This building displays such an unassailable medieval character, that it may appear as an anomaly in the middle of a modern city. Interestingly, except the sidewalk, there a no urban elements in this painting. It’s as if the artist wants to play around a little bit with the viewers, to make them doubt the depicted era. The artist often chooses subjects planned for demolition or that look like it would be the best thing for them in their current condition — this building, though seemingly firm, makes an impression of a giant rotten from the inside, ready to collapse. It’s an ugly and awkward architectural structure: only people would revivify it by their presence; there are no people, and the building remains naked in its deformity — a Quasimodo of the town’s houses. Its funny how easily the wretched image travels from Paris to Detroit.
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I once went to a hospital to make some tests, and had to wait in a line for an hour or so. I hadn’t brought a book to occupy myself with, and, as it happens in such cases, entertained myself by looking around and stealthily examining the people waiting for their call. After a few minutes a couple with twin babies arrived, maybe one-year-olds, the mother was the patient, not the children. Behind them walked a fussing grandmother, constantly reminding the younger woman that it was time to “feed the young.” Eventually the mother conceded the role of the nurturer and the feast began: the old lady took out a jar of commercial fruit mush and began forcing giant sized spoons into the babies’ mouths, cheering if at least half of the mix ended up inside. The babies seemed unhappy… they were so plump as it is, and their cheeks were almost the size of their head! After less than two spoons they were turning their lips away, peeping. The children on the painting in front of us, however, don’t seem to suffer from overfeeding.
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A heap of metal and coal, this giant machine tries to intimidate the viewer — but fails. It’s odd, but the black so totally dominating this piece emits vapors of acceptance and assimilation; its inherent neutral quality is given a free play, particularly as there are almost no brighter colors to oppose the darkness, and remind the viewer that black is… well, black. Moreover, there’s also a lot of gray, and in different values. The richness that the artist elicits from this seemingly unremarkable color is quite remarkable — at some spots it almost turns to white. It seems as though there’s warmth glimmering inside the plant, as if it had a heart and a bloodstream, as the crimson dot on top of one of the chimneys insinuates. Looking at this painting I’m thinking about Zola’s coal mines, and, not so much about the misery, but the camaraderie of the workers.
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I would be tempted to label this painting as romantic and pastoral if it weren’t for the girl’s facial expression. Her concerned and busy-like countenance infuses a down do earth (literally as well), occupied atmosphere, ruling out the dreamy and exalted element of romanticism. It seems that she would not indulge in admiring the nature around her; on the contrary, she turns her back to it, as if hiding something. It is difficult to discern what is it that she holds or does with her hands, but it may appear as if she were clutching a rosary and praying. If this is the case, then one could assume that even her prayers are directed towards asking for corporeal benefits, so sullen she looks. Perhaps she isn’t even praying, but merely counting the beads, as if trying to realize whether they can help her with her ragged situation. And perhaps, her mind is elsewhere, and the rosary is only the distraction. One thing is clear: as a result, she has frozen, inadvertently turning into a living monument.
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Showing a warehouse dissected by a bridge almost inevitably alludes to the economic infrastructure of production, storage and distribution. This piece includes all of these key elements by displaying a cross section of an industrial area. The lights are on, as the windows of the building indicate — there’s some activity going on and there is money to be made; the city is alive. I think that the strange air of abandonment that is so characteristic of the artist’s work, here assumes an additional, and perhaps a contradicting meaning. This place only seems desolate because everyone is inside, we don’t see the bustle because it’s hidden by the walls, and everyone is too busy to show themselves, — and this is the antipode of dereliction. On the other hand, the windows may have been veneered, and it’s not a light that they emit, but a darkness that they cover. That way my “ghost city” thesis remains valid in its original straightforward form, though I am not sure I like it so.
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