A few months ago I visited the White Chapel Gallery in London. The exhibition I went to see - 'A Century of the Artist’s Studio: 1920-2020' - presented a variety of art forms, from painting to video installation, sculptures, audio, immersive space and more. It's the type that can be rather hit or miss, depending on how much abstraction one is willing to put up with on that specific day. Fortunately, as is normally the case at this Gallery, some pieces were exquisite - William Kentridge debating with himself on video, slightly out of sync, enough to build to a comical yet highly intriguing effect; Francis Bacon's studio recreated in detail, as organised chaos. Others, however, lost their meaning in translation for me, due especially to the lack of explanation of the artist's motives, inspiration or background. This, of course, begs the question (one of my favourites to debate): what do we expect from art? Is it an individual, laying their soul bare in front of the viewer? Is it a shared experience? Or is it a deeply personal, individualistic form of entertainment where the viewer is free to create their own experience?
Perhaps it is all and none of those things. This is one of the questions that Tom De Freston explores in Wreck: Géricault's Raft and the Art of Being Lost at Sea. I find myself itching to write a review of this book before I've even finished it. Why? Perhaps because it's so visual, filling my mind with thoughts - the first book to do so in a while.
Tom is an artist wearing many hats. As he himself proclaims in the book, he has been known to experiment with enough art forms to draw criticism for his broad net but, like his many-pronged approach to creating art, this book benefits from its many layers. The threads he weaves add up to a varied tapestry, starting with an in-depth analysis of the painting of The Raft of the Medusa (1818–19) by Géricault, which he uses as the base structure to build the book on. He gradually layers additional storylines, like coats of paint; grappling with his own childhood trauma, as well as that of Syrian writer, translator and professor Ali Souleman, with whom he begins an artistic collaboration. Having lost his sight to a bomb blast, Ali works with Tom to learn to see together, exploring each other's lives as their friendship develops, and creating through their interwoven stories.
There is something that captures Tom's imagination in the tragedy of Ali's past. It isn't clear whether the intention is to capture, work through or heal, and throughout we get the sense that Tom reaches for a multitude of art forms, unsure which one will express that unnamed desire that will, perhaps, create a final product. We don't get the satisfaction of seeing it, but perhaps the book is all the stronger for it. Observing the creative process, I once again think about art as often a delicate balance between fine and pretentious. It's easy to gloss over, refute the abstract as performance and false intellectualism. But in this book, we stand up close, breathing down the artist's neck while he devises and performs his art, first painting, then performing as on a stage, twisting his body into contortionist shapes, then exploring further and stranger artistic avenues. It would be easy to smirk. But I chose to believe the artist, let his art in, follow him down the rabbit hole.
Parallel to the developing collaboration and its many surprising turns, Tom also explores the story of Géricault's life, full of obsession and phantasmagorical elements. It is a fascinating overview of the painter's biography and art, and Géricault's collaboration with a survivor of the Medusa, Corréard, during his work on The Raft draws neat parallels with the present day storyline too. I very much enjoy the logical and solid structure throughout the book.
Creative references abound, and the wide-ranging research that has clearly gone into this work is like a breath of fresh air. In reading about paintings, especially ones we haven't come across before, we are invited to follow Ali's way of seeing, relying on our narrator. I constantly find myself faced with these two options: phone at the ready to Google all the art mentioned; or simply read, giving control to the author. I do a bit of both, taking in his words but looking up the art later. It's a fascinating game, seeing with someone else's eyes, thinking with someone else's brain and background, imagining with someone else's imagination. Another person may see a face where we see billowing sails, or shadow where light is overwhelming. We're exploring how different people come to view the same piece of art, circling back to the meaning of art itself.
This is, ultimately, a fascinating combination of art history and analysis, and the type of book that launches a reader on a journey: to discover Goya's Black Paintings, to seek out de Kooning's biography, to understand why [Jacques-Louis] David had such an influence on his followers. It reads as if it's happening in the present moment, a stream of consciousness reflecting on art as it is born. It's thrilling to observe the process.
