It is about what is made visible and the resonances that arise from that. It is about participating in what one sees. It is about the image’s ongoing life. And since birds are involved, I am reminded of Pliny’s brief account of Zeuxis and Parrhasius, the first recorded anecdote from the history of painting.
Zeuxis wants to prove that he is the best painter. He presents a painting of grapes so deceptively real that a bird flies over and pecks at the image. Parrhasius displays his painting. Zeuxis approaches, raising his hand to pull back the curtain covering his rival’s painting. But the curtain itself is the work of art. Zeuxis, deceived by the painted cloth, concedes defeat.
In the lesser-known and less-discussed part of the story, Parrhasius is described as a painter whose skill lies not only in painting the central part of the objects he depicts, but also in their contours. These contours are so deftly rendered that it seems as though there is still something behind them.
So I stand before two images: that of the bird, with a sharp gaze, swift as an arrow, focused on a single point; and that of the veil, a luminous, tactile surface that seems to conceal an underlying mystery. They lead me to think the following: the combination of “focus elements” and “spatial elements” is a recurring challenge in the history of painting. Is it the interplay of point and the periphery? Do the breaths between them form a kind of “pneuma” of painting? And could all of this be made visible?
We refer to many lifeless objects as “works of art.” They are all shaped by real gestures. All these gestures reveal signs that point to the great human question: that of the spirit.
Translation Laura Liska
Image Johann J. von Sandrart (1655–1698) after Joachim von Sandrart, Zeuxis and Parrhasius, 1675, etching, detail (lower panel): 13.5 x 19.1 cm
