Ghent-based painter Michaël Borremans was born in Geraardsbergen, Belgium, in 1963. Originally a photographer and graphic designer, he developed an interest in drawing and paintings in the late 1990s while teaching art at the city’s Stedelijk Secundair Kunstinstituut. Since then, he has made his name by creating psychologically charged paintings that combine technical mastery with scenes that are removed from any specific time or place. Ahead of the artist’s first solo presentation in Hong Kong, “Fire from the Sun,” which showcases his latest works inspired by human nature, science and today’s society at David Zwirner’s new gallery in the port city, Borremans sat down with ArtAsiaPacific to discuss technique and the contrast between beauty and danger.
In some of the paintings in “Fire from the Sun,” we see unclothed children in an intangible atmosphere, alone, in wonder and looking at each other. Something bad has happened. What are these children doing and, in reality, could it symbolize humankind in a primordial phase?
Part of me wanted to depict humanity in its primal state, or a metaphor for that. The suggestion of cannibalism might be a hint for it. I deliberately didn’t want to make it too clear, but rather make use of art history’s symbolism, such as the naked toddlers that refer to the Renaissance putti and the cherubini, the flesh and the blood, the horrific violence, elegance and beauty, and terrifying life and death. But I didn’t want to specify much, otherwise it would have become too narrative. There are two stages; one is artificial and very raw, confronting and provocative. Then you have the elegance in the way it’s painted, also a bit in contrast—it always has been at some level—with the subject. For me this is important, but it’s not very understood, so I think I made it a bit clearer in this series.
I play with a lot of cultural backgrounds and common history. One piece of Goya was a direct trigger for this series and I have known it since my adolescence. It never left them back of my head.
The Cannibals!
Exactly, it’s a haunting painting and very precise. Finally, I had the chance to respond to my subconscious.
Goya’s touch is also very visible in your previous exhibition at David Zwirner in London in 2015, “Black Mould,” where men, women and children were shown in black gowns that look like KKK costumes, and engaged in various sinister actions and rituals. What’s the story behind “Black Mould”?
I had my first Japanese solo show at Atsuko Koyanagi’s gallery in 2008, and I was invited to a attend a ningyō jōruri—a traditional Japanese puppetry show—in Osaka, and the organization invited me backstage as her husband Hiroshi Sugimoto was working with them back then. I saw the puppeteers with their black costumes. I found that aspect to be more fascinating than the puppets, and I immediately asked if I could buy one of those costumes, but I didn’t know what I was going to do with it. Seven years later, I asked my girlfriend to wear it and dance to very hard punk music.
And what about “Fire from the Sun”?
I always wanted to paint nudes, to paint skin. I was already playing with chopped-off limbs in a previous series, so it all came together when I thought about these innocent kids. I never meant to make this series, but gradually it became what I wanted to be: elegant, dangerous and provocative at the same time. I don’t know why I added fire in the paintings, but I guess that it would appear boring otherwise.
Many of your paintings are set in a frame of timelessness. Would you describe your paintings as a reflection of the modern human condition? Or might it be a statement about your vision of today’s and tomorrow’s society?
I try to hold a mirror [to show our current state]. That’s why I added the machines: to create contrast between the primal and the scientific aspect of humanity, as one element makes the other stronger. Humans are animals, but we differentiate ourselves by developing devices and machines. This is both our blessing and our curse, and I’m convinced that we will destroy ourselves with our own intellect. Whenever we win by technical development, we lose our harmony with nature.
How should the observer approach your paintings?
The viewer has to finish the story because it’s the same as we see color: we all see color in a slightly different way, and the paintings are perceived in another way. I try to make a suggestive construction—as most artists do—and it all depends on whether the viewer can respond or not. It is a form of communication, an implicit form.
Do you think that art is a medium for communication, or relief and therapy?
I don’t know if it’s therapeutic for me. I don’t want to sound arrogant, but I always felt like a natural-born artist, and that there was never another option in my life to be anything but an artist.
Your grandfather was a photographer.
Yes, his best friend was a painter—not a successful one and also very poor, but he did what he wanted to do. He was a free man, and I used to go there every weekend when I was just a little child. I started to think that was the life I wanted. It was very clear to me.
Your viewers have to deal with psychologically charged paintings paired with sometimes ambiguous titles, such as The Angel (2013), where a beautiful female figure wears a pink nightgown, but her head is tilted down, and her face is covered in black. Do the titles of your paintings carry any personal significance, or are they chosen for their deviant meanings?
Sometimes it is both. On one hand, painting The Angel was a very important step in my career. I was between two different periods of my life and it was a figure that took me from one place to another, but I had to create her myself, so that was therapeutic for me. On the other hand, I use my titles as part of the work as it’s a conceptual element, and it suggests observing the artwork in one way, or maybe offers a completely opposite view.
In your career, have faith or fate influenced your paintings? If so, how does religion or mysticism factor into them?
I grew up in a very Catholic family. I had to go to church every week, and that was also my first confrontation with paintings, as I’d look up and think to myself how mysterious and, frankly, also a bit scary these paintings were. Also, I work in a former chapel in Ghent right now, and there is a big statue of Mary looking at me and I paint right where the altar used to be. It has the best light and the church’s architecture brings all the light to the center of the altar. I have the feeling that it’s the center of this energy and it works for me.
By the use of props and the absence of time and space in your paintings, can we compare your artwork to magic realism or the Metafisica movement of Italy?
I was carried away by [Italian artist and writer Giorgio] De Chirico at a young age. I was also interested in literature about magic realism written in that area and style, but I developed a certain interest for the metaphysical paintings and its surroundings.
People often compare you to van Eyck, Velázquez, Manet, Degas. What is your relationship with the Old Masters? Do you feel responsible for being a torchbearer for traditional painting, technique-wise, in a contemporary art scene where technique often fades into the background?
The technique helps me to express myself, the artist uses the means he has and what’s suitable for him. There are painters with very little technique that make very good paintings and vice versa, so that’s not what my paintings are about. I seek to be universally understood and readable by as many as possible.
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