Complex simplicity in the art of Yunizar

An encounter with the work of an Indonesian contemporary artist.

Whilst at Art 13, I came across a startling pair of canvases (pictured above) by an Indonesian artist, Yunizar. The way they had been exhibited on two parallel walls, made them line up like the pages of a book on approach to the booth of Gajah Gallery. They formed part of a larger series titled “Kisah,” which, translated from Bahasa, incidentally means story.

Each canvas was populated with cartoon-like drawings of human figures and animals, interspersed with single words and letters. The latter was much denser, with a roughly textured band of red pigment running across the top, surrounding a small sun. As my eyes passed over each canvas, they tried to “read” Yunizar’s intriguingly coded story. The seemingly simply rendered characters and scribbled letters signposted an almost primitive, uninhibited, and pure materialisation of expression; and I was reminded of the Lascaux cave paintings in South-western France.

The stark contrast of the pigments with painted surface alludes to a similar visual trope as printed word on paper; it reels the viewer in, for a closer look, until they reach a similar proximity to the paintings as a person reading a book.

Close-ups of the paintings. (Image Courtesy: Jasdeep Sandhu, Gajah Gallery)

A discussion with Yunizar’s gallerist and dealer, Jasdeep Sandhu revealed a more complex contextual web in which Yunizar’s work operates.  Sandhu explained that Yunizar’s generation of artists was a confrontation between the dominant tendency towards realistic painting and newer, progressive forms of art-making.  His experiences as a cultural and linguistic outsider in Java, where he migrated from his home in Sumatra, influenced the function of his work; communicating more directly with his audience through universally recognised symbols. This sensibility is quite similar to another artist I quite admire, Yinka Shonibare, who in a recent interview in TimeOut London highlighted how he found it “intoxicating” when viewers of his work felt less pressure to “know too much about art to actually engage with it”. 

I came across a third Yunizar canvas in this booth which was equally curious.

Yunizar, Left, Right, Up, Down, 2013, 200 x 250cm (Image Courtesy: Jasdeep Sandhu, Gajah Gallery)

It featured a male and female figure highlighted in chrome yellow, standing between two dark painted hemispheres. I couldn’t help but think of the story of Adam and Eve, or at the very least the way we often view the world in terms of personal and material priority. The possibilities for interpreting these canvases were manifold and undoubtedly enjoyable.

On asking about Yunizar’s presence and viability as a collectable artist, he smiled and explained the expanse of his collector base within the Asian region. Along with private collections and museums, Yunizar’s paintings can be encountered at the Singapore Art Museum and National University of Singapore Museum. These three canvases alone left a lasting impression on my mind and I look forward to seeing more of his work on an international scale.

 

 

Yunizar, Kisah, 2013, acrylic on canvas, 200 x 250 cm and Yunizar, Tentang Merah (about red), 2013, 200 x 250cm. (Images: Gajah Gallery)
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Beautiful and the damned: a spellbinding oral history of Hollywood

West of Eden: An American Place by Jean Stein follows a specific tribe of people: the beautiful.

One day in LA, the showbiz tycoon David Geffen drove by the house that had belonged to Jack Warner, the co-founder of Warner Brothers. The gates were open, so he went in. “It was so grand and so Hollywood . . . It was an homage to an idea about the way people lived in Hollywood. I got caught up in the whole gestalt and I bought it.” Geffen then marvels that he paid $47m for the homage, while Jack had sold his whole studio for just $38m in 1956. You have to have a sense of irony.

From around 1920 there was a tribe in southern California, sometimes known as “the beautiful people”. In many cases, they were technical beauties (they appeared in dreamlets known as movies or had their photographs in magazines made of heavy, perfumed pages). Yet the true beauty talked about was a spiritual aspiration – a quest for romantic nobility, fragile elegance, or serene madness – that might offset the inner derangement, selfishness and comic vulgarity that so threatened their longing for godless class, or inscrutability. They lived within the frantic church known as Hollywood, a fierce cult or early form of terrorism (it hired intimidators, all of them called Oscar) that cherished the hopeless grail of beauty and sacrificed many lives in its pursuit.

Jean Stein is one of them; she admits as much in West of Eden, which seems to me the best book ever done on the terrifying social dysfunction of the beautiful people. Ms Stein is now 81. She is the daughter of Dr Jules Stein (1896-1981), the son of Lithuanian Jews, who became a celebrity ophthalmologist yet so loved music and show business that he founded the MCA agency – Music Corporation of America.

The marriage of medicine and ten-percenting is important to this book, and Jean Stein – who is clear-eyed, and knows where the bodies are buried – has the innate touch and scalpel smile of an expert autopsist. She does not quite write, but she composes absorbing, novelistic oral histories. In 1982 she did one on Edie Sedgwick, the Sixties model, junkie, sexpot and icon, a ghost long before her death. Now Stein delivers a calm Götterdämmerung that can be read as the fearsome annals of a haunted Hollywood, as well as an adroit response to John Steinbeck’s East of Eden (1952), earlier proof of California’s soft spot for fallen angels.

West of Eden is selective and yet, by the end of its 334 pages, you feel that the light and the shadow have fallen on nearly every­one. There are just five subjects. First: Edward L Doheny, the oil tycoon who established the architecture of Los Angeles, and helped inspire There Will Be Blood. Then there are the Warners, but chiefly Jack, the youngest of four who outlived and betrayed his brothers, and who abandoned a nice Jewish wife for an adventuress and ended up being painted by Salvador Dalí and dreaded as “a character”. There is also Jane Garland, a schizophrenic child of great wealth who drifted around with various unofficial nurses and uncertain friends. Next is the teeming casebook called Jennifer Jones; and then the Steins themselves, which means Jules and Jean, and her two daughters by William vanden Heuvel, one of whom now publishes the weekly magazine the Nation.

In shaping these five windows, Stein has interviewed numerous tribe members, many of whom have memories, wounds and nightmares for which they are in therapy (or script development – the two forms are very alike). Her tone and manner are matter-of-fact, but she knows how wary those close to Eden are about trusting stories. Life is a competing set of fantasies, and given that lies have always been allowed in LA, falsehood itself, as a moral handicap, has come to mean little. Though all “true”, this book reads like a dream.

A short review cannot cover all five windows in detail, so let me fix on the one I know best: the glass or screen in which Jennifer Jones existed like a butterfly. Born in 1919 (Gore Vidal once told me she was three years older; gossip devours fact), she was the daughter of an Oklahoma showman who thought she would act – on screen, of course, but also always and everywhere. She married a young actor, Robert Walker, and they had two sons. Then in 1941 she was seen by the mogul David Selznick: he was moved by her and she was drawn upwards by her chance of stardom. Each abandoned a spouse and two sons. They became archetypes of misjudgement, though her mediocre acting never matched the skill or glow of other Selznick employees (such as Ingrid Bergman). They had a daughter, Mary Jennifer, who lived in rivalry with her mother and loathed her, and finally killed herself.

Jennifer, as Lauren Bacall reports, could be a little nutty. She and Selznick gave lavish Sunday parties: “Jennifer was busy doing her make-up and combing her hair and changing her outfit. She was kind of playing her part. She was always trying to be noticed, to have people really care about her and be there for her.”

This is not pretty stuff; maybe that is why these people were so desperate to be beautiful. Indulgence and neglect formed a damaging mixture that left bodies lining the roadside west of Eden. Lawyers and doctors catered to the stricken beauties. Shrinks played an especially devious role, though “shrink” was the wrong word; those hired to soothe mania in fact inflated their clients’ egos and dramatised their self-pity, the movie in which we all take part.

Hard to credit, often hard to stomach, this is a spellbinding record of that ancien régime. Whatever happened to the tribe? The members may be thinner on the ground now in southern California, but their ignoble nobility is everywhere.

David Thomson’s books include “Showman: the Life of David O Selznick” (André Deutsch) and “How to Watch a Movie” (Profile Books)

West of Eden: An American Place by Jean Stein is published by Jonathan Cape (334pp, £20)

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war