McCahon exhibition

Press, 26 October 1989, Page 16

McCahon exhibition

Colin McCahon: Gates and Journeys. At the Robert McDougall Art Gallery until December 10. Reviewed by J. N. Mane. While the works of most artists signpost their progress through life, the metaphor of the journey explored in this exhibition seems particularly apt, for Colin McCahon’s paintings simultaneously document several kinds of journey: Artistic evolution, travel and resettlement in different areas of New Zealand, and spiritual quest. In the depleted touring version of the exhibition (reduced by two-thirds from the 139 works originally shown in Auckland), however, these journeys are harder to retrace.

Several “classics” have been withdrawn, including, regrettably, the crucial “Northland Panels” reproduced on the poster. (Their omission, for conservation reasons, should warn us that this will be the last McCahon exhibition for a long time). What survives is a patchy and incoherent selection that can no

longer adequately illustrate the exhibition’s themes, and which does justice neither to McCahon’s achievements as a painter nor the consistency of his vision. (His Titirangi period, for instance, is represented by some fairly insipid paintings). But this is not a retrospective exhibition. Within its prescribed limits “Gates And Journeys” is never less than interesting, and several works offer, with their sombre reflections on the human condition, thrilling and deeply moving insights. These are heightened by a magnificent, intelligently arranged and dramatically lit installation — indeed, the exhibi-

tion looks more handsome in Christchurch than it did elsewhere. The first section introduces McCahon as apostolic messenger, prophet and visionary or seer. It also announces his extraordinary determination to relocate biblical events in New Zealand. Since the “load-bearing structures” of the Crucifixion are either specifically invoked in paintings from most phases of McCahon’s career, however, or — as in the triptychs “On Building Bridges” (1952) and “Elias” (1959) - implied, the omission of seminal 1947 Crucifixion paintings, (inspired by linesmen working on power poles in Nelson), is regrettable. These could have been substituted by the gal-

lery’s own “Crucifixion according to St Mark.” Here, the utterances inscribed in McCahon’s notorious Rinso-box lettering within comic book speech balloons, anticipate both the religious doubt foregrounded in the later “Elias” series and his identification with the waverers and sceptics who witnessed the Crucifixion.

In the apocalyptic “Elias” triptych a nuclear explosion symbolises the Resurrection. McCahon’s anxiety about the threat of nuclear annihilation also prompted two series of allegories on the “Gate” theme (1961), only one of which is exhibited. In this first series black rectangles represent dangerous obstacles which must be negotiated in order to attain safety. A later concern for environmental and ecological issues shapes the “fearful symmetry” of the “Necessary Protection” paintings (1971), in which the cliffs, shore, ocean and shafts of • light at Muriwai describe the gigantic letters T (also a “tau” cross) or I, symbols of divine immanence.

McCahon’s spiritual directions led him towards two traditions: Catholicism and Maori belief systems. Just as his Puritan upbringing explains his reverence for words and empathy with “korero” in Maori culture, so the Stations of the Cross accorded with his growing interest in the symbolic significance of numbers. “Numerals” (1965) simultaneously traces a journey from darkness to light, and from nought to 10 (or 10, the Supreme Being in Maori cosmology). In “Te Tangi o te Pipiwhararua” (1974) the Stations are set in an austere landscape across which the departing spirit wings northward to join its ancestors.

Numbers and words in McCahon’s paintings are always icons for meditation, but — as in “Teaching Aids 2” (1975) — they are also compositional elements. McCahon’s grandest statements are expounded in the impressive and powerful “Practical Religion” (1969-70) and “Victory Over Death 2” (1970). The sprawling cal-

ligraphy and the declamatory tone of these awesome canvasses contrast dramatically with the deeply personal, poignant messages daubed on paintings from the “Scared” series (1976). For McCahon painting was “a matter of life and death.” The stark dualities of this conviction are summarised in the sublime, elemental “Angels and Bed No. 4: Hi Fi” (1976-77). This raw discourse on faith is reduced to absolute terms: No words, no numbers, no ingratiating imagery, no superficial prettiness, no seductive brushwork — only “positive” rectangles on a “negative" ground. Ultimately, McCahon concluded, “black and white says it all.”