Arshile Gorky

One Year the Milkweed, 1944

Golden Brown, 1944

The Liver is the Cocks Comb, 1944

Agony, 1947

I look at Arshile Gorky's magnificent body of work and I get lost in the chasms of colour...and the chasms of disturbance. I am by no means an expert in any facet of art (except in the sense of what I like and don't like), so all my comments must be taken with a grain of salt.

 

Gorky's work is recognisable by its wild lashings of colour and patterns, throwing tradition to the side and replacing it with abstract freedom. I saw some of his work earlier this year at MOMA in New York; it delivered such a sense of wonderment and delight which is ironic, given the pain in his lifetime.

 

Gorky hanged himself at the age of 44, after considerable misfortune. I seem to be drawn to untimely deaths and the sorrow that surround people's lives. I could have almost predicted that I would like the work of someone with such a fate; perhaps you never choose what you like, perhaps it chooses you. 

 

I am in a less than sparkly mood today, so I am reaching for the beauty of Gorky to uplift me. Even writing about this, his expression, will me to concentrate on what I deem to be important. Arguring over trivial matters with work colleagues, not so important. Be gone stress, Gorky is present.