RED.


 STEPHEN LOUGHMAN  TBG+S DUBLIN  14 AUGUST  3.55PM.  SUNNY.    

STEPHEN LOUGHMAN

TBG+S DUBLIN

14 AUGUST

3.55PM.

SUNNY. 

 


RED.

Read (‘Red’) Stephen Loughman’s press release; ‘red’ horny exposé article with glossy crotch displayed on bench on exiting gallery. Movie references abound here. See. Stephen Loughman doesn’t flirt with reference, he goes to the drive-in cinema, gets comfy and goes from first to fist base (as they say in the movies). His commitment to the pause button is True Love until the FFW>> button turns his head—marriage to mistress in a filmic moment. Cold, calculated, dealing in doubles as a figurative painter until the movie-still warms the blood of even stiller paintings. But the dumb-double that press releases present, that institutional drug, rug, dog, this time, this place, puts the referential Ex centre stage, where Loughman’s painting ought to be, and is, until you read or have ‘red’. Like how Netflix's end-of-season-squishy-couch-get-together cracks the mirror of the Other, an Other you have endured and loved more than your real friends… So Don’t! Don’t read! If you haven't already 'red'. Painting is better beside itself, not on a squishy couch with douchebags. Look. Look how Loughman’s sequential diptychs violently show-up how boring solo figurative painting is, including his own here, even when locked into an overarching narrative. Loughman shows us that we can't play ping-pong with one; and teaches us to experience space and narrative and desire as a curve rather than a line. Ain't saying Einstein ain't sexy but Loughman's diptychs make relativity curvier, Lacanian. So if you did what I did— ‘read’ or “red” —then splice at moment you picked up aforementioned gloss and toss, and engage onomatopoeia for tape cassette rewind. Back<<back to meeting the gaze of gallery invigilator; back<<back to a painting I criticised as mere ‘scenery’ relative to the ping-pong complexity and painterly splendour of Loughman’s two real diptychs—and one imagined that is not a diptych but implied diptych due to architectural doubling; back<<back to Duchampian glory and nesting hole for yin-yang wink-wank contemplation; back<<back to diptych No. 2 with chair-barricading-door scenarios that inhales—depending on your pills—the breadth of horror movie cliché in one breath and  Joseph Kosuth in the next, exhale; back<<back to more solo-scenery and mood levellers and to diptych that is not a diptych; back<<back to first sideward glance and smile at diptych No. 1 with ‘Red’ Ford Cortina slipping, sliding and diving into night and ice. Door. 


b r .

MM.


 CAFÉ&nbsp;PAINTING.  BY MM.  WATERFORD CITY.  SATURDAY.  11 AUGUST.  2018.  4.19PM.  RAINING.

CAFÉ PAINTING.

BY MM.

WATERFORD CITY.

SATURDAY.

11 AUGUST.

2018.

4.19PM.

RAINING.


MM.

MY WIFE SEES IT, I SEE IT, WE SEE IT. After securing respite from rain and riot in a crowded café, our rioters wrestle with hot chocolate from adult mugs. A painting; a snow-scape. Nothing extraordinary beyond weight and symmetry of composition, and the tête-à-tête between off-centre this and that. But a backward step from perceived clichés tells us something different. A foregrounded fence, a somewhat silly retention, real or imagined, challenges first impressions beyond and before the pale: the painter that painted it, the covert context that cradles it, us as observers coveting it, and the price tag 85 tethered to it. (FYI: the image does not wrap around the edges as café paintings seldom don’t.) Phew! What painter hurdles a timber fence to take a photograph from such a sheepish sentiment in the brrr of winter... and then commit it to paint, to public scrutiny, to time? Not a friend; no a stranger, penned in before a paradise, or an image of a paradise chosen because it is exactly what it’s not, what it can’t ever be. Even if the painter didn’t hurdle; even if the painter chanced upon this scene in the snow or upon some cosy kitchen table, this painted image of something lost and out of reach is paradise found, painting figured. Sure. Another detached painter living off flat images of flat images with deep, liquid intentions—abjection comes in white too, as absence, as possibility. Pew! But how deep a thread of canvas can be if a painter is not so... so-so. “There There.” Here the details are entrenched. Here—there—where the fence meets the painter’s lovingly gabled initials, MM (Like Lolita’s HH); where the pure shadows thrust against the lying snow; where the evergreens pose a problem; where the Y-fronts trail comes skidding from the house—exit and entrance, a past and a present as arbitrary and innocent as brown fingerprints that decorate two white mugs.


b r .