A Rococo Realist
A MONA Moment |
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The deceptively sure verities of super-realist technique are no insurance for the viewer against trickery. In Peter Walkley's acrylic painting, Avarice, the unwary viewer is lured into the cozy confines of a suburban living room and a web of visual intrigues.
A superficial glance at the painting suggests a mildly intriguing exercise in perspective, enhanced slightly by a common, domestic drama. A cat crouches in the corner of the fireplace cornice, intensely preoccupied with a canary hanging in a cage from the ceiling, just out of reach. We are lulled into a false sense of security by the Sylvestor and Tweety scenario, the banality of the scene outweighed by our appreciation of this showcase of realist technique, the nuanced, delicate realization of shadow for instance. Look at the shadow cast on the wall by the sunlight, diffused through the sheer draperies covering the window. He examines this surface with the excruciating clarity, intensely realized in technique. The gray shadows on the wall fade into light in achingly, subtle gradations. The shadows thrown of the black frames on the wall appear just as we know they should: a penumbra of light shadow borders the darker shadow closest to the frame.
A hairline crack on the wall, subtle as a thread of silk, creeps up the wall. We are looking up from the level of an easy chair. There is a start of recognition at the sureness of the artist's command of perspective. But the exercise in perspective is an element of pictorial interest in itself. Each item, from the birdcage to a family portrait on the mantle piece is bent to the rigorous rule of perspective. There are abstracted surprises in shape to consider. A dot of light gleams mysteriously from the mantel cornice.
He has applied a dark ground, an undercoat of paint that accounts for the slightly darkened tonality suffusing and narrowing the color range. It suggests the brittle realism of Andrew Wyeth, but with a wit Wyeth never aimed for. Look at that painting over the fireplace: a portrait of two ordinary suburban houses. We chuckle at the banality of these very ordinary structures occupying the place of honor over the mantelpiece. But at another level, we are engaged by something in these images, which is haunting, even surreal. And speaking of the surreal, there is further trickery afoot by this master of Rococo realism. Say, isn't that black ball hovering in front of the face in the photograph casting a shadow on the mat frame? If you can't trust a super-realist, whom can you trust?
