Guest Post, Taking Flight: A Conversation with Chantal Bruchez-Hall

Mary McGrail, a writer based in New York City, contributed today’s post on painter Chantal Bruchez-Hall. Mary’s writing has appeared in Melic Review, The Brooklyn Rail, The Portland Review, and Community College Moment, and she is co-editor of the anthology Too Darn Hot: Writing About Sex Since Kinsey (Persea). She works in communications at a nonprofit in New York City. Find her on Twitter at @therealmfm.

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Chantal Bruchez-Hall in her studio

Chantal Bruchez-Hall is an emerging Swiss-American artist whose work has been shown in alternatives spaces around New York City. Influenced by her years of practice as a psychologist, Chantal’s paintings explore “the internal pathways and emotional maps that lead us to the heart of darkness and back.” I spoke with her about how she came to identify as an artist, and her recent decision to give up psychotherapy in order to paint full-time. Talking with Chantal reminded me of a quote by Ray Bradbury: “You’ve got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.”

Early experiences For years I convinced myself that I was not an artist. I remember in elementary school, a teacher telling me I had absolutely no artistic talent whatsoever, after I drew a pot of flowers all in purple. As an adult, I was practical; when I had a child I went back to do my PhD. I felt unable to do art, so looked at it from the other side, with awe. It was my son who first told me, ‘Why don’t you take a drawing class?’ I said, ‘Oh Matthew you know I can’t draw.’ He wouldn’t let go and we took a class together at Cooper Union, for beginners. This was about fifteen years ago. I learned that I could draw, and that freed me. It was as if the sky had opened, and I wasn’t on the other side looking in anymore.

Process I wake up sometimes, thinking of paintings. It could be a shape, or a color. I go inside my head for a while, then back to sleep, and it comes back, dreamlike. I don’t turn the light on.

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Chantal Bruchez-Hall, Poles Melting, 2014

I often use mixed media: a broken corkscrew, a discarded piece of metal, a torn fabric. Giving trash a new life is my way of refusing to let the refuse swallow us. I loved oil, it’s so sensual, but now I like acrylic and it allows me to do a lot of work with different textures, and to build surfaces. It can be so messy and big, disgustingly thick, or light and transparent. There’s often a phase in the process where a painting becomes “pretty.” When that happens I know I have to destroy it. You want something powerful, it can be ugly, beautiful maybe, but not pretty. The paintings start having their own personality, and I can yell at them: get out of my sight! I stack them in a corner, face against the wall.

Taking risks There’s a wonderful work by Goya, of two old women looking at themselves in the mirror. Old, bejeweled witches. It’s very harsh, but Goya perceived something about women’s terror of aging, of not being visible anymore. Nothing has changed! [she laughs]

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Francisco de Goya, Les Vieilles, or Time and the Old Women, 1810-12

The culture in which we live wants to keep us scared, because when you are scared you can be controlled. But it’s never too late to say no to fear. What’s difficult is getting over the fear of not being good enough, and fear of change. When I am scared, I tell my son, ‘You take care of that.’ My son died more than ten years ago, and it’s not that I believe he is there like a ghost, or an angel or something like that. But I do think he is part of that vast energy field that some people call god, black holes, whatever. I don’t know what to call it. I think the creative process links us to that energy. It’s hard to create. But it’s pleasure too. It’s joy.

Chantal, Exit, 2013

Chantal Bruchez-Hall, Exit, 2013

 

Ancient Greeks as Colorists

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Colored replica, Vinzenz Brinkmann & Ulrike Koch-Brinkmann, 2003

The Ancient Greeks painted their sculptures and temples, preferring a decorated surface to the pristine marble.  “If only I could shed my beauty and assume an uglier aspect / The way you would wipe color off a statue”  is a quote by Helen of Troy in lines written by Euripides in 412 B.C., as cited in this Smithsonian article on new color replicas of Ancient Greek statues. It highlights how colors were seen as beautifying agents. One of these new replicas, pictured, is of Artemis, the Goddess of Hunt (the so-called Peplos Kore) from the Athenian Acropolis. Somehow the paint brings the stature very much into life, rendering it more naturalistic and less stiff. Traces of red, blue, yellow, and green pigments have survived in the hair, eyes, belt, and garment of the original figure. Recent examinations in extreme side light have revealed further painted decoration. Thus a new and spectacular interpretation has been made possible through the examination of the pigments. 

 

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The color reconstruction of the original Greek marble statue, executed ca. 520 B.C., allows one to imagine how different the Acropolis itself would look if painted. The white pillars, cornices, and roof–not to mention all the sculptural reliefs–would have stood out all the more to the viewer’s eyes below. Today, this bright and bold mix of colors might seem garish to modern taste. Since the Renaissance, the tradition of bare marble was respected in statuary because it was a presumably classical tradition. Although evidence exited to the contrary, of the first art historians Winkleman wrote influentially about whiteness as being the most beautiful. There were people who took exception based on historical evidence, but they were largely overruled until recent scholarship. Although incontrovertibly accepted today that much of the surfaces of temples and statuary would have been decorated, it still requires a mental adjustment to imagine colorful Classical structures.

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However, even with accurate reconstruction based on analysis of pigment traces, I wonder if the Ancient Greeks saw the colors the same way as we do today. Radiolab did a wonderful podcast on colors, and the last section focused on Homer, the author of the Illiad and the Odyssey who presumably lived 200 or 300 years prior to the Peplos Kore and other Acropolis buildings. Those two epic poems display strange conceptions of colors, such as a wine-dark sea and wine-colored oxen, and violet sheep and iron. The poems never refer to trees or leaves as green, but call honey and faces pale with fear green. It suggests to some scholars, who did further analysis, that ancient Greeks saw fewer colors. That is, they literally distinguished fewer colors of the rainbow even though their eyes received the same information that ours do today. Complementary linguistic evidence suggests that worldwide people first only saw black and white, followed by red, and then yellow and green. Blue was always last.  Homer lived in a time where he presumably only saw black, white, red, some green and yellows, but no blue. The blue that later appeared on the painted marbles of the Acropolis is called Egyptian blue today, because the expensive pigment was imported from Egypt. But what would it have looked like to Homer?

 

Would the colorfully painted Acropolis and other painted Greek marble perhaps been seen as less colorful by the original viewers despite the careful research to duplicate the original colors? Perhaps the painted decoration would have seemed much more muted, or otherwise different, than recreations seem to us. It’s impossible to know, but the idea that the ancient Greeks might have seen color differently certainly ought to affect how we consider art objects from the past.

Around Asheville, North Carolina: Black Mountain College

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There were signs of Black Mountain College, such as the one above and the nearby Black Mountain College Museum and Arts Center, all around Asheville. Black Mountain College was a small experimental liberal arts school  from 1933 to 1956, which it closed due to lack of funds. It left a legacy in the arts, through the works of artists like Joseph and Anni Albers, John Cage, Merce Cunningham, Willem de Kooning, Franz Kline, Kenneth Noland, Robert Rauschenberg, and Cy Twombly, who all taught or studied there. Something must have been in the air of the North Carolina mountains, or in the open curriculum, or in the conglomeration of different minds and talents. Arguably, the first Happening occurred here, in a performance under John Cage’s direction, long before the story of it, among other things, inspired Allan Kaprow to initiate his first Happening.

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Not far from Asheville is the site of the former school, whose buildings were largely constructed by the teachers and students themselves. Now given over partially to guesthouses and partially to a summer camp for children, you can still walk around the old grounds. More pictures of it from a beautifully sunny day are below. I think the outdoor frescoes were painted by Joseph Albers, but I’d love to hear if anyone knows for sure.

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