Ron Davis is a young California artist whose new paintings, recently
shown at the Tibor de Nagy Gallery in New York, are among the most significant
produced anywhere during the past few years, and place him, along with
Stella and Bannard, at the forefront of his generation. In at least
two respects Davis' work is characteristically Californian: it makes
impressive use of new materials specifically, plastic backed
with fiberglass and it exploits an untrammeled illusionism. But
these previously had yielded nothing more than extraordinarily attractive
objects, such as Larry Bell's coated glass boxes, or ravishing, ostensibly
pictorial effects, as in Robert Irwin's recent work. (In the first instance
illusion is rendered literal, while in the second it dissolves literalness
entirely.) Whereas Davis' new work achieves an unequivocal identity
as painting. That this is so is a matter of conviction. One recognizes
Davis' new work as painting: in my case, with amazement and,
at first, distrust, even resentment that what I was experiencing
as paintings were, after all, made of plastic. Not that Davis' paintings
are what they are in spite of being made of plastic or presenting a
compelling illusion of a solid object in strong perspective. On the
contrary, it is precisely Davis' refusal to settle for anything but
ambitious painting that, one feels, has compelled him to use both new
materials and two-point perspective. What incites amazement is that
that ambition could be realized in this way that, for example,
after a lapse of at least a century, rigorous perspective could again
be come a medium of painting. Davis' paintings are, I suggest, the most
extreme response so far to the situation described in my essay Shape
as Form: Frank Stella's New Paintings.1 Roughly, Davis has
used perspective illusion -- the illusion that the painting as a whole
is a solid object seen in two-point perspective from above -- to relieve
the pressure under which, within that situation, the shape of the support
(or literal shape) has come to find itself. The limits of Davis' new
paintings present themselves as the edges of a three-dimensional entity
rather than of a flat surface; and in fact it is virtually impossible
to grasp the literal shape of paintings like Six-Ninths Blue
and Six-Ninths Red just by looking at them. (One is forced, so
to speak, to trace their limits and then see what one has.) As a result,
the question of whether or not the literal shapes of Davis' new paintings
hold, or stamp them selves out, or compel conviction a burning question
within the situation referred to Ê simply does not arise. More precisely,
it does not arise as long as the illusion of three dimensionality remains
compelling: if, in a given painting, for whatever reason; the illusion
is felt to be in jeopardy, that painting's ability to hold as shape
is rendered question able as well. (Something of the kind may happen
in Two-Ninths Grey, in which the projected object is not, to
my mind, sufficiently comprehensible. What, for example, is the precise
relation of the two gray blocks to the larger red slab on which they
seem to sit? In general, Davis can not afford much ambiguity or indeterminacy,
both of which compromise his paintings' apparent objecthood.)
A great
deal, then, depends upon the power of the illusion; and it was, I believe,
in order to achieve that power that Davis gave up working in paint on
canvas and began to explore the possibility of making his new paintings
in plastic. In any case, the fact that in his new paintings color is
not applied to the surface in any way, but instead seems physically
to lie somewhere behind it, makes the illusion of objecthood infinitely
more compelling than would otherwise be the case. In this respect Davis'
new paintings represent not only an inspired resuscitation of, but a
deep break with, traditional illusionism: in the latter paint on the
surface of the canvas creates the illusion of objects in space; while
in Davis' paintings whatever makes the illusion is not, it seems, situated
on, or at, the surface at all. (The illusion of objecthood is intensified
still more by the way in which the colored plastic in which Davis
has also mixed mirror flake, aluminum powder, bronze powder and pearl
essence not merely represents but imitates the materiality of
solid things.) Conversely, the surface of these paintings is experienced
in unique isolation from the illusion. It has been prized loose from
the rest of the painting - as though what hangs on the wall is the surface
alone. In Davis' new paintings a detached surface coexists with a detached
illusion. (In this respect his paintings are the opposite of Olitski's,
in which there is "an illusion of depth that somehow extrudes all suggestions
of depth back to the picture's surface."2) Indeed, the detached
surface coincides with the detached illusion: which is why the question
of whether or not the shape of that surface holds or stamps itself out
does not arise. Davis deliberately and, I think, profoundly
heightens one's sense of the mutual independence of surface and illusion
by rather sharply beveling the edges of his paintings from behind. This
means that even when the beholder is not standing directly in front
of a given painting, no support of any kind can be seen. The surface
is felt to be exactly that, a surface, and nothing more. It is not,
one might say, the surface of anything except, of course, of
a painting.
Moreover,
Davis' surface is some thing new in painting: not because it is shiny
and reflects light that was also true of the varnished surfaces
of the Old Masters but be cause what one experiences as surface
in these paintings is that reflectance and nothing more. The precise
degree of reflectance is important. If the painting is too shiny the
surface is emphasized at the expense of the illusion; and this in turn
under mines the independence of both. At the same time, Davis' paintings
make transparency important as never be fore: not because their surfaces
are experienced as transparent one does not, I want to say, look
through so much as past them3 but because the layers
of colored plastic behind their surfaces vary in opacity. The relation
between the surface and the rest of a transparent object is different
from that between the surface and the rest of an opaque one: roughly,
in the former case it is as though the beholder can see all of the object,
not just the portion that his eyesight touches. In Davis' new work this
difference becomes important to painting for the first time, by making
possible, or greatly strengthening, the relation between surface and
illusion that I have tried to describe.
Finally,
I want at least to touch on the character of the illusionism in these
paintings. Despite its dependence on the rigorous application of two-point
perspective, it, too, is new in painting. Roughly, the illusion is of
something one takes to be a square slab (some portions of which have
been removed), turned so that one of its corners points in the general
direction of the beholder, and seen from above. What seems to me of
special interest is this: the illusion is such that one simply assumes
that the projected slab is horizontal, as though Laying on the ground;
but this means that looking down at it could be managed only from a
position considerably above both the slab itself and the imaginary ground-plane
it seems to define. Moreover, the beholder is not only suspended above
the slab; he is simultaneously tilted toward it otherwise he
would not be in a position to look down at the slab at all. In Davis'
new paintings the illusion of objecthood does not excavate the wall
so much as it dissolves the ground under one's feet: as though experiencing
the surface and the illusion independently of one another were the result
of standing in radically different physical relations to them. Davis'
illusionism addresses itself not just to eyesight but to a sense that
might be called one of directionality. There have been strong intimations
of such a development in recent painting, notably that of Noland and
Olitski; in fact, I recently claimed of Olitski's spray paintings that
what is appealed to is not our ability in locating objects (or failing
to) but in orienting ourselves (or failing to).4 This seems
to me dramatically true of Davis' new paintings as well.
The possibilities
which Davis has been able to realize in his first plastic paintings
still seem to me scarcely imaginable. The possibilities which they open
up belong to the future of painting.
1. ARTFORUM
Vol. 5, No. 3, November 1966.
2. Clement Greenberg, in the catalog to the United States Pavilion
in the 1966 Venice Biennial.
3. Not the way one looks past an object so much as the way one looks
past a reflection .
4. In the catalog essay to Olitski's forthcoming exhibition at the
Corcoran Gallery.