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Paul Gough
Dead Lines - The Art of War
A version of this essay was first published
in the periodical Printmaking Today
in the September / October issue of 2002
What passing-bells for these who die as
cattle?
- Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons These
words, taken from the opening line of the English poet Wilfred Owen's
Anthem for Doomed Youth (1917) provided the title of John Walker's
portfolio of 27 etchings, Passing Bells, published in 1998. A major
British painter of the past twenty years, Walker has long used printmaking
as a parallel activity, but this suite is possibly the most consistent
body of prints to date. It is certainly the most harrowing. The
imagery was stimulated by conversations with the artist’s
father who had served on the Somme in 1916, a five-month long battle
in which eleven of Walker’s family died. In these bare and
denuded prints Walker captures something of the desolate banality
of that first modern war: in a grotesque turn of pictorial phrase
the soldier is depicted with a sheep’s bare skull, part victim,
part gas-mask, a plaintive semi-human figure isolated in a wasted
landscape.
In Walker’s suite of prints the visual components are stripped
to the barest essentials, the tonal scheme coagulates into a denuded
composition of figure and horizon, of corpse and tree stump. Earlier
prints by Walker had drawn on some of the same pictorial language,
indeed Roy Forward has written of the plates as being ‘wounded’
by the creative process; this is especially true of the Passing
Bells suite. It is, writes Jack Flam:
evident in the rawness of the drawn lines,
which at times are like exposed nerves, and in the way the corrosive
action of the acid on the plate is made to eat away at our sensibilities
just as they did the metal.
With its taut line and acidic bite, etching
seems ideally suited to describing the wretchedness of war. This
is certainly true of Callot, Goya and Otto Dix whose war prints
were shown to critical acclaim in touring exhibitions throughout
Britain in the past two years. Each artist developed a specific
process to highlight very different emotional responses; in Jacque
Callot’s engravings of the Thirty Year War the meticulous
and objective use of the engraving tool itemises the horror of the
war, seeming to accentuate the casual misery.
Goya’s technical language was largely derived from Rembrandt
especially in his control of lit forms. But etching and acquatint
gave Goya the technical opportunity to develop a quite radical use
of light. In his war work Goya introduced artificial light into
the western idiom. Up until this point in the great project of the
Enlightenment, natural sunlight was understood to emanate from the
GodHead, illuminating the wonders of His work. In the Disasters
of War prints, darknesses are beyond Godly illumination: artificial
light - in the form of candles and lamps - now reveal only idiocy
and hypocrisy in the Capricho prints, and efficient killing in the
prints of war. Interestingly, we can see the legacy of this radical
use of light in Picasso’s Guernica where the blinking eye
of the sun is substituted by the all-seeing, ever-ready sphere of
the electric light-bulb illuminating yet another slaughter on Spanish
soil.
Just as Owen’s poetry has stimulated many writers and artists,
so Goya’s prints of war have cast a long shadow over western
art. This is not only true of the way that Jake and Dinos Chapman
were moved to produce a three-dimensional quotation of Goya’s
Desastres de la Guerra but also in the work of Contemporary British
printmakers such as Elaine Shemilt and Paul Coldwell who cannot
but be mindful of the emblematic power of Goya’s work.
Commenting on the background to his printmaking
in the late 1990s Coldwell described how he made a body of work
in response to Martin Bell's final radio report from Bosnia for
the BBC. Coldwell said, ‘I have been particularly moved by
the way that conflicts impact on the individual, creating upheaval
and displacement.’ In 2000, for example, he worked on an etched
medal where he wanted the two sides to suggest conflict between
good and bad, life and death.
My medal juxtaposes on one face the image of a skeletal plane,
a dark reminder of menace, with that of a house, which I felt
indicated a sense of place, protection and life, indeed what constitutes
a home. Around the edge is the text from Primo Levi which indicates
the choice we must make. In making the medal, I brought together
my practice as both a sculptor and printmaker and as an artist
who uses computers as a creative tool. The images for the medal
were worked on the computer and pixilated to suggest news photographs.
A deeply etched plate was then made and wax cast from it. I then
re-angled the house and plane throwing them into bas relief.
In such ways the narrative and political possibilities of the print
form are extended. Another British medallist, Alison Branagan, has
produced limited edition engraved pseudo-military medals and ribbons
as parodies of the recruiting and reward process of standing armies.
The physical and digital manipulation of the printed surface has
allowed artists such as Elaine Shemilt to explore the visual scale
of conflict . Shemilt contrives large installations using photographic
pieces, screenprints on paper, and photo etchings. For her, controlling
the medium is paramount, and the prints are often suspended from
huge ladders, masts, pulleys and other ominous contraptions. Although
war is a distant reference these are installations that explore
dislocation, disenfanchisement and the camouflage of appearances.
It was fitting perhaps that Shemilt was one of four Scottish artists
invited by the British army to travel to the Falkland islands in
1999 to make artworks that might improve the one thousand yard passage
that linked several military installations and was known locally
as the Death Star Corridor.
Using sound, historic and contemporary photographs, print media,
found items and computer-generated imagery they created an interactive
programme that could be projected onto one wall of a gallery space
and located at key junctures in the corridor, now rather more kindly
re-named The Millennium Mile.
Little should surprise us about artists working directly for the
British (or any other) army. The first ever British Official War
Artist was a Scottish etcher. Commissioned in 1916, Muirhead Bone
was regarded as ‘the London Piranesi’ for his drypoints
of grand and spectacular scenes of the industrial and architectural
sublime. As a governmental artist he was ideal because he could
describe with apparent objectivity the scale of the Empire’s
war machine (and also the Hideousness of the Hun). During the early
part of the war, there was a terrific demand for dispassionate and
accurate images that could be used to augment British literary propaganda,
and many of Bone’s drawings were immediately transferred to
stone lithography so that countless folios of his prints could be
circulated amongst the opinion-formers in Washington and other neutral
countries. Although prolific, he was hidebound by a slavish naturalism
and his war prints were denigrated by one critic as ‘too true
to be good.’
We can see a reprise of the printmaker-as-recorder in the work of
the regimental artist. Terence Cuneo and David Rowlands are amongst
a small band of artists who produce highly wrought and militarily
accurate images of the British armed services in action. Though
they do not qualify as ‘printmakers’ in the usual sense
of the term, their work is reproduced en masse in editions of over
a thousand for circulation amongst veterans, regimental museums,
and remembrance societies. In a rather oblique way they are a part
of the genre of the military print and their profile is reminiscent
of those nineteenth century history painters whose work was industriously
copied by engraving workshops to meet the public demand for printed
reproductions of historic events.
Although limited edition lithographs are available of Peter Howsen’s
harrowing 1993 Bosnian work and the Gulf War experiences of John
Keane there is little that is innovative in their approach to process.
For that we must look elsewhere, usually in clandestine rather than
official imagery of conflict.
Ulster artist Brendan Reid, for example, has had a long term project
to etch sectarian images and words onto the steel body of a London
black taxi cab – a vehicle habitually used by the para-militaries
as command vehicle-cum-ambulance. Once inscribed, the cab would
be re-assembled and returned to the streets of the province. Denis
Masi is another artist who has long been involved with notions of
power and power structures. He enumerate the range of his concerns
as :
psychological power, who, what, where; social
power, rituals, rites, commemorative events; territorial power,
lines, borders, barriers; media power, image, statement, view.
And a recent set of four inkjet prints Basic
Shelter 1, have at their centre a technical drawing which relate
to various unrealised public projects concerned with power. Masi
harnesses the unique quality of the inkjet process to incorporate
technical drawing, photographs and ‘jargonised’ text.
In much the same way Jeremy Diggle created an extraordinarily rich
image of the various elements that comprised a fictitious ‘topiary
telescope’, a piece of camouflaged apparatus printed onto
handmade Saunders paper in a limited edition of 15 for ‘Sylva
Brittanicus: a millennium book of trees’.
Apart from curious exceptions such as Percy Smith’s etching
cycle The Dance of Death, British printmaking lacks a visual language
of protest. Overshadowed by the searing images of Kollwitz, Dix
and Beckmann, British art can look tame and obsessed with technical
prowess. An exception is the work of Peter Ford, director of the
Off-Centre Gallery in Bristol, who as well as showing artists from
the former Soviet bloc, has made striking prints of protest and
complaint: a rare moment amidst our dread fascination with the iconography
of conflict.
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