It’s fair to say, of the contemporary artists I’ve been soaking in recently, Per Kirkeby‘s art struck a chord that I thought only I knew the sound of.
Contemporary art is a tricky thing for me. For a long time I couldn’t understand it. I honestly can’t say I do even now, or if my understanding is what they desire at all. Except for well-known individuals like Rothko or Dali, I’ve ignored all artists post late 20th century for as long as I could remember. This started to change last year.
I would like to attribute it to age or a certain type of developed mentality, but all I can really say is that I started to feel in tune with some of the paintings. That when I look at it, I don’t see a mess, I see a relationship. Whatever the case, Per Kirkeby’s artwork speaks to me. I look at it, and sometimes I have to look away, because it stirs up an old feeling hidden deep. Maybe that’s all I can ask for with today’s art, where the visuals aren’t placed in a familiar face or body or landscape I can recognize, but in my own head and the shape of my experiences in life.