"Not What It Seems: Wlodzimierz Ksiazek's Recent Work"
by Karen Wilkin
I don't know how long it takes Wlodzimierz Ksiazek to complete
one of his reticent, anxious paintings, but I do know that we viewers
must invest a considerable amount of time in his efforts if we are
to grasp even some of their complex meanings, allusions, and formal
inventions. Yet even then, there is always the persistent sense
that much remains hidden - literally and figuratively - in these
dense, moody pictures. I am not the first to be struck by the remarkable
multivalence and instability of the associations provoked by Ksiazek's
work - a wealth of oblique (and sometimes not so oblique) connections
that he simultaneously courts and denies by his refusal to attach
titles to his pictures. He rejects even the usual distancing devices
of numbering or of labeling them "untitled," preferring a silent
namelessness that gives us tacit permission to extract or impose
what we will, at the same time that it suggests the anonymity of
statelessness and uprootedness.
That last observation, I admit, presupposes some knowledge of Ksiazek's
difficult history as a political exile from Poland. That history,
however, has been thoroughly discussed by most commentators on his
work - and rightly so, since it is, in some ways, crucial to an
understanding of his art. (Which is not to imply that Ksiazek's
work does not speak eloquently for itself.) The outlines of the
artist's story include, simply, a traditional academic training
in Warsaw and the start of a promising career as painter of "semi-abstract"
pictures. In 1982, Ksiazek fled Poland for the U.S., via Prague,
which created an urgent need for the young painter to reinvent (or
perhaps rediscover) himself in new and strenuous circumstances.
Then marriage, fatherhood, an angry divorce, and a horrific struggle
to remain in contact with his daughter. Yet even if we were not
privy to any information about Ksiazek's troubled past and fraught
present, one of the mysterious qualities of his paintings is that
they make it impossible to interrogate them without speculating
on what generated them, compelling as they are in what might be
called, for lack of better words, formal terms and their uncompromising
abstractness notwithstanding. No matter how engaged we are by the
rich, complicated "geology" or "archaeology" of the surfaces of
these paintings - the evidence of successive campaigns of addition
and excavation - no matter how much we focus on nuances of subtle
color, or no matter how satisfying we find the proportion of the
rectangle and the relationship of drawing incidents to that shape,
it is plain that these sensual qualities are only part of what is
at stake. Ksiazek is obviously committed to abstraction, but he
is just as obviously deeply concerned with private narratives.
Both the most insistently physical and the most withdrawn of Ksiazek's
pictures seem, strangely, to dissolve under the pressure of looking
into a host of contradictory allusions. (For some reason, this seems
specially true of his recent thickly loaded, near-monochrome canvases.)
Just about everyone who has written about the painter's work of
the past decade has commented on this phenomenon, noting the way
his confrontational, multi-layered expanses of thick paint conjure
up thoughts about such diverse manifestations as architecture and
archaeological ruins, mapping and landscape, the body and skin.
Because Ksiazek's surfaces are clearly the result of a process of
accretion and superimposition, his paintings are often discussed
in terms of both accumulated memory and concealment. Because his
drawing takes the form not only of the edges of painterly gestures,
but also of slicing and cutting into the "skin" of paint, to reveal
underlying strata, his pictures are frequently spoken of, too, in
relation to wounding, destruction, or even torture, as well as to
such as ideas as searching for the past and retrieval of memory.
Because patches of paint, perhaps fragments salvaged from the slices,
sometimes seem to have been applied over the incisions and gouges,
they, in turn, can suggest connections with healing, bandaging,
rebuilding. And in the same way, the archaeological associations
of the scraped out pathways, by extension, can stimulate thoughts
about mythology, about the possibility of a collective unconscious,
or about primal legends that cut across cultures and time. And more.
Part of it is simply loosely directed free-association, part of
it word-play, essentially literary; and part of it, purely visual.
I suspect that all of these various interpretations are equally
true and, at the same time, that they are all equally inadequate
to the full weight of profoundly felt, fiercely personal meanings
with which Ksiazek has loaded his paintings. In the end, of course,
all such attempts to "explain" these works remain mere speculation.
Each of us brings our own freight of associations to our experience
of these provocative pictures. Some of these connections may overlap,
at least, temporarily or partially, with the painter's own concerns,
but that is the most that can be hoped for. What is verifiable or,
more accurately, what is visible, is that Ksiazek manages to suggest
many possible allusions, to evoke a range of moods and emotional
temperatures, through completely abstract means, most significantly
through the characteristics of his chosen medium. That this should
be worth pointing out is an unfortunate legacy of Post-Modernism.
Not only is concept habitually given precedence over the fact of
paint, even among those present day practitioners who continue to
employ painting media, but many of them seem to have completely
lost faith in the ability of paint to become the carrier of expression
or personality. They appear to be indifferent to the particular
qualities of the medium, often producing works whose anonymous,
lifeless surfaces are so subordinated to the requirements of expedient
depiction that we wonder why their authors don't find ways of using
photography to tell their stories.
Ksiazek, quite the opposite, makes the intrinsic properties of
paint - its material density, its sensuous viscosity, its ability
to mask what is beneath it - a significant part of the meaning of
his work. His implacable walls of pigment, the inflected but uniform
and uniformly dense sheets of single hues that fill the canvas edge
to edge, declare the history of their making. We mentally recapitulate
the process of building up layer upon layer; we envision the effort
of establishing of a continuous plane and its brutal cancellation
through aggressive gestures of carving out, or conversely, reexperience
a process of tender reapplication. Severe geometric slashes and
cuts reveal underlying states, so that we are allowed to penetrate
the accumulated layers, like explorers of strange landforms, yet
the deeper we are permitted in, the more difficult it seems to wrench
ourselves loose from this curiously shallow but bottomless fictive
interior space. (This sense of plunging within is relatively recent;
earlier works read more as palimpsests, that is to say, as the result
of a series of marks and events imposed on a surface, rather than,
as Ksiazek's paintings of the past few years do, as continuous expanses
that have been violated.)
Ksiazek's process reveals itself, as we imagine the sequence of
application, obliteration, excavation, and revelation, imagine the
series of acts at once celebrating and attacking the medium itself
that become, perhaps, reenactments of displacement of feeling. But
otherwise, despite the much-discussed allusiveness of his pictures,
he offers us, paradoxically, few clues. His scraped out "drawing"
is distributed more or less evenly, if sparsely, across the surface
of his canvases, emphasizing the brute fact of two-dimensional expanse
and denying the possibility of illusionism. There is no horizon,
no reference point, just the rectangle of suffocatingly dense pigment
before us. We are given no easy, obvious way of locating ourselves,
nor any fixed place from which to take our bearings. The incised
surfaces of Ksiazek's paintings can tip and rush away from us, unexpectedly
turning from literal expanses of paint into what one critic has
described as "aerial views," forcibly distancing us and turning
us into weightless, hovering observers of uncharted terrain or of
ruined architectural traces. But those disorienting and disoriented
sheets of worked, substantial paint can also become near impassable
barriers: frontal, essentially uninterrupted geometric shapes into
which we are allowed occasional, restricted views along pathways
of "wounds," at the same time that we are pushed away by the unforgiving
surface and made to keep our distance.
Once again, we are kept off balance, puzzled, and surprised. That,
of course, is what keeps us returning to Ksiazek's enigmatic paintings,
in addition to their seductive textures and delicate nuances of
tone and hue - the sense that they have eluded us, that there is
still more to be discovered, that things are not quite what they
seem.
Monographic Publication: Wlodzimierz Ksiazek. Alpha Gallery,
Boston, MA, October 4-October 29, 2003.
Essays by Karen Wilkin and Joe Fyfe, published by Alpha Gallery,
Boston, MA. |