Tracking - Donald Teskey

INTERVIEW
TRACKING DONALD TESKEY
Brian McAvera: Painters have used a palette knife for a
rather long time, and occasionally as with Francis Bacon,
have introduced unusual methods of paint application.You
take this to extremes, using various trowels, and a plasterer’s
float, as well as an assortment of knives and brushes. How
did the use of these implements come about, and why?
Donald Teskey: In 1991, I was going through a transitionary
period with my work, having spent the previous twelve years
making drawings. I was at the stage where I needed to start
painting again. I began by exploring alternative painting
methods, using rags and sponges initially. As in drawing, I was
interested in the relationship between surface and medium,
and how they interact; the surface echoing back something of
its own character within the mark. I was looking for a way of
circumventing the brush mark. I was very conscious of the
weight of history with the brush. At some point I tried a flexible filling knife with a broad blade to paint with. It produced
a mark which was similar to that achieved with a wedge of
charcoal. From then on I started using a variety of trowels,
floats and such.Working on larger canvases forced me to work
with much larger implements.
I wanted to avoid any obvious ‘technique’. Especially
impasto. The knives and trowels are used as much to scrape
back into the surface and reapply the same paint, building up
layers and textures. The overriding factor is that painting
shouldn’t appear laboured or precious. I didn’t want to publicise the effort that went into a painting.
On my recent residency in Connecticut, at the Albers
Foundation, I was shown Joseph Albers’ box of palette knives.
I hadn’t been aware that he had used knives to paint with.That
created a conversation between Albers and myself. Also while
Tracking
Donald Teskey
‘The most common feature throughout all my work is a sense of
movement. I need to keep that real,’ Donald Teskey tells Brian McAvera
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1 DONALD TESKEY BRIDGE AND
TUNNELL 2009 oil on canvas 122 x153cm
2 Donald Teskey RHA in his studio 2009
Photo ©Amelia Stein
INTERVIEW
TRACKING DONALD TESKEY
there, I used the table Albers himself made as my palette for working
outdoors in the forest – it’s an unusual folding table. These things have
a nice resonance about them.
B McA: In Irish terms, in relation to the sense of unease that your
work generates I’d think of Martin Gale. In terms of landscape sieved
through memory I’d think of Clement McAleer. How do you see
yourself in relation to Irish landscape painting?
3 LA TOUCHE BRIDGE 2001 oil
on canvas 80x100cm
4 LITTLE HOUSE 1996 oil on
paper 40 x30cm
5 A MOVING DISPLAY 2008 oil
on canvas 100x120cm
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4
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D T: I never considered myself to be a landscape painter. It just so happened that I was drawn to make work in places that resonate for me.
Landscape kind of crept up! I’m discovering the Irish landscape through
painting as I go on.
There is so much diversity amongst Irish painters.There are landscape
painters and there are painters who work in the landscape. I consider
myself as a painter who works in the landscape.
B McA: You were born in an area that I know quite well, the Castle
Matrix area of Rathkeale in Co Limerick, a place where history seeps
out in all directions, and where the archaeology is rich. You even
come from a Palatinate colony that presumably settled in Rathkeale.
How far did your genetic background and the locale of Rathkeale
imprint itself upon your work?
D T: I’ve always been conscious of the heritage from which I came. It’s
exactly 400 years, this year, since the first Teskeys set foot in Ireland,
refugees from the Palatinate in Germany. Up until the 1970s my father
and uncle had a large joinery business; they carried out a lot of the
restoration work on Castle Matrix – growing up, it was a great place to
explore. Having a sense of place is important to me. The idea of the village feels familiar. The main street, the bridge, the gable ends and the
criss cross wires, drawing the architectural and natural elements
together. Now all those wires and cables are underground and the railway is gone. I’m not nostalgic about it; it’s just the way it was.
I don’t think my palette was coloured by my childhood. It wasn’t dark
and gloomy or colourless. Far from it: I thought more in terms of drawing and structure and shape. A lot of my early paintings are muted
because I worked with an extremely restricted colour range, keeping as
close to the process of drawing as I could get. My approach to colour
was influenced by something else entirely, and was always restrained. I
tended to use mostly earth colours, burnt sienna, indian yellow, raw
umber, violet. I have begun using more vivid reds in recent work.
Incremental changes. It certainly has a dramatic effect: it’s more psychological than naturalistic.
B McA: Since the 1840s artists have basically had two attitudes to the
camera. Either covertly or overtly they found it of value.You used to use
photography as an aide, in the 1980s I think, but then stopped.Why?
D T: I became interested in the relationship between drawing and photography after college. I set up my own darkroom and I used photography as a way of exploring my immediate environment. I treated the
camera as a tool for looking and thinking as if I were drawing with it
but I never really considered myself a photographer. I would montage
and assemble compositions from which I would draw. As the drawings
progressed they would take on a life of their own. Migration (Fig 12) is a
good example of this approach, and it also conveys a sense of movement, of displacement – something which recurs throughout my work.
After a number of years I began to have doubts about the direction
that my work was taking. My handling of the media had become too
refined, too accomplished.The struggle to keep the images edgy became
more difficult. So I abandoned the camera and decided to work from
memory; and to work on a larger scale so that the elements of gesture,
mark and expression became key elements rather than the more formal
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intentions of the earlier work.
B McA: You have participated in a number of residencies: Ballinglen
in Co Mayo and have also worked in Connecticut and Vermont.What
is the benefit of these residencies to you, and have any of them produced realignment in your work?
D T: The most obvious realignment took place at the Ballinglen Art
Foundation in Ballycastle, north Co Mayo. I first went there in
September 1996. Up to that point I had been working on mostly urban
subject matter. In Ballycastle, Co Mayo, I found myself back in a village
I JUST FOUND IT EXHILARATING TO
WORK TONALLY, IN BLACK AND WHITE.
LIMITED MEANS: MAXIMUM IMPACT
surrounded by this wild and beautiful landscape. It was also very
remote, very different to the town and landscape where I grew up and
yet my subconscious memories made it seem familiar. The body of
work I made during that first visit became all about the village (Fig 4).
In 1996, generations of emigration and hardship was still evident in
the landscape. Looking back I realise that the work I was making somehow related to my own childhood experience. I felt I was grasping for
the opportunity to see with fresh eyes. That first visit to Ballycastle was
a revelation of sorts and cathartic.
On the second visit, a year later, the landscape itself became much
more central: the sea, the coastline in particular, the shifting effects of
the light, the tremendous white froth of the sea. In a sense, these were
abstract elements rather than picturesque ones: shadow and light
masses. I wanted to harness some of that dynamism. I began to explore
the geology and architecture of the cliffs and coastline. This was new
territory for me. The practicalities of painting outdoors, by the sea especially, were another thing altogether. I had one good canvas carried off
by the wind and dumped in the ocean! The equipment necessary to
withstand the elements is heavy and cumbersome and needs to be
lugged over rocks if you can’t get a car near enough. I use a two-foot
square slab of toughened glass as a palette. That is placed on an old
workmate which is collapsable but heavy so it doesn’t blow over. I prefer to work on primed watercolour paper which I pin to a 20ml thick
plywood drawing board.The weight keeps the easel steady.The crates of
paints and tools add further ballast and I tie the lot together with rope.
B McA: For the first part of your career you worked largely as a
draughtsman. How important is drawing to you, and how far do you
see it as studies towards a painting, and how far as works of art in
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INTERVIEW
TRACKING DONALD TESKEY
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THE PRACTICALITIES
OF PAINTING
OUTDOORS, BY THE
SEA ESPECIALLY,
WERE ANOTHER
THING ALTOGETHER.
I HAD ONE GOOD
CANVAS CARRIED
OFF BY THE WIND
AND DUMPED IN
THE OCEAN!
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IRISH ARTS REVIEW | WINTER 2009
their own right?
D T: Drawing came first. In art college drawing from life was being
looked upon with varying degrees of suspicion. If you could draw too
well, it was considered a disadvantage almost! I understood the thinking: too much skill could hinder creativity. How a drawing is made
determines its character: a line drawing can have great immediacy.
When you consider the vast range and forms of expression that characterise 20th- and 21st-century art it is easy to see how the qualities of
drawing are entirely appropriate as an art form. Some of the expressively
executed preliminary drawings by artists from previous centuries,
would today be considered major works of art. It was precisely that need
for spontaneity that took my work in a direction that resulted in those
early charcoal drawings.
Some time ago, Michael Craig-Martin talked about an exhibition of
drawings he was invited to select from a museum collection, in which
he included work from the 20th century alongside a range of work
from previous centuries. He was making his selection as an artist rather
than an art historian. Because of the special character of drawing he was
able to demonstrate that, whether ancient, old, modern or new, what
drawings have in common is greater than their differences. A similar
exhibition wouldn’t be possible to do with painting or sculpture.
Drawing serves as a line of continuity between the art of the past and
the art of the present.
B McA: People tend to see you within the traditions of Irish painting.
I would have thought that you bear a relationship to English painting and drawing, say from Auerbach, Ian McKeever and John Virtue.
Would you agree?
D T: All along I had been looking at English painters: Kitaj, Auerbach and
Kossoff as well as Ken Kiff. John Virtue was a very important shot in the
arm for me – the Douglas Hyde exhibition in the early 1990s – it was
the scale of the work, and the landscape. With McKeever it was especially the early landscape drawings and the way in which he combined
drawing and photography.
When I started to show work in London in the early 1990s, I was concerned with whether my work would stand up. The London art scene
was becoming more open to showing work from Ireland. Possibly it was
made palatable by the IRA ceasefire which happened around then, and
the prospect of a permanent peace. By the time I had my first solo show
in 1996 my work was already in some notable private collections.
B McA: You shift between the worlds of city and suburbia, and the
worlds of shoreline and sea. How do you see yourself in relation to
‘townscape’ painting, and the sturm und drang of Romanticism?
D T: I mentioned Auerbach, whose almost sculptural paintings and
drawings had an influence on my work. I could also point to Michael
Kane and David Crone both of whose work I admire, as well as Charlie
Tyrrell’s combination of rigorous abstraction with elements of landscape and architecture. Although the location of my work was urban, at
some point the idea of townscape dissolved, and the work became
about me, located in the townscape. So when I think of me working in
the landscape, my easel and equipment tied to the rocks to withstand
the elements, the famous image of Turner tied to the ship’s mast in order
to experience the raging storm firsthand springs to mind.That’s a defining image of Romanticism. In recent years Romanticism was considered
out of vogue for a while, but of course it never really went away. In any
case art without passion or emotion is worthless.
B McA: When looking at some of your paintings such as Cumberland
Street South or La Touche Bridge (Figs 6&3), I was struck by how much
they reminded me of early Utrillo: the same sculptural physicality
and the same sensitivity to light. Often, looking at your work, I see it
as an Irish version of the motifs of early Impressionism onwards,
albeit with a more dynamic sense which places the spectator so that
he or she seems to be viscerally in the middle of the painting. Does
this make sense to you?
D T: I made a lot of preparatory drawings for Cumberland Street South (Fig 7)
It brings me back to what I said regarding the idea of me, the
artist/observer, located within the landscape.To make the familiar strange
as you put it, I try to position the observer right at the centre, immersed
in the space.This I think, is consistent with Impressionism: the traditional
view is broken down and the surface is fragmented or refracted allowing
the viewer to become immersed in the illusion of space and depth.
For part of my thesis in college I drew on the analogies between
music and painting and naturally, Impressionism formed a large part of
that discourse. People sometimes talk about Jack Yeats while referring
to my painting, but like you I don’t see the connection at all. I see something familiar though, when I look at Utrillo, the views and the angles.
B McA: When you were at the Limerick School of Art, both Jack
Donovan and Charlie Harper were tutors. What kind of atmosphere
did they create and how far were your peers of interest to you?
D T: My first year in the Limerick School of Art was quite a strange but
interesting experience. The school was located on the top floor of the
School of Commerce, overlooking the prison! If the guards in the
prison spotted a student at the window pointing a camera in the general direction of the prison they’d be over to question them in a flash.
It was almost a daily occurrence.
After First Year the Fine Art Department moved to a warehouse in the
city centre near Perry Square. There was a good atmosphere there, and
better free exchange of ideas.The school was entering a new phase, hoping to gain diploma status, which it achieved. Jack was often present and
working on his own work. After that we moved to a building on Georges
Quay, beside Barrington Street Hospital. It was there I did my final year’s
work. There was a high proportion of LSAD graduates from around that
period who made drawing central to their work. Sam Walsh and Dave
Lilburn for example. Also Michael Lyons and Tom Shortt.
A group of us set up self-directed Life Drawing sessions. That’s how I
6 CUMBERLAND STREET
SOUTH 2002 oil on canvas
109 x122cm
7 CUMBERLAND STREET
SOUTH 2002 Pencil on paper
30 x21cm
8 SURGE VII 2006 oil on canvas
100x120cm
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INTERVIEW
TRACKING DONALD TESKEY
met Mick O’Dea. He was studying in NCAD and travelled to Limerick
especially to draw. It’s interesting that thirty years on we are both back
in a similar scenario in the RHA studios for regular drawing sessions.
B McA: There’s a sense in your work of the physicality of the making
of it, of the movement, the curve of a knife, the fissuring of paint, of
the recorded activity being as important as any given motif. Where
does this come from?
D T: I am more likely to refer to the making of a painting rather than
the painting of a painting, because of the unconventional tools I use.
Throughout my time in college I explored a number of approaches to
painting, all processes which involved some form of construction and
such as the coastline rocks and cliffs in the Tidal Narrative paintings.
Contrasting the permanence of that is the representation of the restless
energy of the sea. It has become a motif which I return to time and time
again. The architecture serves the same purpose, with the elements of
movement suggested by figures, traffic, wind and light becoming the
counterpoint. There is an abstract motif here which is the basis of much
of my work. Order and chaos; formal and lyrical; and so on.
I can think of a musical analogy, jazz in particular. Elements in collision and yet, by their interaction, forming a unified and harmonious
whole. I’m very interested in the found structures of geometry, geology,
architecture, scaffolding, and setting aspects of life against it. I listen to
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9
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FOR PART OF MY THESIS IN COLLEGE I DREW ON THE ANALOGIES BETWEEN MUSIC AND
PAINTING AND NATURALLY, IMPRESSIONISM FORMED A LARGE PART OF THAT DISCOURSE
assembling and even included performance – It was art school after all.
The most common feature throughout all my work is a sense of movement. I need to keep that real. By instilling a sense of urgency into the
handling, I can keep that sense of movement alive.
I have a dread of over refinement, of too much finish. If I overwork a
painting, I usually leave it in the studio for a year or two years, turned
to the wall. When I’m ready, I’ll sand it back and start again, the old
image becomes the foundation of a new one. Sometimes this works better than beginning again with a blank canvas: the accumulation of surface marks and texture becomes a kind of history which will be evident
through the final layer. Some paintings just need time and patience.
B McA: If Gwen O’Dowd often seems to be exploring geological strata,
you seem to be exploring the effects of wind, rain and weathering.
D T: I’m specifically focusing on the point where two opposing elements
meet, collide, interact. The first being the structural mass, grounded,
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IRISH ARTS REVIEW | WINTER 2009
a lot of music. It’s largely to do with timescale; a tempo I work to when
I’m painting.
B McA: You work both plein air and in the studio.Take us through the
processes of each.
D T: I began using sketchbooks as a method of rapidly getting down
information using the most direct means. I had to be selective with
what information I chose to note down. Memory and accumulated
experience also feeds into the act of formulating a composition. This
method has served me well as the primary source of preparatory work
for years, although more recently I have returned to using a camera and
a video recorder again.
In the studio the painting begins where the sketch leaves off. It’s difficult to start with a white canvas. Usually I’ll work from the centre out
to the edges with broad gestural sweeps – pretty much the same way I’d
approach a charcoal drawing. These first marks are almost like feeling
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out the canvas; testing its responsiveness. What follows is a build up of
layers, adhering loosely to the sketchbook notes. I’ll work back areas
using scrapers and then reapply the paint, always having consideration
for the composition, but not being restricted by it.
I’m often asked how long does it take to make a painting. There
isn’t any way of knowing when I start. Patience, and the ability to
leave time play a part. You can easily end up getting nowhere fast. A
painting takes as long as is necessary. The ultimate payback is being
completely surprised by the end results.
One of the most significant developments in my practice was painting
9 ABANDONED
PICKUP II 2006 acrylic
on paper 36x 41.5cm
10 PASSING LOOP
2009 oil on canvas
100x120cm
2008 acrylic on paper
76 x102cm
11 CRISS CROSSING
12 MIGRATION 1981
pencil on paper
61x94cm
outdoors, plein air. The opportunity first came when on residency in
Mayo. I set out specifically to make work first hand. Once I manage to
overcome the practical challenges, the results can be hugely rewarding.
It’s an exhausting activity, mostly because of the energy that is needed.
The plein air paintings I mostly keep together as sketchbook material
and they might be used as studies for larger studio paintings. Sometimes
I’ll exhibit them. The small work I made while on residency at The
Joseph and Annie Albers Foundation in Connecticut I showed in 2007
(Fig 9).
D T: My November exhibition is a return to the theme ‘USA’. I have
taken a very different approach and set about making work based on
images captured on my mobile phone while on train journeys between
Philadelphia, New York and Boston (Figs 1,5 &10).
I set out to capture unguarded views of mostly industrial buildings
back gardens, views so often seen from train windows. It’s about the
awkwardness of the process as much as it is about looking at the landscape. The theme represents a diversion of sorts for me so I titled the
exhibition, ‘Loops and Sidings’.
Donald Teskey ‘Loops and Sidings’ Rubicon Gallery Dublin
11 November–5 December 2009.
All images©The Artist.
BRIAN McAVERA is an art critic.
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