Among Trees

“I always need to start with a landscape,” I once heard a writer say when asked, in an interview, how his novels took shape. First comes a spatial image, and within that the characters subsequently emerge as the story unfolds. In the work of visual artist Michael Markwick, a similar kind of thing takes place. He, too, seems to need the landscape as a means to generate something else: in his case, not a narrative or a character, but a drama in terms of form, which does show human characteristics though. The large charcoal drawings that he produced in 2009 show landscapes. The question that arises on looking at them is whether ‘landscape’ can actually be regarded as the subject being dealt with by the artist, or if it serves rather as a setting for other matters.


Take, for instance, the gesture with which these drawings have been made: the curves charged with energy, the physical effort that preceded the work and which now remains in the charcoal. See the play of lines as something that becomes independent of the landscape, takes its own course, resembles a cloverleaf of roads or an industrial obstacle—as something that clashes with and does not serve the depiction of the woods or countryside, but violates it. All of that belongs to the content of these works and can sooner be called abstract or formal rather than landscape-oriented. There are crash points, places where forms collide with each other, but also tranquil areas, like the oasis of circles where movement comes to a standstill. When the works are seen along side each other, they become images in which a great deal gets tumbled about, where change with a capital C takes place—be it constructively or destructively. Contortion, eruption, transformation.


“Apocalyptic,” the painter has called his work at times. That particular perspective does hold true. Look at the dark sky that hangs ominously over the field like tent canvas; the sense of open wilderness turns into oppressiveness. In Trench we see pollard trees lining either side of a trench that draws the eye into the depths. Branches protrude outward, like rebellious arms imploring the heavens. But these are not people protesting; these are branches and trees in a tense landscape. Here man has assumed the guise of nature, has become the tree and leads the existence of branches. And this is how many drawings are, as well as paintings made by the artist in recent years. Their figuration is whimsical and ambivalent. Among the trees we catch a glimpse of a person, a face or a pair of eyes emerging in the bark. And then it vanishes again, like a ghost: a latent figure flitting about, yet having no substance.
The character of these drawings is complex, ranging from the hectic and menacing to the delicate and seductive. It’s interesting to wonder what is being controlled and conceived and what is actually unintentional, unconscious or coincidental in terms of its figuration—and corresponding ‘content’. The artist no doubt works on the basis of ideas as to how composition and balance should look. What conditions should be met by a landscape. His handwriting also reflects a certain interest in the style of the old masters. But cropping up through that is something which eludes control and consciousness: areas that come as a gift to the artist while he works and which take shape as a ‘second voice’ in the work’s fervor. And that’s precisely where something essential occurs in terms of the content. The drawings could be seen as junctions of forces that are situated in landscape. A face appears where, formally speaking, only trees have been drawn. Form is about to change its guise. The landscape is never merely landscape.


Jurriaan Benschop
Translation: Beth O’Brien