Double Page Paintings

Andreas RüthiDouble Page Paintings

Andreas RüthiDouble Page Paintings

DUCKETT & JEFFREYS GALLERY

Essay by Chris BrownIn conversation with Stuart Cameron

This is a quiet room. Cosy, typically cottage in style

and scale, filled by a double bed whose clothes are

folded and piled in the middle of the undressed

mattress in a way that sets this as the guest room.

An empty chair stands opposite you in the corner.

Such spaces are characterised by the transience of

their occupancy. They are intentionally left blank or

incomplete, waiting for a person, an activity or thing

that will fill them temporary meaning - perhaps

accommodating a visiting friend or relative, or housing

a dress-making project - before becoming vacant

again. You are a guest, but alone in the building and

consequently not wholly present, so if there is a person

due to give meaning to this room, it is not you.

The empty chair or the paintings on the wall have

the potential to give more presence to the room than

you do. You’re not entirely sure of the purpose of

your visit, but you can recall a minor problem finding

your way there. No matter, you arrived in good time

and can now set to familiarising yourself with your

surroundings.

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Andreas Rüthi

Andreas Rüthi Double Page Paintings

There are a few low piles of books stacked on top of the plain, stripped wooden

wardrobe. Browsing through the titles, you quickly gain a sense of your hosts. It is

accepted as socially appropriate to attempt a snapshot understanding of a person

through something as intimate as the collection on their bookshelves.

The titles on the spines read:

Ovid MetamophosesSelected Poems by Bertolt BrechtGreek Art and the Idea of Freedom, Haynes (published by Thames and Hudson)The Greek Myths 2, Robert GravesThe Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Oliver SacksThe Iliad of Homer, LattimoreLeben des Galilei, Bertolt Brecht

Monet's Impressions, Metropolitan Museum of ArtSeurat (Taschen Basic Art Series), Hajo DutchingRenoir (Taschen Art Album), Peter H. FeistPaul Cezanne (Big Art), Hajo DuchtingBasquiat (Taschen Art Album), Leonhard EmmerlingSalvador Dali - The Paintings (Vol 1), Robert Descharnes and Gilles NeretThe Joseph Cornell Box: Found Objects, Magical Worlds, Joan Sommers

Homer, OdysseeHomer, The IliadLonesome Traveler, KerouacThe Catcher in the Rye, J.D. SalingerDie schönsten Sagen des klassischen Altertums, Gustav SchwabGrimms Märchen IGrimms Märchen II

And in between the three piles of books is a fourth

pile comprising two DVD-R cases. Your hosts seem

to be culturally engaged, having numerous classics

from Greek through to twentieth century, as well as

popular accessible titles by sociological and cultural

theoreticians, and numerous monographs on

well-known artists from the late nineteenth and

twentieth centuries. An interest in culture, particularly

literature and fine art painters, seems to be the

overarching interest here. The frequency of German

titles is interesting too, their spines look rather aged

which would suggest that their owners might have

some connection with mainland Europe. You wonder

how the bookshelves of your childhood would have

stood up to the same scrutiny were you now able to

revisit them afresh, and what suppositions you might

have made based on the titles they held. On

reflection, you now begin to wonder if it is entirely fair

or accurate to formulate your impression of a person,

even just a cursory one, based on their bookshelves.

There might be any number of reasons why a book

occupies a space on a shelf besides being by choice

of the reader to whom the shelves belong – if could

be a well-meaning but misguided present that is yet

to be regifted; it may be part of a whole inherited

collection whose dismantling and reallocation is

prevented by the obligation of sentiment (which

inadvertently encourages each individual knowledge

within to go stale); but the most likely reason for such

a cuckoo in the nest is the loaned title received from

a friend or relative which is yet to be read and/or

returned.


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It is uncommon to find a bookshelf that is not

compromised in this way, whose contents are based

on the grounds of the reader’s own selection alone.

Such collections aren’t kept free of imperfections

merely by chance, they are maintained with the

obsessive care of a librarian. Certain books become

seminal to the reader’s experience, from which

follows the acquisition of new titles and the ensuing

new branch of knowledge or interest; whereas the

personal significance of another might diminish with

time, and the choice whether or not to relinquish the

book may become a consideration. The reader would

take pride in guiding you around her collection of

books, as a curator might guide you around a collection

of artworks - imparting specialist knowledge, making

endorsements and recommendations to enable you

to pursue this new interest presented to you, should

you wish to: “This is the author’s second novel, his

first title was published a few years ago to high

acclaim, his style is quiet and mature, I think you

would like it” or, “This is the latest from an

independent press in Birmingham, it champions new

writers, and I think this particular novel might ring true

with a situation that is close to home for you”.


We treat books as mute friends, storytellers,

teachers. They become a short-hand for the

memory of the period when we first experienced

their contents and they revealed a new facet of

our selves to us. The luxury of an unbroken

sequence of chapters during a long journey, or

the snatched episode in a waiting room. The

search for knowledge and literary experience is

ritualistic; bookshops cannily trade on this. Their

spaces do not conform to a ritual of study,

however; it would be more accurate to identify

the spaces as a sociable place, but quietly and

intimately so. Here is where one goes to catch

up with familiar friends with the latest stories to

impart, to make new connections with exotic

titles and authors, or to seek advice and

information from experts - all poised to engage

you through a myriad pages.

In the restroom there is another pile of browsable

books containing reproductions of paintings by late

nineteenth and twentieth century artists. They feature

more well-known European and American artists of

particular canon – O’Keeffe, Matisse, Picasso - those

who are taught as part of a typical art education.

These are the artists whom you must have an

understanding of to be able to develop a relevant art

practice of your own; it wouldn’t surprise you if this

collection of books had been chosen for this room

precisely for that purpose. You leaf through the

reproductions of well-known masterpieces deliciously

and in your own time.

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Andreas Rüthi Double Page PaintingsCaptions to be completedCaptions to be completed

We develop personal and trusting relationships with

books, and the scale and size influences this. An

expert on bookbinding once wrote, “Two constants

reign over the proportions of a well-made book: the

hand and the eye. A healthy eye is always about two

spans away from the book page, and all people hold

a book in the same manner.” You recall an occasion

when you were studying a book in a public space

and that relationship between the book and your

body became acute. You developed a keen sense

that the person seated next to you was not very

discretely peering over into your space to gain a few

lines from your book. This invasive use of your

personal space and engagement with any object

therein was unwelcome, and you closed the book.

A book requires an intimate reading by one person

alone. Due to the size of a typical paperback,


it’s unrealistic to expect that the object can be

adequately read by two people side by side. One’s

reading speed and pace of page turning would also

become compromised, but ultimately it is the

necessity for one’s response to be private of that

dictates book reading as an intercourse for one. So

you stand your ground, closing the book until you can

spend time with it, alone. This solitary reading

completes a precise transaction: the writer invests

time, creative thought and skill into creating the work;

your part is to acknowledge the writer’s efforts by taking

the appropriate amount of time and attention to fulfil

your individual response. Others have to negotiate

their own transactions with the writer, or otherwise

pursue another book altogether; perhaps with the

intention of returning to your writer, perhaps not.


You re-enter the space after visiting the restroom.

There are paintings on the walls of this room, each

depicting an open book. It is difficult to tell, but the

particular painting in front of you looks like one of the

titles from the top of the wardrobe - possibly Brecht’s

selected poems, judging by the familiar shape of the

text on the page. It is not possible to read the words

- the painter’s style does not strive for a photo-realist

detail – but the heading and verses resemble a page

you flicked to from the writer’s early Poems And

Psalms section, 1913-1920. The painter’s act of

recreating an analogue of the printed page encourages

you to consider the numerous convolutions of

creativity that led to this image coming into existence.

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The author created an original thought – the germ, if

you like. This was then committed to paper (was

Brecht known to handwrite his works, or use a

typewriter? You have no idea). From this original

manuscript, a typesetter would be employed to

create a page layout, and a publisher would

reproduce it mechanically to potentially unlimited

edition, reaching a mass audience and splintering the

experience from one unique into many simultaneous

equivalents. Of those potentially infinite splinters, here

is one that has been isolated and reproduced

manually, becoming unique once more. This

particular germ may have lost the connection with

the original creator in being transmitted, but it has

gained another by coming full-circle to be in the

hands of a creator once more, ready to be received.

The book is propped open by a small die-cast model

of a racing car. There seems to be no hierarchy of

information in the way the brushstrokes depict the

main elements of the painting, that a die-cast model

car holds as much significance as Brecht’s writings.

Any blacks and strong colours occur only on the

depicted text and in the object. The page, the book’s

edges, its structure, all blend into the muted warm

background, as do the shadows. It’s as if the object

itself is a 2D image, a motif reduced to the same

physicality as a picture in a book.


Standing to view this painting you realise that it’s in

reach, that if you were to raise your arms you could

take it and hold it in the same way you might hold a

paperback book. This would be possible to do. You

know that handling artworks is frowned upon, that

“even clean hands can damage the surface of the

works”. But, having spent time with artists you know

very well that they often handle their works far more

recklessly than any gallery, and would probably be

happy for a viewer to have a better understanding of

the work by holding it, completing the transaction

more fully – a connection between you and the artist

via a physical object. There is no invigilator on duty,

the chair in the corner of the room is empty. The

absence of any security camera is apparent. Most of

the canvas frames are unpainted on the edges,

displaying the buff linen material. You can handle the

painting here without damaging it, being careful to

apply pressure to hold it securely only on the sides

and around the back where the wood of the frame is

exposed. And you have only very recently just

washed your hands.



Another person enters the room, seemingly guided

by combination of blithe curiosity and an absence of

independent thought. The person stands next to you,

faux-admiring the very painting with which you have

been preoccupied for an indefinite period, promoting

tremendously rich, engaging and detailed thought

that has suddenly run dry as if plugged with a

stopper. The size and detail of hung paintings

sometimes commands an intimate viewing by one

person alone. Two people side by side simply

couldn’t fit in the proximate space where the work

can be adequately viewed. So you stand your

ground, directly in front of the work and spend time

with it, selfishly. This completes a transaction: the

artist invests time and creative thought and skill into

creating the work; your part is to acknowledge the

artist’s efforts by taking the appropriate amount of

time and attention to reach a decision on your

response. This person will have to wait for you to

vacate the space before he can occupy it and

appreciate the work. He impatiently continues to

another part of the gallery; perhaps with the intention

of returning to this painting, perhaps not.

It’s in your hands. It’s now no longer on the wall,

hung at 5’ 8” – slightly higher than the recommended

average hanging height; it’s now at your waist height,

tilted upwards to your face. The lightness of the can-

vas frame somehow betrays the depiction, and your

cognizance is troubled by this – the sight of the

image in your hands summons an expectation of its

weight. Of course this expectation is absurd, but it’s

there nonetheless, in the same way that you desire a

novel’s ‘truth’ to align correctly with reality. You’ve

recently read an author who disrupts this expectation


to great effect in a novel in which the ‘truth’ endlessly

shifts about, from one ‘truth’ disorientatingly into

another, as if tectonic plates sliding over each other.

The story follows a concert pianist who is in an

unidentified provincial European town to give a recital

he doesn’t recall having agreed to. At one point it’s

clear that the town is in Germany, the references are

so precise and the descriptions so unmistakable from

your own experience of this town that you know for a

fact it has to be [name of town]. Until other conflicting

details and descriptions make it subsequently clear

that you were wrong and it is in fact an entirely

different town and country altogether. The author

uses technique this to make the reader empathise

with the main character’s sense of profound

dislocation with his situation.

You rehang the work. Presently the invigilator returns

to the space and strolls her territory before going to

take up her position seated in the corner on a chair.

Although it is an aesthetically pleasing object, the

chair also serves a purpose. It must be incredibly

satisfying, thinks the invigilator, to be able to craft

something so beautiful as well as purposeful. This

surely must be the highest aim of the artisan.

Regarding the chair in front of the paintings, the two

things must have taken an equivalent level of manual

skill to create; one transacts with the body in a

physical way, and the other in a cerebral way. She

considers this chair as an object worthy of exhibiting

next to these paintings, and steers a train of thought

to an exercise in aesthetic democracy where a

person could propose any object that they consider

worthy of exhibition for whatever reason. The curator

would have to concede to this choice and work with

it alongside the existing artworks. Ultimately it would

surely give more meaning to the artworks, giving

them something to exist with rather than the stuffy

blankness of the white walls in this space. Potentially

any object could be nominated – a piece of fruit, a

keepsake or

ornament – each would have its own intrinsic

referents that oscillate with the other artworks.

The chair, possibly an imitation / replica dining chair,

has been painted purple. It’s of such a high gloss

finish that she has spent more than one occasion

considering how it was achieved. Examining it she

observes the pinched reflection of her thumb in the

cylindrical chair leg. It’s the same high gloss of a car

bonnet – perhaps this chair was also spray painted.

That would explain the colour, too. Spray paint

comes in a selection of colours that tend to have

more in common with machinery than the palettes of

domestic interior decoration.

Or lacquer. Does the lacquer technique also involve

spraying, or is it applied as a liquid in which the

object is dipped? You wished that you had pursued

more art school training, perhaps that would give you

better understanding of such things. The chair isn’t

huge, but on consideration it’s probably too large to

make a dipping technique practicable. At that point

you remember a powder coating technique where

the pigment is applied dry, but you don’t remember

what the process involves or how it becomes fixed.

You absent-mindedly consider your thumb’s reflection

once again, click the lead out of your retractable

pencil a couple of shades, and begin to write.

© Chris Brown, March 2010


Chris Brown is a practitioner whose

activities include visual and graphic

arts, photography, curating, writing,

and music composition. He is

co-director of g39, the Cardiff-based

artist-run space, and Magazine

Coordinator for a-n The Artists

Information Company. He also acts

in an advisory capacity for a-n's

NAN and AIR schemes, and is a

member of Go Faster Stripe, an

independent collective that promotes

high-profile UK comedians through

its programme of live acts and DVD

production. He recently studied

postgraduate Composition and Jazz

at the Royal Welsh College of Music

and Drama.


In Conversation with Stuart Cameron


Stuart Cameron:

The genre of still life painting and its history are

clearly important to you as an artist. Were you always

drawn to this, or was it a gravitation through the

process of painting?

Andreas Rüthi:

I became more interested in still life in the mid

nineties when I stopped using my studio in the East

End of London because I had a day job at the time.

The birth of my daughter also meant that I was

spending more time at home. I painted in the kitchen

at night and was making still life paintings that

included little domestic objects, toys, and tins, and

gradually also postcards. Once I had done a series of

24 paintings, I worked on the book ‘The Daubers’

with writer Ian Hunt. Half of it was his text in English

and German and the other half was my paintings.

Still life must have been in the back of my head for a

long time though, because I have at home an ink

drawing of mine from 1967, when I was 11. I still like

it a lot, because funnily enough it shows concerns I

am still dealing with now.

Captions to be completedCaptions to be completedAndreas Rüthi Double Page Paintings

Stuart Cameron:

There’s a particularity about your choice of objects

and images. What determines this? Are there things

you would exclude, and if so, why?

Andreas Rüthi:

In most paintings I select the reproductions first and

then play around with my collection of knick-knacks,

merchandising and jugs until I find something

suitable. If I can’t find the right thing, I go to charity

shops and boot sales. So the objects have already

had a previous life.

There are images I have not used like really iconic

paintings such as the Mona Lisa. I am happy if the

viewer recognizes the period or style of the picture

rather than getting the names and titles right. I am

more interested in creating the relation or dialogue of

images and the objects. Objects that I have excluded

in the past were things loaded with symbolism or

other values such as a crucifix or Coca Cola Can.

Lipsticks by famous labels on the other hand are

always welcome.

The shell-like gravy jug in front of the Dali painting

was relatively ‘easy’ to find, because there is also a

shell in the painting and the pink of the jug works

great with the purples and blues in the book. It is

very rare that I use objects that friends give me with

the intention that I use them in a painting. I usually

give it a try but it rarely works.

Stuart Cameron:

Given the singular intimacy of vision and scale within

your paintings, obsessional perhaps, what kind of

external or circumstantial factors might influence you?

Andreas Rüthi:

This way of working is also a reaction against the

masculine, large-scale paintings and studio culture,

for example in the 80’s in Germany, the assumption

that bigger is better. While studying in the Netherlands

I discovered the stillness and quietness of artists such

as van der Weyden and van Eyck. His painting of the

man with the turban is my favourite painting of all

time.

The scale of the paintings makes the task of painting

intimate, like reading a book. Many of my paintings

are a similar size to a book.

The singular vision you mention is an ongoing process

of contemplation about the fact that an original

painting now can be reproduced infinitely in any size

or form and will be seen by most of us not in its

unique form.



Stuart Cameron:

The frequent juxtaposition of the iconography of ‘high

art’ and ‘popular culture’ in the paintings leads me to

re-evaluate the nature of such forms of categorization

and identification, and to try to get my bearings. Is

this what you intend?

Andreas Rüthi:

I suppose I suggest that one cannot exist without the

other and in the recent paintings it is literally

supporting the image. The difference of high art and

popular culture is expressed more explicitly in the

paintings with postcards and objects, because the

postcard is more static and a memento of an existing

painting. The books and catalogues suggest

animation: not only do they relate to the objects

around them, but also to the potential of all the other

(invisible) images inside the book. All that reflects in

the composition: depending on the emphasis, they

are more or less decentralized.

There is another distinction which has to do with

mapping, as Svetlana Alpers debates it. The

decentralized pictures refer more of to works by

Pissarro, Degas and Mondrian whereas the more

central one use compositions similar to Braque,

Cezanne or Morandi.


Stuart Cameron:

One’s led to speculate on a ‘duality’ within your

paintings, which you have expressed in terms of the

‘retinal’ and ‘the rational’. Can you expand on this?

Andreas Rüthi:

I paint from ‘life’ in my studio partly because I select

‘real’ objects, such as fruit, crockery and toys and

place them with what I call my ‘special’ objects such

as postcards and art catalogues, special because

they are a carrier of reproductions of real paintings.

The decision to combine these two and expand on it

was hardly rational, it probably happened in one of

these moments when I get fidgeting and a bit bored

and start fiddling around, when suddenly the whole

world opens up and you later realize that you have

started something entirely new.

It is also important to me to use consciously both my

eyes, keeping in mind that we are living in a one lens

culture, where most visual information is recorded but

also filtered through one lens systems, which is

always a reduction.


Stuart Cameron:

The construction of the paintings and the handling

of the paint seem to operate within fairly narrow

parameters and according to certain groupings of

paintings. Can you say more about this?

Andreas Rüthi:

I usually work in series, sometimes having ten or more

paintings on the go at the same time. This may

influence the way I use paint and develop similarities

across a body of work. I have also made a lot of

drawings and watercolours as a parallel activity, that

anticipate a variety of modes, constructions and

methods of painting. I also started to do some small

sculptures and draw them, something I used to do 20

years ago, when I had some paintings in the New

Contemporaries, based on a little wooden sculpture

made by me.


Stuart Cameron:

There’s an understated irreverence in your paintings.

Is this intentional and, if so, do you think it’s an innate

characteristic of your make-up as an artist?

Andreas Rüthi:

I like provocation, and often use it in the form of

deadpan humor. That is maybe also a reason why I

choose what looks on the surface like the most

conventional genre of all: Still life. On one hand it has

incredible worldwide popularity - think of Chardin’s

cherries and plums, Cézanne’s apples or Van Gogh’s

sunflowers. On the other hand still life was at the

forefront when radical changes happened in painting,

just think of all the amazing Cubist still life by Braque

and Picasso from around 1905 that rocked pictorial

space. Introducing catalogues and photographic

reproductions also opens up the debate toward a

critical view of our current media culture we are in.




Essay © Chris BrownConversation © Stuart CameronPhotography Helen SearsDesign Duckettandjeffreys.com

ISBN XXXX NUMBER TBA

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