Barbican Art Gallery, London
What seem at first indistinguishable canvases offer challenges, revelations and transcendental effects – but only if you can give yourself over to them
Writing about painting is a futile exercise at the best of times. This is especially the case when, as with Robert Ryman, the paintings in question are variations on the theme of white. If that sounds pretentious – or like a tired joke – then it might also be understood as a reaction against the dependence of so much art on language (which is also to say, bullshit). Because these bare-bones paintings – white paint, a flat surface, wall fixtures – are the “real thing” in the most literal way: they are not trying to tell you a story, they do not require you to be familiar with any abstruse theories. There is just you and the materials, how the paint lies, how it scatters the light. So the question is: how much do you like looking at paint?
Happily for me, given that it is a non-negotiable part of my job, I really like looking at paint. If you also like looking at paint, then there is much in this exhibition that will take your breath away. Take The Painting of the Mysterious Shadow from the mid-60s, after Ryman had left his job as a guard at MoMA, having given up on a career as a jazz musician, and settled into the project that would occupy the rest of his life. Six thick white stripes run horizontally across the canvas, as close to each other as can be managed by a steady hand without overlapping. The fabric is stretched over a deep wooden frame, meaning that its surface sits about three inches off the wall, and casts a thin shadow upon it. That’s your lot.
