A DIALOGUE WITH DENNIS A. GOULD
A.S.:Perhaps the fundamental question one can ask an artist, and one many artists seem to
dislike, is this: what is your work about? Does it deal with nature, landscape, society, the
individual psyche, the human dilemma? Or is it just about art?
D.G.: Many artists resent the question because it is so difficult to answer. Artists
ask themselves this question continually while working and find the answer
illusive. It seems that just as one gets near to a clear understanding - it slips away.
There are as many ways to answer the question as there are completed works of
art. My works do not try to exclude or include any of the topic areas you mentioned
and they certainly do not set out to pursue any one of them when a work is
started. Recently, however, the topic of conflict that all too often exists between
humankind and the natural world has been coming up in my work.
Ultimately, the meaning of a work of art is a private matter between the work itself
and the viewer. I am constantly surprised and delighted by the reactions that are
elicited by my works, and I have been working long enough to have seen
my own reactions change toward my older work. I try to guide that private
reaction, but there is a limit to what I can do to predict or control it and that is
exactly the way I want it to be. I sometimes think that the art object itself is
only a window through which the viewer gets a glimpse of his or her own soul, a
fleeting glimpse, to be sure, but one that essentially reminds us of the temporary
nature of our earthly existence. I feel that any successful work of art -- whether it
be music, poetry or whatever -- transcends its ability to distract, and entertain
by offering this window on the soul. I have even come to the conclusion that
all the arts are concerned with the same thing: there is only one art approached
by various means. The arts are windows of a sort to me. So, generally speaking,
my work is about connecting myself, and ultimately the viewer, with the experience
of confronting one's own mortality.
A.S.:How does your creative activity tie in with the real world? Or does it?
D.G.: Real world to me means those things that are within the ken of most
viewers and serve as vehicles -- some might say symbols -- to carry one through
a work of art. My work ties in to the real world in that way. I would like the elements
in the work to be "real looking," if not easily identifiable, and through
that readily graspable visual presence pull the viewer into its own reality.
A.S.:I imagined that you might occasionally have been inspired by the phantasmagoria of
microscopic life, but I also see a lot of red, the color of blood and blood vessels. There are
hearts and livers and kidneys and brains if one looks for them.
D.G.: I have been fascinated by the visual world as long as I can remember --
not just views and vistas of it, but all aspects of it from the microscopic to the
largest possible view. Somehow the idea that one thing is beautiful while another
is not always struck me as odd. A visual artist, in my opinion, should accept all
things as food for consideration and elements for a painting or drawing -- even
those that some might find disconcerting and unpleasant such as visceral organs.
A. S.: What do you say to those who might maintain that your art does not go beyond the
decoration of surfaces?
D. G.: I have nothing to say to those would maintain that my work does
go beyond the decoration of surfaces, there is nothing onerous about decoration
per se. The Sistene Chapel ceiling by Michelangelo in Rome, the Sforza
room decoration by Leonardo in Milan, or even Matisse's "Red Room" in the
Hermitage, Leningrad might be the mere decoration of surfaces to some. In the
hands of the masters, decoration becomes art. I admit to being charmed by the surface
of the canvas or the paper on which I work. I am enthralled by the experience
of interacting with it to create the illusion of something that is, after all, not
really there. Some of my older works dwell in relatively shallow space and it
is here that the decorative adjective is most often used. If one does not find
what I have made particularly involving, then I suppose that it remains decoration.
If, on the other hand, one finds oneself being carried away by the work and is
adrift in one's own imagination, what does it matter if another sees it as decoration?
A.S.:If your work does not describe things, may we say that it deals with processes? Especially
the processes of organic growth and dissolution?
D.G.: I would not go so far as to say that my work does not describe things;
let's just say that the things are not readily identifiable for many people -- they
are very real to me. For example, gelatinous mass of organic material is a thing,
though it is not quite as identifiable as, say, chair or book. Process is a good
word to have in mind while viewing my work. Growth and dissolution -- yes --
evolving and decaying, building and destroying, the assumption that something
is going on in this or that painting; unraveling the "what happens next" question
will, I hope, be a fascination to me and to the viewer.
A.S.:How does a work by Dennis Gould come into being? Is it planned?
Improvisational? What inspires it? How does it take form?
D.G.: I seek ways of pushing myself into worlds of exploration that I might not
otherwise encounter if left to my own preconceived ideas. Years ago I attempted
to produce works that carried out various programs of interpretation
and found that the end result was exactly as I had predetermined it to be. There
was no surprise in the result, and the act of making it turned out to be nothing but
hard work. I then began to seek methods which would provoke me to discover the
work while in the act of making it, and that is the method occupying me today. I
generally begin with what I call a notion. I ask myself what would happen if...
The "if" might have to do with the medium I am using, an idea of how space
might be developed, an idea suggested by a previous work, or no particular idea
at all. I then go through a series of rather bizarre exercises to get away from the
blank surface of the support. I will use paint-soaked rags, random gestures,
uncontrolled movements of my hand, anything and everything I can dream up to
get my imagination going. As soon as the materials hit the support, images begin
to be suggested to me. I then set about in a more controlled working method and
draw out the suggested images. I put the image objects in their own space in the
picture plane and watch what begins to happen. Soon, an idea of the whole is
suggested as the objects in the work begin to interact. Guiding this last part is
the trickiest and most crucial as it will decide if the resultant work is greater
than the sum of its parts or merely a collection of interesting elements with no
overriding oneness. Variations in this procedure occur, but it is generally the
working method I follow. I want to be surprised by what I do. I want the work
to evolve for me as I work on it. If it does not, I lose interest and I imagine that the
viewer would lose interest also.
A.S.:Does the imagery of organic growth, so prominent in your work, become a metaphor for
the growth of the work of art as a process of self-discovery?
D.G.: Yes, I think that is a valid observation. Self-discovery, self-education
are, perhaps, the main reasons that one continues to work -- and that is the way
it should be. I want to find out what is going to happen in my work next. There
is a fascination to that. One knows it when it is missing. If one finds oneself
going over the same conceptual territory, then the work becomes predictable.
Instead of having a chance to become art -- the work becomes a product.
I recall a reviewer who once criticized my work for not being more unified --
that it was hard for one to decide what "style" of painting I was making. That
gave me a good laugh. It was clear to me that this particular reviewer thought of
art as some sort of marketable package that needed to be clearly defined to be
understood and sold. For me, art cannot be defined in that way. If it can, it
probably is not art.
A.S.:How does the medium in which you are working shape the exploration?
Or does the work transcend the medium?
D.G.: Ultimately a work should transcend its medium, but throughout the
process of working the means used influence direction. I am not interested in
celebrating paint for its own sake, but how it has the magic of conveying some
thing else. This is also true for the plastic means that artists use -- line, color, pattern,
etc. When a work is complete, all the means used to make it should be subservient
to the whole.
A.S.:You are the director of a historic art collection. How does this role interact
with your functions as a creative artist?
D.G.: I am no longer director of the Hammer Foundation. I became Hammer's
consultant in May of 1987 and the new arrangement allows me to work in
the studio fulltime. However, when I was in that role, and throughout more
than 20 years in the museum profession, I always found that the occasions that it
gave me to see great works of art first hand were rewarding and thought provoking.
My jobs gave me the burden and the opportunity to travel a great deal. I
have probably visited three-fourths of the world's great museums and have
worked in many of them when they were closed to the public, so I have had the
rare opportunity to be in empty galleries to view important works. I am glad that
I did it, but happy that it is over. A sort of information overload occurs. Too
much input and not enough time to digest what was seen. I hope now that I will
begin to react more carefully to what I have experienced and use it in my work.
In addition to the travel, I learned much of the business of galleries and museums
and how they function -- the practical side of the art world -- and this has
proved helpful. I have also learned much about art conservation and the mechanics
of what makes pictures the way that they are; this too has fed my studio work.
A.S.:Does tradition operate in your work? Western or Eastern?
D.G.: I would say both. Perhaps it is the tradition of philosophic thought that
most attracts me. I do not see myself as carrying on a tradition -- in that sense of
the word. I feel most in tune with what I have been able to read about eastern
religions and the removal of the superficial self from the creative act. Actually, the
evolution of my works operates in both worlds, and while it is hard to generalize,
I want my works to have an intuitive subjective level and a rational objective
level as well.
A.S.:Are you a Surrealist?
D.G.: Labels are difficult, though by nature I am attracted to the work of the
Surrealists. To the extent that I share their concerns with the unconscious, the
dream state, explorations of the imagination and their appreciation of the craft of
image-making, I am a Surrealist.
A.S.:The process of creation that you have described resembles Surrealist "automatism, " not
to mention the biomorphic quality of your forms. Doesn't the "projection" technique of Ernst and
others also enter in?
D.G.: It may. I am interested in what I have read about and what I can see in the
work of Ernst and others. Pure automatism, as I understand it, is an end in itself
-- and while I may begin a painting or a drawing that way, I want to take the
work into a more considered direction and make conscious decisions about the
images that are suggested as the result of apparent unconscious action. The play
between the two worlds is a wonderful experience. Resolving the two becomes
the main activity in the development of a work. If all goes well, the completed
work will have just enough of each left over to produce a balance of the subjective
and the objective.
A.S.:Your work has been compared to music. Is that a valid comparison?
D.G.: I do not mind the comparison at all. I would like my work to have the
openness of interpretation that is the mark of great music. Open to interpretation,
but guided by the composer to a general end. While working I often use
musical comparisons to discuss my work with myself. I use terms like tempo,
interval, tone, attack, rhythm as well as texture, line, color. Before, you asked to
what extent my work is improvisational. The best comparison I can make to this
term exists in improvisational music...jazz. Like jazz, my improvisation is contained
within set limits -- a key, a tempo, etc. Improvisational phrases are
found throughout my work. This is where the comparison ends, for a visual
work of art's all-at-onceness is so very different from the temporal development
of music. However, if one wants to analyze my work, take it apart and think of
it musically as I often do while working, then that is fine with me.
A.S.:Are you a poet in the sense that Paul Klee was? Why don't you give your works
suggestive titles, as he did?
D.G.: I am greatly interested in the work of Paul Klee who died the year I
was born. Any comparisons are accepted as I consider him perhaps the greatest
artist of the twentieth century. The totality of my work is far different from his,
however. He was a visual poet and delighted in giving his works titles as well
as numbers. I have always thought that titles inhibit the imagination of the
viewer. In fact, for years I didn't even sign my work because I thought the
signature got in the way. I have fun when a work of art is nearing completion by
suggesting titles to myself. These will remain with me. It is more fun to listen to
the titles given my works by others.
A.S.:The close numbering of your works suggests a fascination with your own growth that
echoes the character of the works themselves. But there is something fiercely methodical in this
numbering, an uncharacteristic objectivity.
D.G.: The numbering came out of my experience in museum work as a way of
simply keeping track of objects and of giving me some idea of my productivity.
I regret that some might find more to it than that. Fiercely methodical is probably
a true characterization of part of my makeup. Fanatical is another; I think artists
are fanatics, in a way. Who else would be so persistent and doggedly
pursue the illusive the way we do? I think this is why comparisons are made
between scientists and artists - all creative people.
A.S.:To what extent can your art be understood in terms of the tensions it creates?
Is tension in itself meaningful?
D.G.: Tension is an important element in my work and it is one way of analyzing
what I have produced. Viewers may want to see how I have produced tension
between contrasting elements: the geometric and the organic, color versus nocolor,
rough versus smooth, dark versus light. The interplay of these tensions
produces movement on the surface of the work and in its depth. When done well
the tensions continue to keep the viewer interested and involved in the dynamics
of the picture itself. However, tension it and of itself in a work of art is not mean
ingful. It must always be subservient to the work of art as a whole. It is only one
of the means that one can use to create.
A.S.:Where do you feel that you have gone the "farthest out" in what you have done?
Or is it the "farthest inward?"
D.G.: I am not sure if it is out or in. Ideally it pulses between the two, echoing
the implications of both. I do not think that I can point to a specific work
and say that it took me the farthest out or in. Each work has its moments of
weightlessness, a kind of loosening of earthly bonds. The most successful are
those that keep that feeling for me ? the trick is in producing the same result in
the unabashed fearless viewer.
Allan Shickman
Assistant Professor of Art
University of Northern Iowa
This interview first appeared in the catalog produced by the University of Northern Iowa to accompany the exhibition: Dennis Gould, Retrospective Exhibition, 1967 - 1987. (ISBN 0-932660-13- 4) and is copyright 1987 by the University of Northern Iowa Art Department, Cedar Falls.
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