ART

Immaculate conceptualists

EVAN ANTHONY

I suppose if you must patronize your readers, a little bullying may be as good a way as any of keeping them in their place, so long as you remember to use the pronoun ' we' when you really mean 'you.' You may then be as didactic as you please, and the chances are they will eat it up. No, I am not giving away my trade secrets — only Bryan Robertson's.

In his extravagantly written catalogue for the Hayward Gallery, Robertson commends the striking Bridget Riley to us, thus: "The optical challenge in Riley's work, given time, is tonic, bracing, and relates to new physical conditions or facts, received optically, which stimulate the imagination as much as they extend our knowledge of nature. If the challenge seems initially to strain our optic neryes it is really because they have become flabby and unexercised through the comforting faminrity of what they habitually encounter. We have a very narrow idea of 'nature'." Flabby optic nerves (does he mean muscles?) indeed! Narrow idea of ' nature ' . . . splutter, splutter! Speak for yourself, Bryan.

If you have ever taken a test for colourblindness, groping around all those coloured dots desperately trying to focus on the figure ' 5,' or if you've defied gravity riding the Rotor at a fairground, you should find the retrospective exhibition of Bridget Riley fairly familiar territory. There are those, I gather, who worry about whether or not she is the greatest living English artist, and while that is not one of the questions in life over which I agonize, I happily concede that she does have a special kind of talent. The name of her game is op ', and her illusions are very tricky and complex. Her paintings, whether in black and white or colour, move ond jump about, defying the physical limitations of the canvas with their leaping, Vibrating forms.

This show contains work dating back to 1951 and reveals her progression from early preoccupation with Seurat's technique to her latest experiments with coloured stripes. She has taken the impressionist idea and formalized the dab technique, producing infinite variations on geometric themes. Her use of colour, like her use of shapes, explores endless Combinations and permutations, with every nuance of positioning and toning worked out to challenge the eye. The results are Often quite fascinating, albeit dizzying: this is undoubtedly a lady with very wellexercised ' optic nerves.'

Faced, then, with forms that graduate in size and intensity of colour, oh so gradually, I can't really agree that Bridget Riley's work extends my knowledge of nature, but it does subject me to a range of physical reactions that include double vision, nausea, and restfulness, and that is no mean trick. Judging from her own comments, I should think this response would satisfy her: "I have never studied 'optics' and my use of mathematics is rudimentary and confined to such things as equalizing, halving, quartering and simple progressions . . . It is is absolutely untrue that my work depends on literary impulse or has any illustrative intention. The marks on the canvas are the sole and essential agents in a series of relationships which form the structure of the painting. They should be so complete as to need, and allow of, no further elucidation." 1 aking her at her word, I shall forego making interesting psychological interpretations of her work — after all, there's nothing wrong with being nothing more than a remarkably accomplished manipulator of geometric forms and knowing your colour-wheel inside out.

It isn't surprising to learn that an artist has assistants who do more than wash the brushes and prime the canvas — in Riley's case it seems particularly appropriate, if not absolutely necessary, saving a lot of wear and tear on the eyeballs. Hers are the concepts, the designs, and her helpers work according to very specific instructions. The end products are beautifully controlled canvases, immaculately painted. The colour and geometry contrive to astonish the eye by seeming to undulate gently or churn rapidly.

Doubtless Riley and Co can go on forever painting stripes of turquoise and blue, dots of pink that turn into silver, or black and white patterns that invite the viewer (with not so flabby optic muscles) to analyze the basic mathematical formulae, and admire the order and control over the intricacy. But for me, ultimately, they are cold and clever and tiring, lacking sufficient depth of feeling.

As for something tiresome, I suggest a visit to the Whitechapel Gallery for a quick look at the latest ploy of ' the human sculptors,' Gilbert and George. Sans gold paint, and not even humming, they were on hand for the opening of their exhibition called The Paintings (with Us in the Nature), but described as 'their new romantic sad beautiful sculpture.' I found them huddled together, fiercely protecting each other from rude questions. Unlike a number of my fellow reviewers I find I can help but admire them. They regard themselves as living sculptures as well as being living sculptors (I think). And it seems that they went on holiday and it was such a lovely and such a important part of their sculptured existence that nothing would do but that They in the Nature must share it with Us in the Gallery. There are eighteen tableaux, and if they are not exactly reminiscent of Fragonard, I could not say that they aren't good enough for Bayswater Road.

We had a bit of a question and answer session that went something like this: Q: Why do you call your paintings ' sculpture '?

A: They are sculptures. Our whole lives are sculptures.

Q: Yes, but [voice cracking slightly with uncertainty] they look like paintings.

A: They are us — our lives. No painter would paint that way.

Q (agreeing, trying to change the subject): Are you Gilbert, or George?

A: We are Gilbert and George.

Q: Yes, I know -I mean — which one is Gilbert — and . . .?

A: We are both Gilbert and George. We are one.

How can you quarrel with such unity? I can almost understand why I've read about their unique childlike quality.

Things are less twee at the Ansdell Gallery, Monmouth Street, where six artists, new to the public, all use separate names. I liked Peter Neuner's chromeplated, mild-steel pipe sculptures, mounted on black perspex, and Antony Mileham's sensitive handling of watercolour-cumcollage.