A static prospect

Youssef Rakha seeks relief from the heat
So far it's been a baffling summer, from the standpoint of the visual at least. Indolent, lugubrious, incendiary: both the inner and the outer atmosphere are impossibly limiting this year.
What with the unprecedented abundance of construction projects and their unfortunate confluence with desperate congestion, even the least crowded spots are full of dents and protrusions; so much so that now, to a greater extent than at any other time, it is the sight of interminable rows of metaphorically sweaty vehicles winding their way, tortoise-like, around the glossy yellow "Construction" signs -- imperfect lines of plastic yellow cones and impromptu arrangements of rusty tin placards painted yellow -- that has come to define the aspect of the metropolis.
And since these vehicles are either completely stationary or barely crawling past -- where do they all go after 4am? and during winter, wherefore do so many of them disappear? -- the glaring light tends most of the time to fall on a static prospect, a vision of eternally frustrated motion. This light, being so uncompromisingly harsh, often fails to illuminate: it eliminates detail, reducing the range of possible adjuncts to bright and shaded; vast expanses of white, beyond which everything assumes a secondary position, are introduced onto the perceptual canvas; lines are blurred, masses rendered shapeless.
The advent of August always brings about a radical alteration in the visual repertory available to Cairo dwellers, negating the many-hued prospect of a winter cityscape in favour of something cramped and tenuous. Outdoors there is no air-conditioning, and the frequently unbearable heat that accompanies the glare acts to dampen the exploratory spirit, discouraging not only creative perception but visual cognition.
The tendency at least partly explains why, while public galleries remain closed, falling into silent disrepair, their private counterparts cease to host new exhibitions, drawing on private collections and other, sometimes far-fetched reserves with which to lure an uninspired, vaguely art-loving public on the lookout for an air-conditioned interior, a bright patch of colour or a clearly defined border: no such luck.
In most private exhibition spaces, the "summer season" -- a three-month, changeable affair of assorted muqtanayat (a term used to describe art objects in the possession of a collector), "pioneers' classics" and optical illusions of every shape and size -- seldom caters satisfactorily to the gallery- goer's summer needs. When she shuffles into a favourite venue, ruffled and distraught, seeking what consolation contemporary art might offer, the hapless viewer is more likely than not to be disappointed for, aside from the fact that air- conditioning may not be forthcoming, and even when it is, will seldom work perfectly, the work on show will display neither newness nor flair.
At the Picasso Gallery, the only venue the present writer found open on a late-afternoon tour of the Zamalek complex (Safar Khan, Khan El-Maghrabi, Extra etc.), few of the frames on the walls had very much to say for themselves in this regard. In spite of the occasional highlight, the general impression was one of absence, not presence. Perhaps this is the time of the year when Picasso undergoes a metamorphosis from its current incarnation as gallery to a past life as framer.
At first sight the predominance of cool colours (mostly shades of grey and blue) was less evocative of shade -- a desired condition of physical and psychological comfort, than of laziness -- a function of the unfortunate visual shutoff brought about by the season.
Water colours are a case in point. Samir Fouad's traditional still-life subjects -- nondescript flower vases vying, in vain, for attention -- evoke neither the joyful atmosphere of spring nor the time- honoured prettiness of one of nature's better celebrated gifts. The artist's technical accomplishment notwithstanding, they make for depressing summer viewing. Indeed one cannot help wondering why they are there, if not to fill space or impress a naive collector. And the virtues of Kawkab Youssef's subtly insinuated nudes -- hazy, haphazard jobs that manage, without articulating the space available to them in any effective way, to leave most of the canvas white -- must likewise be lost on an abundantly perspiring connoisseur. They require -- indeed, deserve -- something far cooler than a late July spectator.
The same could not be said of Adli Rizkallah's lone provincial scene, a relatively large water colour dominated by something resembling a butterfly, which resides, large and suspended, at the centre. Dwarfed by the butterfly, there are whitewashed domes lining the bottom of the canvas and thin, curved palm trees whose branches gather cumulatively at the top. Here, one feels, is both a feeling for the subject and a strategy to articulate it. Whether or not one might find fault with his work, Rizkallah is not famous for nothing. There is something incredibly delicate about this painting. Everything including sky, fields and vegetation looks as if it is made of paper. And as in all of Rizkallah's paintings, it is a palpably feminine form of delicacy that the artist is seeking out.
Rizkallah's contribution differs from that of Fouad and Youssef in that it reveals a feeling for colour, too. Gently, quietly, he modulates the visible spectrum to achieve a harmony of his own, comparable to the harmony of reality in less blindingly discouraging circumstances. In different locations on the canvas, one can sense the comfort of shade, the excitement of motion and the multifarious bounty of nature itself.
Equally colourful is Said Hedayet's painting, a folk-inspired depiction of what looks like a cock fight, surrounded by large, tightly sculpted patches of Thousand and One Nights-style decoration. A clear sense of the geometry of the piece helps to set up the drama of the roosters in the middle. At least the predominantly unlit surroundings promise some respite, while the reds, greens and yellows give a positive impression of warmth, as if to confirm the heart-felt familiarity of both artist and viewer with the heritage that inspired the painting.
Other oil paintings worth mentioning include three minor pieces by George Bahgory showing an androgynous face, an iconic woman with child and a performing horse in the company of its audience.
Paradoxically, once the galleries dig out their own hidden treasures, sales tend to increase; the summer season, according to one remarkably diligent Picasso Gallery attendant, is a most lucrative part of the year. Some will refuse to sell their moqtanayat, of course. But the Picasso Gallery prefers to vary the works on show, replacing its offerings once a fortnight through the duration of the summer season.
Also available are naturalistic paintings of everyday Iraqi life both indoors and out, by the Iraqi artist Nashaat El-Alousi, whose exhibition interrupted the Picasso Gallery's summer season two weeks ago. El-Alousi's sedate presence adds yet another dimension to the Egyptian jumble on offer. By the time the writer arrived, however, most were already off the walls.
Since 17 June, when the summer season opened, many works of distinction have been removed; artists include not only Omar El-Nagdi, Mounir Iskandar and Effat Nagui but Hamed Nada, Seif and Adham Wanli and Hussien Bikar. Some of these names may yet grace the walls of the Picasso Gallery, but for now there is, aside from the aforementioned works, a collection of antique paintings and lithographs, the kind of thing one encounters thoughout Cairo on street corners and in furniture shops.
Carefully curated, these may indeed provide an interesting diversion, a variation on the usual summer theme; however much they might approximate to art, though, they will prove valuable from the viewpoint of social anthropology alone.
Downtown lineups include Espace Karim Francis, where Bahgory exhibits alongside a number of artists, and Grant, where a number of artists, including Tad, explore the theme of words.
But perhaps the reader is best advised to avoid the summer season altogether. If it is muqtanayat one wants to see, after all, one may well want to visit the Museum of Modern Art, Opera House Grounds, where the largest collection of them is to be found.
Here, at least, among the insufferable hodgepodge, and the absence of anything that might be described as competently curatorial, are any number of pictures good enough to take the breath away though more often than not it is virtually impossible to spy the wood for the trees.
Recommend this page
© Copyright Al-Ahram Weekly. All rights reserved
Send a letter to the Editor