Known for his faceless figures, which have become both politically loaded and ambiguously apolitical, Alex Gardner presents his solo exhibition, Animals, at Perrotin Los Angeles until July 11. Moving away from the ironic existentialism of his previous works, Animals reads as vulnerable and curious. If hope is the salve for an endurable future, Gardner aims to paint the world as it is, without judgement.
The thirteen new paintings stand in contrast with the artist’s body of work. The exhibition is certainly in the realm of Gardner’s classic style, but through a lens changed by fatherhood. The colours are cool, but not cold, and the figures embrace, push and pull in what feels like equal measure. Adult figures now exist amongst young ones, asking viewers what it means to be human in relation to one another.
Given the title of the exhibition, if you could be any animal, what would you want to be? Would that be the same as the animal you think your personality reflects?
Right now, it would probably be any type of raptor. An eagle, hawk or falcon. Admittedly yearning for a sense of freedom and solitude.
Your art reminds me of some of the whimsical, surreal settings of one of my favourite animated shows, Adventure Time. What’s your favourite show or cartoon? Does your art have any pop culture inspirations?
I’m not much of a cartoon head. As a kid, I was inspired by Studio Ghibli for all its beautifully hand-drawn scenes. Pop culture is always important because it’s a distillation of human desire. Love Island is art.
What is your favourite part of the human figure to draw? Besides the face, what is the most emotive part of the body?
I like painting legs and feet, but I think the most emotive part of the body is the hand.
Your figures have clothes; why not shoes?
Feet are sexy. I don’t have a foot fetish per se, but I do think they can be pretty.
You seem to have a somewhat tumultuous relationship with the naming of your pieces, which is something I relate to as a poet. Personally, I think the names chosen enrich each of the pieces greatly. Has the shift towards naming your art changed your process, both artistically and philosophically?
I’m happy to hear that you feel my titles enrich the painting. I want them to create an additional spark for the imagination of the viewer without overly describing narrative. It’s difficult to title art, or even speak about it, because it creates limits for viewer interpretation.
“It’s difficult to title art, or even speak about it, because it creates limits for viewer interpretation.”
Though the exhibition is titled Animals, all the figures are human: humans are framed not like animals, but as animals. How do you hope this influences the experience of the works presented?
The goal is always empathy. We’re animals. We’re one superorganism constantly fighting to maintain a balance that ensures our permanence, and reminding myself of this gives me the capacity to objectively look at our contradictory and often immoral behaviour as inherent rather than a manifestation of evil. There is savagery in all species, and like us, they are probably grappling between personal survival and a code of ethics that maintains harmony within the greater population. It is dog-eat-dog, and there will always be members of a group that get out of line and need to be checked. Unfortunately, that requires violence and perpetuates the moral struggle.
You explain that you want the reaction to your art to be visceral (I almost cried looking at some pieces!). Did the exhibition title allow you more freedom in that? Was it titled first, influencing the art, or after, as a reflection on the art?
There should be a visceral response to all art. I titled the show after the paintings were done. Every body of work that makes up a show is a capsule of global and personal events that have occurred during the year or so in which they were made.
I’m also interested in the more logistical aspect of the exhibition’s layout: the contrast between more massive, almost human-scale pieces and the smaller works that break them up, as well as the flow from painting to painting. How was the layout decided, and what was the intention behind it? Is there a linear story or throughline between every piece?
There’s a throughline in the last twenty years I’ve been making art. I’m the throughline. It all comes from my desire to visually describe what it feels like to be alive. The greater story of humanity and life on Earth feels unchanged. It’s very ‘same shit, different day’. In thinking spatially, variance in the physical size of the paintings is a simple way to break up the room the work is in. Within the paintings themselves, size variance provides an opportunity to play with visual tension in the boundaries of the canvas. All the figures are, in fact, life-size or larger than life.
You explain that “there’s a lot to be seen that’s not just the image [of your art], per se.” I found this especially true for Before Annihilation. It reads like a cropped image, a capture of profound intimacy and points of contact. How do you know what moments to capture and where to cut those images off?
I was referring to the painting as an object. Beyond the literal image of the figures, I hope that when one sees the paintings in person, they appreciate the surface and formal elements.
Your use of colour is really striking, especially in Big Toothy Grin, where contact between the children creates a shadow of warmth. What is your process like when deciding on a colour palette, and how does using acrylic paints impact that?
Sometimes I have a clear idea of the final palette, but often I stumble into the final result. I build up colours slowly, glazing many thin layers of paint, and there’s a sense of excitement when I finally land on the colour that creates the mood that best complements the image. The light at the end of the tunnel after struggling through a dark cave. I don’t know what difference using acrylic paint creates. A lot of people seem to think they’re painted with oil when seeing them for the first time.
“There has always been a goal to imbue optimism in myself and the viewer, and that is one thing that is aligned with being a parent.”
I’m really fascinated by the way you create a sense of anonymity and ambiguity in your work. More than just facelessness, the faces of figures in Animals are almost always obscured or cut off. While Primordial Beat feels close and cyclical, Headed To The Coffer feels coldly ethereal and classical with its triangular composition. What role does this obstruction play in creating, or limiting, a sense of intimacy?
When I first began making these figures, I was intent on avoiding politicisation and the concept of race. I think the concept of race exists only to enforce racism. But ultimately, obstruction and anonymity are a visual manifestation of my desire to hide myself from the viewer. Intimacy and interpersonal connections are things I have struggled with and are big themes in the work. Probably why I make visual art in the first place.
Your art has evidently changed after becoming a father. I think this is particularly interesting given the androgyny of your figures. Primordial Beat frames parenthood as something sacred, ancient and intimate, but remarkably non-gendered. Before Annihilation is similarly parental, but not gendered. Outside of including younger figures, have your children influenced your artistic practice or relationship to creativity? Has becoming a parent changed the politics of your art?
Most changes in life come gradually over months and years, but when you have a child, your life changes instantaneously. I can’t think of a more disruptive thing. It has been a huge adjustment, and I honestly struggled quite a bit in producing this show. There’s a conflict between my life as the artist and as the father. I’m still trying to reconcile the two roles so that they enhance one another rather than impair each other. There has always been a goal to imbue optimism in myself and the viewer, and that is one thing that is aligned with being a parent.
Additionally, you seek to explore the “barbaric element” of human nature and “various stages of embrace and interconnectedness” in the collection. I can’t help but read Headed To The Coffer from a class-conscious lens, with one person stepping over others. Would you consider even the violent manner in which humans relate to and exist amongst each other a kind of interconnectedness or embrace?
Headed To The Coffer is indeed about capitalism and class conflict. There will always be power struggles and, as a result, violence. Nature is always fighting for balance.
You tend to play with space and compression in your work. I’m moved by Liquidity, where people are bent unnaturally on a kind of conveyor belt. As a viewer, I can’t decide if they’re moving, melting or stuck in place/time. What is the relationship between human nature and space/compression that you are exploring? How does place, especially as someone from Los Angeles, contribute to your practice and artistic identity?
I’m a product of my environment. I had the opportunity of growing up around different cultures and classes. There is a geographic and socioeconomic lottery that we’re born into that greatly impacts our personalities and chances at a dignified life. I want people to feel empowered and have a sense of accountability to take steps to improve their own circumstances that will change the trajectory of their life and lineage.
