The Image-Sweep A gloom has set in around Bellevue as Matthias Groebel and I keep a look out for the waiter. We are
immersed in a conversation about the machine-made television paintings he
created in the 90s, and have arrived at Brian Eno
and David Byrne's 1981 concept album My Life in the Bush of Ghosts. But the
low-hanging clouds and his impending trip to Cologne signal it is soon time
to go. The album is a globetrotting sound collage made
entirely of samples. A tour de force of cultural appropriation and
genre-blending, a sonic medley of unusual noises and voice recordings made in
the tradition of ‘musique concrète’.
‘Field recordings’ of English radio talk show hosts, Lebanese
mountain singers, southern-state American priests, conjurers of exorcism
ceremonies and samples of Egyptian pop were cut together in Byrne and Eno's studio, superimposed then accelerated. Their rhythm
and incoherence create a hypnotic effect—a kind of trance in which
significance and its opposite blur. The album has come up because it shares with Groebel's paintings something in attitude, intent and
methodology. Both are about intercepting distant signals, collecting
broadcast flotsam and jetsam and mechanically transforming those materials in
the studio. Like Groebel's paintings, the songs
reflect a virtuosic talent for extracting and assembling, applied to an
infinite range of material possibilities—a technical ingenuity. They
are also connected by their use of radio and tv
satellite signals—invisible waves of content that stream directly into
the studio, whose hissing and flickering indicate that what is seen and heard
has entered via the ether, having bounced off some satellite. In each case,
channels and frequencies are zapped up and down in search of what in psychoanalysis
is called ‘the other scene’, the collective psychic depth of the
medial unconscious. In Groebel's work, there
is a dimension of psychic dream work at play. He has long been interested in
the dark corners of satellite television, in frequencies that hardly anyone
knows about, in the most obscure programmes from
the smallest stations and whatever else is beaming around. His work is the
outcome of someone who deliberately wanders into the fairy-tale forest of
satellite offerings in search of signals and motifs, only to recall isolated
images and fragments of speech the next day. It’s a dérive
through a thicket of media environments from which the TV screen is seen as a
mirror of consciousness and all that lies beneath. So, in a way, Matthias Groebel's
painting is the televisual counterpart to Eno and Byrne's sampledelia
alchemy. Or rather, the album echoes the radiance of Groebel's
ghostly stills. But his paintings also have an uncanny connection to
the 1954 novel by Amos Tutuola, from which Eno and Byrne’s album takes its name. In his book
My Life in the Bush of Ghosts, Tutuola creates an
idiosyncratic language and world by pairing West African mythology with
Western technological culture. A key figure in the novel that combines these
two elements is the “Television-handed Ghostess,”
a medium with television screens in her palms, not entirely distant from Groebel's painting machine, which paints stills from
television as if by magic. Much of what Matthias Groebel
is telling me concerns the complex construction of the painting machine and
his years of challenging work with it. His stories have an almost literary
quality—the tales he winds about the adventures of his artistic
practice and output sound more like a fictional plot to a futuristic sci-fi
or cyberpunk novel, than 30 years of studio work. Groebel's story is that of a painter who studied pharmacy
rather than art. He worked as a pharmacist in Cologne during the day, then
turned to painting at night. He is a technophile who lost interest in his own
abstract works in the mid-1980s, and in abstract painting in general. The
pieces were too harmless, he says. The discourse, too elitist. He was looking
for "paintings that take effect even when you don't want them to."
The dominance of television media in the 1980s required a different kind of
painting to do justice to the techno-cultural present. For him, innovation
was elsewhere. In electronic music, in cyberpunk literature, in the DIY hacker culture of new media. No longer the canvas.
Painting seemed too shackled to its chains of self-reference, trapped in its
own history. That self-reference had become a Faraday cage, one that conducts
the impact of the outside world. So, what was he to do as an artist? Many painters—especially
in this region—struck poses in front of their own gesturally
expressive paintings. This performative strategy,
which directed attention to the presence of the artist, was not Groebel's thing. Neither formally nor socially did he
belong to the Rhineland chapter of the Neue Wilde.
He was never, to paraphrase Martin Kippenberger,
one of them, among them, with them. Instead of turning away from painting, Groebel transferred his fascination with technology into
it. Initially, he did not have a clear, aesthetic idea of the images he
wanted to produce, but he had come up with a specific process through which
TV images could be transferred onto canvas. At just the same time as a new
tool that could convert analogue wave signals into computer pixels came onto
the market, Groebel happened upon an advertisement
for a children's construction set by Fischertechnik.
Together, these led him to the idea of computer-aided painting. He decided to rebuild the small painting toy but
modify it—he set it up vertically, scaled it up to a surface area of
one square metre, replaced the pencil with an
airbrush gun, adjusted the nozzle opening to control the application of paint
and extended the whole thing along a Z-axis to determine its distance to the
canvas. The machine was not much more than an excuse for tinkering and
speculating. Circuit boards and plug-in cards became his field of
experimentation. He then roamed the electrical scrap yards of Münsterland. Together with a mechanic and an
electronics engineer, Groebel built his machine bit
by bit, piecing it together with old photocopier and windscreen wiper motors,
bike chains and plastic rollers. It was mounted in a steel cabinet, lined on
the inside with pressboard and set with a double-glazed window through which
the painting process could be viewed. With shining steel chrome rods, turning
chains, spiralling compression springs and glowing
neon tubes, a machine that was only meant to produce paintings turned out to
be an extraordinary object in itself—proof of a baroque imagination.
The apparatus was far ahead of its time, operating a decade before the first
multi-colour plotters. Painting machines have their place in 20th century
‘utopian’ literature. One thinks of the fantastic creations in
the writings of the Frenchmen Alfred Jarry and
Raymond Roussel. In his novel Gestes
et opinions du Docteur Faustroll,
pataphysicien, which he himself called
‘neo-scientific’, Jarry describes a
machine that sprays walls with primary colours. In
his book Locus Solus, Roussel
designs a device that, among other things, creates mosaics from human teeth.
Painting machines were also developed in mid-20th century visual art. The
most famous are those of the Situationist Guiseppe Pinot-Gallizio and
Jean Tinguely. But the difference between their
practices and Groebel’s is that, for both Gallizio and Tinguely, their
raison d'être lies in the critique of various forms of art and the
sales logic behind it. In both instances, the machine is the centre of
attention as a sculpture-turned-painting critique. This is not the case with Groebel, the machine is not on display; only the
paintings are. The fact that his works are invariably about
painting is evident in his choice of motifs. He takes faces from programmes so obscure that they are essentially anonymous
to us and, in some instances, have been digitally morphed so that the person
portrayed is never properly recognisable. As a
result, one is compelled to reflect on the picture itself, compelled to ask
how it is made, compelled to speak about painting. His interest in painting itself is also indicated by
the square format of the works. Even his early abstract paintings were
square, the “one metre high, one metre wide” format posed a far greater challenge to
him than landscape or portrait formats which, as he saw it, offered
“inherently aesthetic settings” and were thus much easier to
create associations with. But only by working on the machine did Groebel confront the formal and aesthetic demands his
paintings made, concluding that his pictures should have the same trancelike
radiance as the cathode-ray tube-screens of the time. He moved away from
pixel pointillism towards the colour-laden,
oversaturated wave-blur: the cold, flickering, backlit aesthetic and the
beguiling effect of the monitor. So, what do we need to understand about television
to understand Groebel's painting? Or rather, what
do we need to know about painting, in order to understand what interests the
artist in television? After all, his fascination with television seems like a
horrid obsession. If one ambition of 20th century abstract painting
was for an immersive, contemplative, visual experience, it was no match for
television, a medium that forced itself upon—effectively bound itself
to—the viewer, a medium that has, in Groebel’s
words, “an effect even, when you don't want it to." What first took his interest was in the way early TV
images were in fact blurred, composed of a mosaic of multiple, individual colour elements, brought into focus by the act of
looking. Perception made the image in the same way that, with late 19th
century cinematograph, it produced the illusion of motion from a fast-running
sequence of film stills. If television exploited this gap between perception
and cognition, it meant that every image contained fragments that the eye
could not register, but were being absorbed at a certain level, subliminal or
otherwise. In a sense, watching television was akin to dreaming: the viewer
submitted to a torrent of highly charged semiotic fragments. It was soon
clear that these charged images harnessed to generate revenue; by the 80s,
the commercial arm of the television industry was in full swing. What is crucial about that decade was the advent of
the satellite dish, which had a significant impact on the distribution and
consumption of media, in both public and private sectors. In West Germany for
example, the first private satellite stations went on the air in 1984, and
this marked the change from state programmed television, with time-limited
broadcasting windows, to an around-the-clock, seven-day-a-week unrestrained
‘flow’ of broadcast material. Television audiences would
henceforth have to live with incessant advertising, even if they were
blissfully unaware of it. The amnesia and anonymity this created are the spectres of Groebels’
paintings. In the parlance of the Frankfurt School, the
paintings describe television as a ‘dreamless dream’ that doesn't
so much take us where we've never been before, but rather shackles us to the
inevitable and makes us what we basically are, only worse. Appropriating
television’s trance-like effects, Groebel’s
emotionally vacuous, ghostlike presences—eerily eccentric and
unpleasantly familiar profiles, indistinguishable characters of any
low-budget sci-fi flick—turn almost abstract again. Groebel's artistic practice is reminiscent of J.G Ballard’s dystopian short story The
Sound-Sweep. In this story, all audible music has been made obsolete by
technology, and all sounds have been deposited in solid surfaces. When acoustic
sediments trickle out of these surfaces, people become triggered by emotional
flashbacks. Therefore, the sonic residues must be sucked up with ‘sonovacs’ by professional cleaners. One such
sound-sweeper is the main character, a mute boy by the name of Mangon. He befriends Madame Gioconda,
an opera singer who lives in an abandoned recording studio, destitute due to
the invention of an ultrasonic music that can only be felt. Over the course
of the story, Mangon leads the opera-singer into
a–very Ballardian–landscape of sonic
dumps, where acoustic waste piles up. "A place of strange echoes and
festering silences, overhung by a gloomy miasma of a million compacted
sounds, it remained remote and haunted, the graveyard of countless private babels." Here, in the midst of this huge heap of
sound remnants, Mangon the mute finds his voice. Matthias Groebel’s
story as an artist is like a visual counterpart to Ballard’s. A
pharmacist roams the electrical waste dumps of Münsterland
looking for components to build a machine with. He thinks differently about
technology, against its predetermined, profit-driven use, and comes up with a
form of expression born from the technical scrapheap of society. He then sits
in front of the television late into the night, zapping through all
frequencies, losing himself in the flow for days on end, image-sweeping an
abyss of unknown material. Then, in his waking hours, he sifts through the
images in his memory. Those that stick out get resuscitated through the
machine. A second chance at life, only on canvas. Andreas Selg, 1994 |