René Magritte was fond of jokes. There are several in René Magritte (Or: The Rule of Metaphor), a small but choice exhibition at Luxembourg & Dayan, 2 Savile Row W1 (until 12 May), that includes numerous variations, accomplished and disturbing, on similar ideas to his famous ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ painting.
‘L’usage de la parole VI’ (1928) contains two amorphous brown patches resembling mud or merde or molten chocolate. They are labelled as if in a scientific diagram, one with the word ‘miroir’, the other ‘corps de femme’. It’s true that Magritte could be repetitive, but his early paintings are beautiful, and the humour had a serious point. We make a cosy world with words and signs, he seems to say, but beyond those is meaninglessness: the void. On one side of ‘Le genre nocturne’ (1928) there is a naked woman, on the other an egg-shaped hole, as if punched through frescoed plaster, revealing a blank cracked wall.
A few strokes of pigment on canvas can stand for anything — mirror, human being, pipe. That’s one reason why painting continues to hold its own almost two centuries after the advent of its great rival, photography, in 1839.
Of course, the two have an intimate relationship, as is demonstrated by an exhibition at Skarstedt, 8 Bennet Street SW1 (until 26 May), of new paintings by the American artist Eric Fischl, who turned 70 last week. Fischl is one of the leading living representatives of a tradition that is often dubbed ‘American realism’ but would more accurately be termed ‘American anxiety’. He has named Edward Hopper as an exemplar — the kind of artist he is trying to be — and there is certainly an affinity between the two.
Hopper depicted mundane places and people — petrol pumps, cinemas, bars — but somehow always injected a mood of strangeness and unease.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in