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V.R Morrison: A Cinematic Sensibility

by Alasdair Macintyre

When considering the work of V.R Morrison, an artist who works in perhaps the oldest of traditions, that of figurative representation, it is difficult not to align her work to what has gone before, and of course her contemporary practitioners. Indeed, one who has even a basic knowledge of art would perhaps suggest evocations of Neo-classicist Ingres and twentieth century American painter Phillip Pearlstein, or even Australian Rupert Bunny. One could fill pages with artists throughout history who have operated in similar territory, Degas, Manet, Rubens, Courbet, Bougerrou to name but a few. Many local artists such as Anne Wallace and Michael Zavros readily come to mind.

To evade some of these rather obvious parallels, and to approach Morrison’s work according to my own background which I bring to the paintings, I find that one of the aesthetic adjectives that comes to mind is the term “cinematic”. A certain atmosphere is generated by these paintings, as palpable as an aroma emanating from within them. As Ingres’ bathing paintings proffer a musky, steamy odour, Morrison’s exude a distinctly feminine scent, exclusive to contemporary life, perhaps a heady, yet not unbecoming, mix of distinctly feminine make-up, hair products and commercial perfumes. I have always believed that good paintings will always stimulate the other senses. I often imagine that I can hear a Rothko painting “humming”, and I long to run my fingers over the gutsy skeins of a de Kooning. Having said this, it is to the moving picture that Morrison’s work is most closely related.

One could look at the severe, but well-chosen cropped edges of several of Morrison’s paintings and bring to mind the work of the aforementioned painter Phillip Pearlstein, or, in a cinematic sense, the celluloid compositions of film director Roman Polanski. The obvious sensitivity to the feminine ideals in Morrisons work could well be compared to that of Portuguese-born, British based painter Paula Rego, or, in a filmic sense, to that of the late Krzysztof Kieslowski , creator of the “Three Colours” trilogy. Upon looking at a Morrison painting such as “The Dreamers”, even the format of the painting itself, is reminiscent of the dimensions of a cinema screen.

In many ways, the underlying female vulnerability conveyed in such works as “Nightscape” and “The Surface” (both 2003), in which the viewer almost becomes voyeur to the subjects in the process of becoming en deshabille, capture the same feminine essence that Kieslowski so believably brought to screen in the Three Colours trilogy through his very strong female leads. However, the most powerful evocation of this parallel with Kieslowski lies in the paintings “The Audition” and “The Dreamers” (both 2002), paintings which are haunting in their beauty and atmosphere. “The Double Life of Veronique” (with the stunning Irene Jacob in the title role) which Kieslowski completed in the early nineties, embraces the same qualities, hypnotic and alluring, but we are aware as viewers that inside these beautiful women are complex personas. In both cases, we the viewer admire the comely expanses of bare flesh, yet however attractive the exterior may be, an awareness of the variable complexities within are foremost in our mind as well. One is reminded of French “New Wave” director Jean Luc-Godard cinematically “caressing” the naked Brigid Bardot in the opening scenes of his 1963 film “Contempt”.

The viewer/voyeur caresses the curves and the shape of the subject, echoing the shape of the artists brushstroke. In any case, and unlike a film, paintings offer us only a limited vision, a painted “snapshot” if you wish. The fundamental aspects of these personas can only be guessed at. Therefore, we can only confer these personas through our own personal perceptions of the images before us.

With the desaturation of colour in several of her paintings, Morrison alludes to the “classic” cinematic tradition of the black and white glossy photograph, or theatrical “stills”. In an image such as “Grand Entrance” (2002) one could expect the unseen face to belong to Katherine Hepburn, or Lauren Bacall, not only great actors, but women with a strength of character as well. In many ways, these images are evocative of a time past, as I have heard on more than one occasion, from more than one source, the bemoaning of the fact that there are few youthful contemporary equivalents to strong women such as Bacall and Hepburn, at least not in Hollywood. One could argue strongly that an actor such as Juliette Binoche (who featured in Krzysztof Kieslowski’s “Three Colours Blue”) is made of stronger stuff, and is not physically dissimilar to the main subject in several of Morrison’s black and white paintings.

How does an image assimilate enough power to touch ones senses? In relation to the moving image, particularly perhaps a film in which none of the cast are familiar to us, we become involved in the various plot twists, character traits and tragedies within the screenplay, and on many occasions, we are moved to an emotional response, often times tears. This response relates to not the actors on the screen (or the subject in the painting), but to our own familiarity that we bring to the experience. Perhaps one of the women within a Morrison painting would remind the viewer of a love lost, a sister no longer in contact, or an opportunity squandered.

Whereupon the majority of films have a beginning, middle, and end, and a resolution that we the viewers are privy to, Morrison’s paintings elude to a deeper narrative, a narrative that only we, the viewer, can resolve.

Alasdair Macintyre is an artist and graduate of Q.C.A and A.C.U.

Lucie-Smith, Edward, (1997), Sexuality in Western Art, Thames and Hudson, London.

Rose, Barbara, (1995), American Painting: The twentieth century, Editions d’Art Albert Skira S.A, Switzerland.

Monaco, James, (2000), How to read a film, Oxford Press, London.