating Gene Davis. Davenport juxtaposes skillfully held-in-check chromatic brilliance with the flourish of exuberantly unpredictable puddles in what nonetheless seem like exquisitely orchestrated marbling as the paint oozes out of his pipes of color. Returning to Rhodes, after this over the top pop, is rather like listening to Bach violin sonatas after a Baroque opera. But as with Bach, you soon hear as many voices and as much emotion.




Bret Baker, Painters Table, New York, 2013


David Rhodes’ exhibition Schwarzwälde at Hionas Gallery on the Lower East Side is a potent reminder that paintings are invitations to reflect and, at their best, transcend their own means.

At first glance, Rhodes’ paintings are darkly hermetic. Their minimalist clarity and completeness are forbidding, and the viewer cannot find a point of entry. Indeed, Rhodes’ canvases seem to shout Stella’s dictum “what you see is what you see.” Yet, after a few moments, they suddenly open outward.

Using a severely limited vocabulary - raw canvas, thinly stained black acrylic paint, and carefully taped edges - Rhodes creates an unbounded experience. His paintings are full of nuanced perception and keenly invoke of the legacy of modernism.

Rhodes’ paintings embody minimalism’s factuality, and evoke the existentialism of the New York School. The fractured unity of each composition recalls Cubism. All this Rhodes accomplishes without forgoing image - perceiving a forest, here, is a leap, but not a big one. The paintings’ kinetic effect is similar to that of moving through deeply wooded space - close, dark forms passing in and out of one’s field of focus.

Berlin-based Rhodes doesn’t reference just any forest, however, he chooses der Schwarzwald, the Black Forest. A place of legend, the Black Forest beckons to the intrepid, not the faint of heart. Within, unknown dangers lurk, but also untold treasures; it is a place of realized visions, of magic. Perhaps the most potent reading of Rhodes’ recent work is a symbolist one. In his hands, the language of late modernism does not celebrate a definitive aesthetic; rather, it suggests the possibilities of painting. With minimal means, Rhodes paints a total experience - both the forest and the trees lie in wait for the viewer.



 

An unpublished interview by Monica Pavese (excerpts) Rome 2022

 

Monica Pavese: What is your background, how did you come to experience paintings?

David Rhodes: I’m from a working-class family in Manchester, an industrial city in the North West of England. I was a twin, the other child died soon after I was born. My Mother had mental health issues, and struggled with depression, there was also a suicide attempt, not an easy childhood. I didn’t discover for sure that she was Jewish until much later in my life, she worked in the clothing trade as a buyer for a department store in the city. I guess I may have acquired a sensitivity to fabric and texture from her vocation: an exposure to folding, pattern, tactility of surface etc. I liked French 19th century artists and poets at school, and was aware that they were from a social class remote from mine even though Baudelaire and Rimbaud certainly explored society’s regions outside of the drawing room salon. I loved their poetry. I didn't see actual paintings when I was a young teenager, though in the school art store room there was a reproduction of Paul Cézanne's Self Portrait with Palette (1890) now in the Kustmuseum Basel, this was the beginning of a life long interest in Cézanne. The repeated diagonal lines or gestures in Cézanne's paintings became more significant for me some years later. I was very aware when young that both my father and grandfather had spent their youth at war, which, of course, was in contrast to my own early years. As a teenager, I saw Bertolt Brecht plays performed in Manchester and made trips down to Stratford to see Shakespeare. I saw the same play more than once in the same season on several occasions, and the differences between the performances made a big impression on me, once I had experienced this I wanted to experience it again, each performance was an event, and it was in the repetition that this became even more evident: the performance was not simply an identical iteration. Quite a few years later in the mid 1990s I saw Peter Stein's Russian production of Aeschylus' Orestia in Edinburgh. During the intervals the set was repositioned and repainted by the performers in preparation—they even got some paint on their costumes— visually the work and its setting was an explicit process in its making and performing.

I eventually, out of necessity, traveled to see paintings, The National Gallery and Tate Gallery in London, The Louvre in Paris, but still not to see contemporary art. Rothko's Seagram paintings at the Tate were extraordinary to encounter. I became interested in Early Italian painting, Medieval art, Romanesque Architecture, Velasquez, Picasso, Matisse, Klee, Miró, and, one day Mondrian. I had walked past the Tate’s Mondrian’s a couple of times but then on one occasion I suddenly, from one instant to the next, found the paintings a compelling experience and that hasn't changed.

MP: How was traveling, and later exile, important for you?

DR: Apart fro seeing paintings, for example: I was drawn to the sound of musical instruments or voices, to the particular timbre of music: chamber music, flamenco, Neapolitan folk, Ragas, and jazz have always been important and some of this music I discovered while traveling, it corresponded to how I was beginning to think of the painted surface in paintings. Throughout southern Europe the houses are often painted with color on an obviously tactile, rendered or brick surface. I experienced a lot of European modern architecture, both that of regional post war cities in general, so called Brutalist or International Style, and the works of very recognizable architects, for an example, Le Corbusier in Marsaille, France or Mies van der Rohe in Berlin, Germany. Material, surface, scale, space: transitions in all of these aspects, were very exciting to discover. I actually worked on the restoration of a Lubetkin building that the architect had lived in just outside London and got to live there for a couple of weeks. Early travel took me to France, Germany, Italy, Spain. Whilst visiting a small town inland from Cadiz—I was there because of my interest in Spanish poetry, particularly Garcia Lorca—I took a train to the coast through flat lands that during the day were bleached out by intense sunlight, on returning in the evening the strips of water were silver, threaded through the dark surface of the landscape was full of incidental detail. This reversal of contrast and light has always stayed with me. On the train down from Madrid, after the astonishment of seeing Velasquez and Ribera at the Prado and huge hand painted bill boards in the streets, the train stopped at a bonfire in the fields and passengers got off the train for drinks and conversation. On the train were Gypsies sleeping in the areas between cars, one young child held out his cupped hands, they contained a small bird. Andalusia, in the late 1970s was, unlike some other regions of Europe, it was very other and the presence of Caliphate Spain tangible; evident in so many ways, tiles, pattern, incised walls. I saw some Flamenco on the edge of town in Seville, also memorable, a visceral sound: voices, hand claps, feet stamping, guitar used also as percussion. I've often returned to Naples, the Museo archeologico Napoli, made a strong impression on me together with the rest of the city and surrounding country. Henri Matisse's Chapelle du Rosaire de Vence was another extraordinary experience of architechture: it's surface, light, drawing, space. Luigi Ghirri's photograhy was a discovery years later, I had made a lot of photographs whilst traveling and his photogaphs, much better that mine, looked at the same composite views that in the quotidian experience of life surround us. It was through photography that I discovered my interest in markets, or train concourses, or the distribution of freckles over a face; this was an interest in the arbitrary distributions that never the less comprised all kinds of changing relationships between the parts.

MP: Where did you study after leaving Manchester, and what were the reasons?

DR: I chose to study in Bristol, rather than London, where I knew I would have to move eventually, for several reasons. Hassel Smith was teaching there. And Paul Feiler, together with other artists teaching who were connected to the painters in the west of England that knew artists such as Naum Gabo and Mark Rothko. I wasn’t interested in current British painting. The artists who produced Artscribe were visiting the school to teach, they were traveling to New York and so I would hear about Brice Marden, and his studio routines, for example. Hassel was a great teacher, very direct, and spoke as an artist and from his social and political experience, he had also been a close friend of Clyfford Still. During the summers I spent time in France, Italy, Spain seeing museums and galleries, architecture and just traveling through these countries. I was making paintings around 6 x 5 feet with horizontal bars of black and white, or white and white, or red and white, alternating artist oil paint and enamel paint. Before this I had a year of using resin or latex on canvas strips woven horizontally on a painting stretcher. I was aware of the Arte Povera artists, Fontana, Burri, and Kounellis. Also, Pollock and his use of enamel paint, and black. At a certain point I started using the library for part of each day as I realized I needed to know a lot more than I did. Looking back I could see what I was missing, there were artists I would have loved to be aware of as a student, Hantaï, Parmentier and Hartung for example, but I had no knowledge of them. My paintings were making themselves after I had established a very simple structure, a frankness in the use of material was already a very significant part of the way I was thinking about painting, the support was never a passive and neutral for me and surface was necessarily granular and close, and I associated it with timbre in music. I couldn’t anticipate exactly what the paintings would look like when they were finished. Chance already interested me a lot, I appreciated Cage and dance that used ordinary rather than balletic movement. I was never in complete control of my paintings or interested in that, the difference between the method of painting, always very simple and the finished painting, surprised me, and it still does: the pictorial complexity seemed independent of my particular skills. I was listening to Bach, Schoenberg, Webern, Neapolitan traditional, Ragas, Flamenco, jazz, particularly Dolphy and Miles.

MP: And after art school you have lived in different cities, and in different countries.

DR: Yes, after art school and a stay in Paris where I was spending as much time in museums and galleries as possible, I moved to London. I was already aware that painting, in particular abstract painting, was dismissed as irrelevant, and that painting in general also lacked a serious critical discourse. I was fortunate when I was given a stack of books by authors including Bataille, Blanchot, Derrida, Lacan, Barthes and Foucault by a printer who I was assisting to earn some money, he had just finished an evening philosophy course. I soon discovered philosophy was very absorbing, crucial to thinking about life and art and necessary for me for in understanding, or limits of understanding, of painting. Heidegger's thinking was very important to me: the return to the Greeks before Plato, and all that this signified; the terms ekstasis, alethiea, and techné. I can't imagine painting without thinking—that is, either side of actually making a painting—I'm not talking about instrumental, rational thinking or propositional thinking either. Early 1980s London, before Thatcher’s revolution gained traction and finance flowed into the city, was still in many ways the world of post war neglect or underdevelopment. A strong connection to past decades and central areas of the city available for affordable living reminded me of the Berlin I lived in between 2003 to 2013. London is nothing like that these days. I met artists such as Frank Bowling and Anthony Caro who were very connected to America; there was no comparable connection to art from the rest of Europe except in my own travel. I was able to live in Venice and work at the Biennale for three consecutive years 95 to 97. Having many months in this city, moving around it, getting to know the paintings in the collections and churches there was another a very important experience for me. Back in London I was making large paintings, working on the floor folding canvas after pouring paint over it, I couldn’t see the result until pulling the canvas back afterwards, I was painting blind. I also worked on paper like this. I was using a lot of different blacks, whites and greys. After this I made small paintings on aluminum using a finger to draw though a layer of wet paint in a circular motion with my eyes closed. This was in the 80s and through the beginning of the 90s. By the end of the 90s I was extending my arm and painting loops of different colors on canvas. After arriving in Berlin I started using only black and repeated diagonals to form chevrons and then diagonals that alternated along at least two vertical axial divisions: doubling and interlocking the chevron. I lived in Mitte which was part of the former DDR, it was the center of pre second world war Berlin. I lived in three different apartments there Linienstraße, Kline Hamburgerstraße and Gipsstraße. I felt very well living in this neighborhood, I liked its buildings, streets, and old centrality in the city, I went everywhere by bike. Later I had some years in a 3,500 sq.ft. loft just off the Landwehrkanal near Maybachufer where I lived and worked. This was a floor of a former factory, 15 foot ceilings made with curved brick sections supported by grey steel columns and beams and a terracotta tile floor. I travelled a lot around Europe, once to North Africa and made regular trips to New York. American artists coming to Berlin would look me up, Joane Greenbaum, Amy Sillman, Marina Adams and Stanley Whitney among others. I also had visits from John Yau a couple of times. Berlin in these years was very other to mainstream European cities or New York, it was a very different place to be. I had time to work, and read a lot, Mandelstam, Célan, Kafka, Beckett, Benjamin, Adorno. After Berlin I was mostly in Barcelona for a year, but I also did some teaching in Marseille. And after this, since 2014 I have been living and working in New York.

MP: Thinking of your work, how would you describe the recent paintings now that the vertical ceasura as you call it, is in the center of the painting?

DR: Its a substantial change, and a different paradox. The margin or periphery has moved to the center. The paintings remain frontal and retain diagonality. Although the paint is the same color it appears to vary depending on the density of lines. The black vertical center also appears to spread at uneven intervals into either side of the painting. The tactile aspect is more evident with proximity, as usual the canvas substrata is exposed by line that is like an incision. Hubert Damisch said that Dubuffet "liked working in the thickness of the ground, I mean the tableaux - to reveal what is beneath." Samuel Beckett viewed language as "a veil that must be torn apart in order to see what is behind." Jacque Lacan saw desire as in language rather than beyond it, he also described as a "blind spot" our inability to be complete, a lack that is not reflected in a mirror image, it is a gap, or aporia that appears and disappears, never fixable or knowable but there all the same; these are all issues of surface and presence. In the work of Hans Hartung a meeting of facture, color and surface exposed and slowed the perception of depth in surface. I still think that painting is very connected to it's origins in cave painting, in a precivilizational context. Bataille wrote about this of course, and there are other excellent texts, "The Mind in the Cave" by David Lewis-Williams for example.

MP: So there are always still unpainted areas in the paintings?

Yes, like Cézanne or Pollock or Hantaï. The ground is present, it is not merely a support for an image, it is integral together with the paint. As the French say, its a tableaux. I continue painting, sometimes I feel that I am trying to make a painting that will always be unachievable for me, there is no end goal, but always another painting.



Mary Jones interview for Artcritical 2016, excerpts: 


The works are bold and diagrammatic, at once elegant and urgent. Black acrylic paint is applied directly to raw canvas, which is still visible in thin, vertical, skewed lines that slice through the black surface with an intense rhythmic pitch. Reflections, folds, and mirrors may all come to mind, but the compositions are held in tension against any possible convergences, simple readings or symmetry. They reverberate with the particular beauty inherent to clarity spurred to adventurous action.


Mary Jones: You’ve titled your show “Between the Days,” which is the also title of one of the paintings, the others remaining untitled, with the date and city of completion titled with every painting. What’s the reference?

DAVID RHODES: The title refers to a particular idea of passage or contingency. It is simply that the passage from one day to another is irregular, not even or homogeneous— as chronological meter would have us think. The rhythm one feels, it's speed or interval haunts my paintings. My paintings are finished when the paint has dried, usually they are made over one day, working alla prima. Although the paintings aren’t about that specific day and place, they are subject to circumstances, and have associations for me. Because I've been so peripatetic, dating them as a title has enabled marking a place and time in my own life, together with the acknowledgement of experienced time's inconsistency and odd recurrence. Walter Benjamin's idea of "posthumous maturation," Marcel Proust's "involuntary memory" and Henri Bergson's "irrepressible" alternative durations—all state an estrangement from one directional, consistent, chronological time. My paintings have a structure and process that reappears, there's not a singular evolution, rather, many moments of recursion are part of the process. 

MJ: How is scale changing your work?

DR: It hasn't changed the composition or paint application. It does change the reception of a painting as well as presenting physical challenges in the making of it. It obviously alters the way we relate to a painting, there is a different kind of intimacy. When a larger surface is present we are able to move toward it and feel both within it perceptually and related to it bodily. Rothko said that the ideal viewing distance for his paintings was around 18 inches. For me a relation to the architecture of any give space is important when considering an exhibition and that relation changes with the size of the paintings. Even small paintings have this clear external relationship to the architectural context in which they are presented. My paintings can often be inverted, having in many instances two possible vertical orientations. The internal compositional relations are direct and spare, in music I think of, for example, the compositions of Arnold Schoenberg or J.S. Bach, both of whom used musical inversion and isomorphic partition. Each panel is also a passage to and from an edge or mute internal fissure that is never completely contained or cut off. This is a break and also a connection—the silence between mutual attraction and enmity, take Jean-Luc Godard's Alphaville, the scene in which two characters are separated from each other, and connected, by an open door. Godard's constant contradictions and paradox, the jump-cuts, disjunctive images, music and text, all important for me. Also, Matisse's 'Window at Couliere,' the vertical divisions of surface and space, and particularly the black, vertical caesura, or Giacometti's isolated standing figures articulated by incisions: incursions from the surrounding space.

MJ: Could you describe your process?

DR: The process of making is in how the paintings appear, they are very accessible visually. The degree of given structure allows for chance, and controlled spontaneity. The movement of the painting is something like that experienced in dance, walking or different postures, in the way the lines lean and unfold rhythmically. Lines are taped in each section successively, each section made consecutively. The lines are several different widths, and always oriented other than at 90 degrees. In each section, from one to the next, the direction of the line reverses. Between each section of the painting the seam is visible as in a textile or an architectural section. Some examples of a seam in architecture are the sectional structures of Louis Kahn's Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, the abutted sheet marble of Mies van de Rohe's Barcelona Pavilion and the concrete shuttering marks on the pilotis of Le Corbusier's Unite L'Habitation in Marseille. The paintings are made from left to right, although there are exceptions. After each section is painted the tape is removed and the next section started. There’s no planning it all out beforehand, no editing or smoothing out, it’s a question of the various relationships and constellations that appear: including dislocation, inconsistency, dissonance. The appearance of my paintings is the direct consequence of the materials that I choose to work with. My thoughts are inscribed in the surface of the paintings.

MJ: The color black has so many connotations; urban life and industrialisation, as well as transcendence and negation. Are you using black metaphorically?

DR: The viewer will project what they will, and that’s fine, for me black is not primarily meta, I don't have a fixed idea for it, it can be viewed as elemental or also as a potential. Before these paintings I was using a full range of colour, and I felt the relationships that colour offered were such a subject in itself that I wanted to work in a way in which a colour wasn’t about its constantly varying relationship to other colours, but rather in fact a relationship with their absence. I'm interested in the monochromaticism of far eastern art, Chinese ink paintings for example, where black isn't used against or in a rejection of color but always in relation to absent color. I'm interested in the aesthetic of Kakuzo Okakura's Book of Tea and aspects of Japanese Noh Theatre. Black and Red figure krater painting of 6th and 5th century BCE Greece has long interested me. Jannis Kounellis used black in an elemental way in his paintings and sculptures, combining everyday materials such as coal or sackcloth. This elemental directness is a contemporaneity that does not exclude historicity. I can identify with this approach it's both Arte Povera and an historical enfolding simultaneously.

MJ: Kasimir Malevich formulated the black square to signify an absolute rejection of any possibilities for pictorial representation in favor of pure expression. Do you identify with this kind of abstraction?

DR: My paintings have different parts in relation to each other, but they're not propositional, and I'm not looking to replace one thing with another as a representation. Associations outside the paintings are inevitable, I'm neither dissuading nor encouraging this.

MJ: Can you describe this further?

I follow the paintings during making them, and then retrospectively I decide how to continue in the next painting. The paintings do not describe ideas that I have a priori, or illustrate something specifically that I manifest. They’re not an expression of my ego. I find the paintings of interest so I make more, I do consider how I am thinking and feeling about them They are connected of course to my thinking, but what they are is always a little out of reach for me. I think of Beckett, or Kafka, what they were doing was not contrived to fit a model they had already determined. To be painting is, or at least can be, a vital counter to the passive consuming of leisure time and entertainment. I want my paintings to have a connection and resonance with the day-to-day world as it is experienced or recalled, and I want my work to explore painting itself.

MJ: Is it important to you that there be a feeling of urgency in your work?

DR: Perhaps without desire the paintings would be decorative in an uninteresting way, the urgency isn't consciously imposed. 

MJ: The surfaces of your paintings are very straightforward, there’s no enhancement. It’s a surface that identifies with its elements; it doesn’t transcend its materials, it underscores them. Is this in the service of immediacy?

DR: It’s a very specific surface, neither stained nor layered, somewhere in-between. It’s a resistant kind of surface, not so inviting, but also seductive, paradoxically. My paintings don’t have an overt element of craft. They’re unpretentious, painted like a wall. Think of Arte Povera: Burri, Fontana, Griffa or Kounellis for example. This directness also embodies the mystery present in the ordinary objects and surfaces that make up a lot of our perceived world. Resistance is an important word here too, against both the spectacularization and the uniformization of complexity in the world this word is used by Danièle Huillet and Jean-Marie Straub in this respect. There is also Giorgio Agamben's example: J.S. Bach refusing the separation of the secular and sacred in his music: also an example of the paradox that I value in painting.

MJ: Is there a connection to the black paintings of Frank Stella?

DR: When I was at art school I came across a Hollis Frampton photograph of Stella kneeling in front of a painting with a house painters brush in the middle of completing rectangular concentric lines. I didn’t feel at that moment I could enter into painterly expressionism or conceptual minimalism, there seemed to be too many assumptions that I didn’t connect to. But when I looked at Stellas's black paintings they had an emotion, and sublimity without relying on contrived invocation of transcendence through gestural painting and ideology. They’re pragmatic in their making, but not without mystery, and they struck me as very interesting. Later, in other ways I found myself opposed to Stella in not wanting to move space out of the painting evenly, I want space to be in the painting unevenly, and with the composition exactly not deriving from the support.

MJ: How does writing about art affect your practice?

DR: It accesses a different aspect of my relationship to the work that I see. In the craft of writing unexpected thoughts connect or appear and different associations are made that I couldn't anticipate in doing the actual writing itself. It happens with conversational thinking, but in the isolated experience of writing it's how new thoughts unexpectedly arrive. Thinking thoughts by actively painting or writing. I agree with the view that Mallarmé’s poems, and Klee’s paintings, can be thought of as machines that generate form and meaning in themselves. Produced, that is, in the Greek sense, and not created, in the Thomist theological sense. Benjamin proposes that language is already a translation of the language of things. Paintings are things too, and we attempt to translate them.

  



Sharon Butler interview for Two Coats of Paint 2016, excerpts:


Sharon Butler: Abstraction seems to be having a moment right now, but you’ve been making abstract paintings for a long time. Why are you drawn to it?

David Rhodes: Abstraction is now one way of making a painting among many others, but abstraction has always been the only way for me to make paintings, that is after my first year as a student, this is despite the fact that abstract painting was viewed with contempt during and for years after I was a student. I was not interested in either making figurative painting, much as I loved many examples of it, or in joining the exodus a la mode from painting to other media. I discovered that there were possibilities for my interests, for example in using chance, indirection, a throw of a dice in the process of making. I found that correspondences occurred with other interests, for example fugue, canon forms and timbre, all of which are associated with music or sound, but are apposite for certain kinds of painting. I wanted to see what would happen in each painting and by making the same painting in a way, over and over, I was compelled by difference. I think of this now as a form of automatism that releases retrospectively the formal elements that I am unaware of at the time of making each painting. The interstices of line I orient differently, and whilst being relatively small changes they lead to unexpected constellations. I'm not looking to make virtuosity an effect. In my paintings I don't work to show my preexisting thoughts, the paintings are not propositional so much as they have physical characteristics that lead to new thoughts. As I see it, the exilic power of painting is in the endless, discontinuous, fragmented, nomadic, and always interrogative; what we are calling abstract painting is this for me.

TCOP: But what about the black? Let’s get back to that. Do you see it as the absence of color (like light) or the combination of all colors (like paint)? Also, do you mix your own like we were taught in art school?

DR: I’ve always been interested in black as a colour, it's a different source of light. I’ve always been interested in early Italian painting, Cimabue for example, and in Spanish painting, the melancholy in Zurbarán or Velasquez. Also, Byzantine mosaics, like those at Torcello in the Venetian Lagoon, where the inversion to a black ground with white figures interested me, the wall fresco paintings of Pompeii, Attic red and black figure vases from Greece, Coptic textiles from Egypt. Matisse reintroduced black in a radical way as a colour. I'm using only carbon black on canvas at present, I have also used linen and burlap in the past, and I use Sumi ink on paper. I found Frank Stella's black paintings interesting for other reasons than those used to categorised them, that is ,for me they are an example of new possibilities, not reductive painting that represents an end point at all. The matter of fact way of their facture didn't undermine but actually seemed to enhance their ambiguity. In my paintings any "deductive structure" is not determined by the framing shape, rather, this acts as another cut, at the paintings edge. The problem of colour is not optical only, it's libidinal, any sublimation is consequential, but not something typically addressed openly in post-painterly abstraction, colour is intimately entangled in a host of social and subjective determinations, including this libidinal economy, it's unavoidable for the viewer too. The first generation of Ab-Ex painters, Pollock, Newman, Rothko understood all this, there is an admirable impurity in their work: there is more there than formal qualities even though the immanent medial restraints of paint and canvas are accepted. Optically, I don’t want the black to be assertively cool or warm in itself. Natural light, as it fluctuates changes its appearance. My emphasis on material and process is not what was once regarded as progressive, but which was overly rational, the "sombre order of technical efficiency" as Simon Hantaï put it. One could say about the color black, "The night (black) is the clarity that reveals the longing for colors." I often use paint manufactured in or available in the city or region where I’ve been living and working, so while I’m here in New York for example, I’m using Golden acrylic, in Berlin, Lascaux acrylic.

TCOP: Using local materials is also a nod to tradition. In the old days people used the pigments found in their community.

DR: Yes, you’re right. I am painting on canvas bought in this country from a supplier in Georgia and at 18 to 24 lbs per square inch it has enough surface for me, it provides a clear tactility. This is a found material in one sense, as well as an active element in the paintings, and also a color. The painted areas can appear less tactile than the raw canvas and I like that contradiction. The physicality of the painting comes simply from the material that the paint is applied to. There is a one to one relation with the viewer, two physical entities, one moving in relation to the other. 

TCOP: Which contemporary painters interest you. 

DR: Many, Helmut Federle, David Novas, Martin Barré also I still look at those from recent history: Burri, Fontana, Kounellis, Hartung, Poliakoff, Hantaï, Rothko, Newman, Pollock. Pollock's influence on European painting is extraordinary, and not the same as influence in the U.S. where it was soon directed into post-minimalist sculpture and away from painting, unlike say, in France. Lee Lozano's angular compositions interest me a lot too. 

TCOP: You are fond of French and German abstract painters.

DR: Yes. When I was at art school and after in London I identified with painters who were renewing and exploring painting not rejecting its visuality and material conditions. A reason for moving to Berlin in the Fall of 2003 was that I had always been interested in post-war European abstract painting, German, Italian, French, Spanish as well as that from U.S. which had dominated the London scene. There is not such a strong tradition of modernism, or modern art in England, it never became as central to the culture as it did in Berlin, Paris, and later New York. Before the WW II there was a tradition of modern art in much of Europe, it becomes complicated after. That war caused a diaspora, and of course some of those fleeing intellectuals and artists came to New York. I find that despite globalization there are continuing and important contrasts between places because of the context derived from distinct histories. In Germany, for example, Palermo and Förg have long been important artists. The critical discourse around painting is different in Europe to that here in the U.S.. French post war painting had a small presence in London at the time I left, as well as in Berlin and New York, these days that is changing, slowly, thankfully.

TCOP: You’re an itinerant painter! I like that. I went from sublet to sublet for years. I like the way moving around throws the work into a semi-permanent transition mode. I didn’t try to maintain consistency. But it looks like you’ve been able to focus on the same images despite your changing surroundings.

DR: I have been an itinerant artist, yes, a voluntary exile but not entirely in control of this. This also changes the perception of where I'm not, the place that I leave. What happens in the paintings is not a reflection of a place in literal terms, it’s more to do with being excilic, experiencing otherness as a person perhaps. There are great advantages in staying put too, of course. John Ashbery described American painters living in Paris as "apatrides," meaning that they were stateless, he thought the sporadic relocations and geographic switchbacks of a peripatetic life allowed them to come at painting afresh and slightly off balance. It is interesting to consider this aspect of working, and of making a life somewhere else, whether it's Pablo Picasso, Joan Mitchell, Hans Hartung, Simon Hantaï or James Bishop. And in a somewhat different way, as it was not their initiative and they moved when they were so young, Gorky or Rothko. The questions are: what is lost, revisited, and eventually, what remains, in moving from place to place.

TCOP: Have your paintings changed since your last show at Hionas three years ago?

DR: The paintings from three years ago all used the same sequence of vertical lines that essentially made two V-shapes. The rhythm involved and the depth of the space had a focused ambiguity that was less all over compared to the current paintings. Now, all the off-vertical lines are multiplied, this drawing in the surface or tableaux produces a fractured discontinuous space. Diagonals make for a dynamic balance destabalising space, undermining the ideal of a grid. The lines are between vertical and horizontal, on the way to balance but not there yet, not fixed if you like. I think of the lines as accumulating gesture, interruption, dissonance. When the paintings capture light falling on them an unevenness of surface is revealed. The lines are incised in the surface. It is for me not to do with flatness, but tactility and working into the surface of the tableaux. I make the paintings quickly, unseen until the tape is removed. I can look at them as the viewer does later, and they do surprise me: any lengthy reflection comes a posteriori of actual painting.

TCP: What about the Music, film, literature, that is important for you?

Music that I listen to includes, J.S. Bach, Beethoven's late quartets, Schoenberg's Pierrot Lunaire (Sprechstimme, in English spoken singing), John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Billy Holiday, Son House, Ragas, Flamenco, Neopolitan traditional, all for amongst other reasons the timbre, repetition, structure, rhythm. Film, in particular Antonioni, Godard, Rossellini, Ozu, Straub & Huillet, Chantal Ackerman, all directors who use montage, temporality and stillness. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, a 1920 German silent film with painted sets, and slanting camera angles, the German angle as it's called. Buster Keaton is a favourite too. Photographers I look at, Brassai's photos of graffiti, and Luigi Ghirri's Italian street scenes. Poetry, Tu Fu, Sappho, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Mallarmé, Hölderlin, Célan, Mandelstam, Reverdy, Appolinaire, Lorca, Rosselli, Fontini, Ashbury, O'Hara, Bishop, Schuyler.

TCP: You are articulate about your work, is this because you are also writing about art?

DR: Thanks, but I find it very difficult to write about my own work, when I do it's usually in the form of notes or citations. 



Galeria Carles Taché, Barcelona, 2021


David Rhodes' pictorial language limits itself to several technical elements repeated by the artist in each painting he creates. Vertical lines of different widths reveal nuances of the canvas surface. The limitation to black paint and the colour of the canvas or paper responds to an intent to mediate the process of painting without the distraction of multitudes of color with an expression at once economical and urgent.

Just so, through repetition, and structure, the eye aroused by incidents can abandon the quick glance and thus concentrate on the perception of details and how they correspond and crystalize differently. Then one can begin apprehending the rhythmic, formal, particular differences between the paintings. The precision, and openness in Rhodes' technical process reveals contingency.



María Pfaff, gallery text, New Paintings at Tat Art Barcelona (Galeria Carles Taché), Barcelona, 2017


The way the artist chose to title the exhibition says a lot about the nature of his body of work, a whole that can be seen as a never-ending and unique series of paintings that paradoxically make diversity arise through repetition. These new paintings are thus organically connected with their precedents. It is not that the artist searches only for simplicity, on the contrary, he also intends to intensify complexity, not in an expansive way but rather within narrow margins. Rhodes has determined these margins by establishing language limits: he paints black on raw canvas, or paper, and composes with vertical lines. Starting from these premises, the outcomes are unexpected: paintings next to each other reveal formal and affective differences.

Vertical lines show different widths and inclinations while the applied paint amplifies the presence of the canvas surface. The concept of the variation helps to understand each individual painting as also a part of something larger, a common harmonic pattern that naturally connects one painting to another and so on. Time is a magnitude that becomes necessary for the apprehension of these works that are apparently simple both in process and result. A slow glance at Rhodes` works proves how this extreme economical expression can suddenly create fluctuations and rhythms.


Barbara Buchmaier, Zeit-Zeichen (Time Signs) extract from a catalogue text, Berlin, 2005


Some of the paintings, especially the more minimal paper works can seem like preliminary designs or sketches, however, these works are complete: though they are conceivably unfinished in the sense that they can be potentially expanded in different directions. Therefore all that is fixed or finished is a current state: one possible moment. With prolonged viewing, and without excluding an iconographic reading, spatial and topological modulations and velocities now interchange.




Sherman Sam, extract from solo exhibition catalogue, Vis-a-Vis, Palacete Viscondes de Balsemao, Porto, 2005


The lines created by brush certainly are the mark or extension of his hand and thus his body; Jackson Pollock's drips are probably the most prominent example of this notion of "embodiment." It is an interpretation inspired by Merleau-Ponty who's idea that our relation to the world is always via the body, that is "the insertion of the mind in corporeality." Hence his philosophy, and in particular his writings on painting, bring us back to our corporeal existence. The critic Mark Ginsbourne has written of Rhodes' painting in terms of the haptic, specifically, he has described Rhodes' work as being as "concerned with configured space and surface boundaries, a consideration and questioning as to how we frame our perceptions." This work is not in any way a simple reevaluation of post-painterly abstraction, rather it is also preoccupied with an exploration of such interests as the distinctions of structure and timbre in music: Morton Feldman and John Cage as well and J.S. Bach. Like Henri Matisse, Mark Rothko or Blinky Palermo, it is a felt art where passions and thinking are disseminated through formal structures. As much as politics and pathos can be discussed through representation—painting and particularly abstract painting can solicit "joyance" to use Jacques Derrida's term.




Some ongoing citations and notes


But, when we have discovered in language an exceptional power of absence and of denial, we are tempted to consider the very absence of language as part of its essence, and silence as the ultimate possibility of speech… But this silence is in no respect the opposite of language, its repudiation or its condemnation; on the contrary, it is taken for granted by words—it is their preconceived basis, their secret intention; more yet, it is the only condition on which speech is possible, if speech is the replacement of a presence by an absence and the pursuit, through presences ever more fragile, of an absence ever more all-sufficing.

Maurice Blanchot Mallarmé and Language, 1947


Kafka’s works protected themselves against the deadly aesthetic error of equating the philosophy that an author pumps into a work with its metaphysical substance. Were this so, the work of art would be stillborn; it would exhaust itself in what it says and would not unfold itself in time. To guard against this short-circuit, which jumps directly to the significance intended by the work, the first rule is: take everything literally; cover up nothing with concepts invoked from above. Kafka’s authority is textual. Only fidelity to the letter, not oriented understanding, can be of help. In an art that is constantly obscuring and revoking itself, every determinate statement counter balances the general proviso of indeterminateness. Kafka sought to sabotage this rule when he let it be announced at one point that messages from the castle must not be taken ‘literally’.

Theodore W. Adorno Notes on Kafka, 1953


Stéphane Mallarmé’s text Un coup de dés (A Throw of the Dice): "Rien n'aura eu lieu que le lieu"—nothing will have taken place but the place.

Blanchot's concept of a space that includes it's own absence, reserve, silence. A space away from the author or artist, insists on a turning away in order to recognize it. Not a case of illustrating this space but producing it. Michel Parmentier was very involved with this thinking of Blanchot's I am also. In my first serious paintings, I used horizontal bands of contrasting value, like Parmentier had in the 1960s although I had no awareness of this when making my own paintings.

Paintings are radical because of what they are, not what they try to say. The desire to make a painting is the starting point, painting is its own impetus.

Arthur Rimbaud's extraordinary simplicity, disjunctive, undecidable mystery in a literal and non symbolic form, "I wanted to say what it said, literally and in all its senses."

Painting is not confined or ultimately determined by concept: the problem is that of philosophy, bound to the word, then transferred directly to speaking of painting.

Making paintings today, to quote Jean‐Luc Nancy “...allows for a circulation of recognitions, identifications, feelings, but without fixing them in a final signification.” 

Freud, and Marx both recognized that illusion was constitutive of our social existence, and not only an error of reasoning—they looked for material experience.

The concrete is complex in our everyday encounters. Tangible and sensuous materiality via touch as well as the optical, makes painting a material consciousness.

With the advent of modernism the conflicts of history erupt into art differently, paradox and fragmentation now enter classical balance.

I choose to work within the medial constraints of paint and canvas; black paint and raw canvas. Matisse: "Black is not only a color but also a light." Kafka: "One must write into the dark." In Kafka's writing the prose surface is not complex or puzzling, it is the simplicity of it that's puzzling. Emotion or thought are form, and visa versa, here they are not distinguishable.

"Once Newton's perfect mechanical universe has fallen apart, Matisse represents space by occupying it rhythmically, a sign after another, like walking, one step after another." Giorgio Griffa

Tactility of color, and a reserve of exposed canvas surface, are vital to my paintings—aspects that are also present in Matisse's and Picasso's paintings and significantly, Cézanne's paintings before them. The ground of my painting is shown as canvas, whatever else, the figure and ground is not a consolidated binary opposition, other painters that participate in this are, Barré, Bishop, Bonnefoi, Degottex, Hantaï, Rouan, and Parmentier. Not collage or monochrome as a solution, this was also true of Pollock, Matisse and Picasso.

Lines, drawn with tape and over painted black are removed to reveal the substrate of canvas. This is drawing as painting. The earliest marks or drawing were scratches on a cave wall (Vilém Flusser on gesture). Today this still exists: inscribing walls, as graffiti, incised drawing into painting or etching lines in printmaking. Mondrian's use of tape in his late paintings, rather than choosing to paint directly. Hantaï's retained areas of raw canvas in his paintings, working blind, they are both important examples to me. I made paintings by folding canvas, by drawing through paint with my finger, now the folding is visual and the line that still exposes the substrata is by tape removed.

The process of my painting is also blind, as a consequence of my way of using tape I am not able to see the painting that will result. Matisse didn't look at his drawing as he worked, Pollock was in and often on his painting not away from the surface as he worked, Hantaï used pliage (folding) not seeing much of the canvas as he painted. The ordinary tape I use bleeds, and so does not leave a perfect edge. Samuel Beckett in a letter to Hans Naumann on using French rather than his native English, "I will all the same give you one clue: the need to be ill equipped."

The visceral is comprehended, but not possessed, through a bodily connection. In a quarry outside of Rome, Robert Smithson poured a truckload of hot black asphalt down a slope, a work he called Asphalt Rundown (1969). Some earlier works of mine remember this piece.

I am interested in paintings material facticity, of both surface and actual depth as an interrogation of two-dimensional pictoriality and an exploration into the condition of painting.

Compositionaly, the idea of the diagram is interesting: "...the diagram is commonly understood as a drawing conveying information about something incorporeal. From the Greek diagramma, it means to mark out by lines, to draw – where dia is through, across, apart and graphein is to write. The concept of the diagram revamps hylemorphic theory – the push and pull between form and matter – as well as the relationship between content and expression, the connection between thought and image, and the difference between representation and non-representation." Jakub Zdebik. How does this relate to Kant's 'schema' which is also not an image in itself, but a tool, or a process?

"...between poetry's temporal and spatial expanse—by insisting that poetry, scored and scanned upon a page, is fundamentally both architecture and noise." Jennifer Scappettonne on Amelia Rosselli. Also, Rosselli, "I tend toward the elimination of the I. The I is no longer the expressive centre, it is placed in the shadows or to the side." Subjectivity is in flux, split, plural in I/thou.

Cézanne's motif was not stable: he painted on-site where his motif was for him a dynamic event. His paintings are not static constructions, they are combinations of movement and duration, inviting sustained attention rather than a casual passing of time: as music can do. There is rhythm and flattening, a mosaic, and the distortion of shape that recalls Byzantine painting. The situating of a figure, foreground, and a background, space, is interchangeable, side by side, things and that which is usually understood as in-between do not sit in a fixed relation. I connect my own paintings to this experience or structure.

It is vital to stand in front of paintings to experience this.

The irrational intrudes into the structure of painting and reality, as Pythagoras discovered in numbers (the square route of two): as irregularity: inconstancy, randomness and chance are all present in multiplied discontinuities, angles, tilting and asymmetry.

A rejection of perspective as rational imposed order, and a desire to look: as far as possible, without preconceptions. Still a challenge.

I retain both allurement and effacement in my paintings with different ambiguities: figure/ground, emptiness/fullness, symmetry/dissymmetry, static/dynamic. Typically now, a vertical and central section oscillates or vibrates adjacent to opposing diagonal lines. When this is blank it is visually unstable in a different way. An aporia: arriving and departing, concealment and unconcealment, in the while an in-between one moment and another.

Uncertainty occurs in lack of finality—dynamic instability is another kind of balance. I see my paintings as impure, paradoxical, sensuous and matter of fact. They have randomness, muteness, silence. The means and process of painting are as important as composition for the finished painting. Whatever is there communicates in a painting rather than through a painting.

I remove myself from the paintings, though this is never intended to be complete—distancing self-expression, as well as avoiding for myself symbolic narratives, or metaphoric readings. I'm against the use of painting to convey an instrumental rationality; evident contradictions and absurdity are accepted, and valued. In Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot waiting is the repeated and continual deferral of meaning, which is in itself generative of meaning, rather than a striving for meaning—the painfully repetitive and bleakly humorous condition of our lives, not without its own unintentional beauty.

The use of one colour, black, is a concentration of colour, it introduces the absence of other colour. "I would prefer not to." As Melville's Bartleby said. All marks or graphism, even ruled lines are gesture. The taped lines are like stencils, they leave a negative line, they are an empreinte. "We other we deal with the negative." Kafka. The lines dissociate from, and inscribe, the "tableaux." The whole painting is like a fragment, the disjunctive internal divisions recall reflections, in mirrors or on the surface of water, the external edge of the painting is another interruption. The two breaks emphasise inside and outside. The rupture of the connection is the connection (Derrida). Yves Alain Bois argues that an interruption is temporal. It is also spatial.

From "A Note on Amelia Rosselli" by Pier Paolo Pasolini: "One of the most clamorous cases of Amelia Rosselli's linguistic connectives is the lapsus, or slip. At times feigned, at times true: but when it is feigned, it is probably so in the sense that, having been formed spontaneously, it is immediately accepted, adopted, fixed by the author under the aesthetic species of an "invention that makes itself." And so, Passollini goes on to say "as if born outside the mind, almost a physical projection of rationally inexpressible..."

A painting crystallizes in the suspended instant that I stop, cease, pause. Everything is on or in the surface. Nothing is held back within the language limit, and nothing is embellished. The painting is there, the viewer also feels being there; in this one to one. There needs to be an insistent physicality and repetition, like the original Biblical Hebrew, rather than the English lyrical translations with imposed and unnecessary vocabulary variations (of the use of "and" for example) of most translations. Translation is an interesting subject for the reception of painting. Painting offers direct physical experience, and thoughtful engagement, dialogue. Thinking is poetizing: "primordial poetry" Heidegger.

The centric axial section of my paintings may elicit identification anthropomorphically, though this is also effaced as this area is blank, or in a counter direction: a radical caesura, in tension with each side. Hence mimesis is negated, and with it the promise of identification is effaced. "Meaning inheres even in the disavowal of meaning," Theodore W. Adorno. This effacement is paradoxical, the otherness, where the figure should be, is now silence flanked by articulation. This interrelation is incompatibility. The relative emptiness of my compositions can have an hypnotic simplicity comparable sometimes to Tantric Art. Disjunction across and between the vertical sections is like the difference between Kairological and Chronological time; the transitions are disruptive, active, particular, and not homogeneous, predictable and leveled out. The concrete particularities of the oblique lines, their uneven edges and exposed canvas are in contrast to the expanse of black surface, a gesture of writing that is not constructive, but rather disruptive and penetrating ( From the Greek graphein, which means both scraping or scratching and to write about something).

Rather than following the anterior narrative obsession by which paintings become belated illustrations George Didi-Hubermann refers to the term dialectic (dialectical image) to suggest a way to think of painting away from a positivistic interpretation that implies that through knowledge all will be clear and decipherable; he is considering the opposite, meaning that we relinquish our grasp of the image/painting in order to allow the image/painting to lead us. The nouveau roman, and French cinema focus on the non-teleological repetition of details without the usual conventional plot structure to explore the nature of experience, and the processes of thought.

I don’t proscribe meanings, the viewer will make associations for themselves and are welcome to.

Hubert Damisch on Dubuffet, "...he liked to work in the thickness of the ground—I mean the tableaux—to revel what is beneath." Hans Hartung also worked in the thickness of the surface, informed as he was from his own printmaking.

Jannis Kounellis knew that the objective immediacy of bodily immanence is unsustainable, meaning cannot be fully realized this way, this very difficulty attains a sense of mourning in itself. And, despite the impossibility of the modernist project and because the work is connected to the past at the same time as the present a utopic impulse remains, without an available explanation.

I think of what painting can be, I’m not interested in dogmas of either geometrical abstraction or colour theory; there is for me negativity in my desire for a different way to beauty or sublimity.

Any understanding of painting happens over time, and with other people, in a kind of community.

I approach painting, I don’t say I know already what it is. The function of painting can be to pose questions about our being and our desires, it can embody our orientations in life and it can evince a fragmentary subjectivity possessed by doubt.

Always, there is a "posthumous maturation" to cite Walter Benjamin: an on going change from viewing to reviewing paintings over time, in our own experience and historically. My paintings are neither purely structural nor idealistic. They are not a demonstration of a unique skill. The making is apprehended easily but the viewing involves ambiguation: there is constant unfolding rather than an arrival at a destination.

Mallarmé’s poems and Klee’s paintings are machines that generate form and meaning—finding what was not there before; produced, in the Greek sense, and not created, in the Thomist theological sense. Heidegger's translation of the Anaximander Fragment is against the profound loss caused by imposed presuppositions in previous translations, the imposition of interpretation is fraught with difficulties, even remembering that a definitive interpretation isn't possible. Translation is a fundamental quality in all communication. Benjamin proposes that language is already a translation of the language of things. I don't expect my paintings ever to be immediately intelligible, anyway art is indemonstrable. The more or less abrupt transitions and repetitions in my paintings might be indicative of paintings increasing uncertainty over its place in the world, not to mention our own, but I don't set out to demonstrate this.

Artists are people in society, how they function or think of themselves is complicated by the global economies that they exist within, there are writers who have and continue to illuminate our experiences of politics society, for me: Walter Benjamin, Rosa Luxemburg, Hannah Arendt, Paulo Virno, Cornelius Castoriadis.



David Rhodes