Portrait of Annette (1954)
Portrait of Annette (1954) by Alberto Giacometti (1901-1966) was to be the third artwork to feature in my “Why I Love…” series. Having attended many life drawing classes over the years where much emphasis was put on building up the figure using shade and tone to gently (and more importantly) to accurately depict flesh and muscle, with the use of a hard or misplaced line frowned upon, this painting of the artist’s wife sitting in his studio fascinated me. Giacometti use of line was so frenetic and seemingly uncontrolled, as if possessed by a need to commit his wife’s likeness to canvas almost against his will. Building up Annette’s body in white, grey and ochre chalk and then repeatedly searching for her contours in black before extending the same line into the space in which she sat then framing both within the canvas itself, Giacometti seemed more interested in the relationship between the sitter and the space than capturing a likeness of his wife, either physically or psychologically. Historical accounts record Annette as being pretty and vivacious, open and receptive, such qualities at odds with Giacometti’s expressionless almost hollow rendering. I wondered then if such a depiction was a comment on the nature of their relationship and the artist’s inner contempt for his spouse. Later research proved that particularly theory wrong (they were happily married for seventeen years from 1949 until the artist’s death in 1966) and she featured predominately in his professional, as well as personal life during that time. Despite my woeful attempt at psychoanalysis, Giacometti’s style of drawing greatly influenced my own and such way of working suited me well as I struggled with more traditional forms of life drawing.
Regarded as one of the great masters of twentieth century art, Giacometti’s sculptures of spindly, elongated figures are heralded as capturing the existential loneliness of modern humanity in the aftermath of the Second World War. Such sculptures enveloped by the space that surrounded them almost as tangibly as the void that they inhabited.
Only one is featured in this exhibition, Woman of Venice VIII (1956), used almost
as a book mark to distinguish the artist’s early Cubist inspired work, with his
later oeuvre. This solitary figure,
taken away from her sisters and the artist’s original group of ten Women for Venice (1956) for the city’s
biennale of that year, still imbues both calmness and rage. Does she stand to protect her loved ones, or
is she paralysed in grief or fear? She
is both ugly and beautiful. She moved me
greatly and I found myself drawn back to her many times during my visit to this
exhibition. Perhaps on this artwork I
project my own contradictory feelings and thoughts.
Woman of Venice VIII (1956)
Much has been written about Giacometti’s progress from his
Surrealist sculptures of the early 1930s through to the elongated figures which
evolved from the time he spent working in exile in Geneva during the Second
World War. The premise of this
exhibition is that at the heart of this progression (and despite the artist’s
declaration in 1925 that he had abandoned working from observation due to his
perceived inability of capturing any likeness successfully) was the artist’s
continued observance of reality in the form of painted and sculpted portraits
of a very small number of sitters throughout his career, most notably his
parents, his brother Diego and his wife Annette.
Diego standing in the Living Room, Stampa (1922) Diego (1950)
“Giacometti’s
depiction of a model is essentially connected with the internal process of
seeing that person. His portraits thus
stop short of evoking his sitters’ psychology, character or what is known about
them. Rather, they are an intense record
of numerous attempts to give objective reality to that which is forever
appearing and disappearing: his subjective sensations of a living presence”.
This process of seeing and attempts at objective reality can
also be seen in two busts of Diego, one from 1924, the other from 1955. 
Diego acted as Giacometti’s studio assistant and technical
for his entire career. Along with
Annette, he was a constantly with the artist.
This intimacy and accessibility no doubt contributed to the intensity of
the artist’s gaze. Such intensity is
evident even in his later portraits of his familiar subjects.
The Artist's Mother (1950)
Portrait of
Caroline (1962) Annette VI (1962)
However, as Giacometti’s reputation increased
internationally, so did the opportunities for commissioned portraits. Undertaken in relatively few sittings (compared
to the continuous scrutiny of his family and favoured model, Caroline), any
real essence of the subjects seemed lacking in such work. It is as if the artist was looking at his
sitters, but had no real interest in seeing them. Instead of drawing to search for the truth of
the reality before him, any ‘pure presence’ of these sitters is
dissipated.
Jean Genet (1954-55)
Portrait of G. David Thompson (1957)
Despite this, all the works in this exhibition are enigmatic
and compelling and tell a lesser known story of an artist rightly regarded as
one of the most distinctive and important of the twentieth century. His own imperative to draw connected with my
own at that time and the way he translated what he saw onto canvas gave me the
tools to continue such activity myself.
It also reminds me it is an activity I sorely miss despite its inherent
frustrations with my own failings.
From left to right: Alberto, Diego and Annette (1952)
