NATHAN FORD
If
you dig deep enough, all of our dreams are the same. -Amos Oz
The figure
in Nathan Ford’s portrait of Mwaana (the Lugandan word for child)
looks penetratingly out and into the viewer. It is at once an
uncompromising and haunting expression largely, as is Ford’s wont,
with one eye the emotional epicentre, framed by facial and background
detail in various stages of fragmentation and dissolution. It is a
painting that inspires silence. Mystery lurks there too, an ambiguity
in the harsh yet soft, knowing yet lost expression on the boy’s face.
He is in fact an orphan, his parents victims of the Lord’s Resistance
Army in northern Uganda, a country that Ford is familiar with having
travelled in central Africa over a decade ago. It is a painting not
without risk (there can be prurience in our presumption of victimhood)
especially given that the subject matter is a child. ‘All memory’,
said the poet Richard Hugo, ‘resolves itself in gaze’. This
gaze, of bewilderment, determination, resignation, embodies within it
something that we recognise. There is an emotional strength
reminiscent of the later portraits of Rembrandt, or the tortured
visages of Egon Schiele. Most of all however it perhaps calls to mind
a more modern and iconic imagery- Steve Curry’s famous photo of ‘The
Afghan Girl’, or even Don Mc Cullin’s shell-shocked soldier. We feel
somehow that we bring to the painting some knowledge of the context of
this single human being’s life. What we seem to recognise, or face,
in Mwaana is actually, to paraphrase a line of Seamus Heaney (from The
Human Chain), ‘Me in the face and the face in me’.
Mwaana’s is
a face made to be painted by Ford, it deserves the scrutiny of being
writ large. It is a comment on how we look as much as what we are
looking at; drawing us to the fulcrum of the eye, and as ever
balancing figuration and abstraction in such a way that what is left
in the painting is as important as what has been omitted. There is no
ostentation and no redundancy. The issue of how we look, how we see in
any transient instant, seems to preoccupy Nathan Ford. Take his urban
landscapes such as ‘Last one Home’ and ‘The Race’. He picks up on the
fleeting passage of visual details we may be aware of in a trice as we
take in a busy street scene - the reflector light on a bicycle
mudguard, the strip of colour on the side of a bus or shop signage, a
just opened umbrella, reflections from windows in the street.
In spite of
the careering presence of the buses and vans, the towering buildings,
the hulking Victorian steel architecture - played out amid the lit
canyon-like light of modern urban life - all this too, he seems to
say, is periphery. It will pass. The transitory nature of the scenes
depicted also carry a sense of foreboding - a white van lurks
menacingly in ‘Last One Home’ and in ‘Limited service’, paintings that
could also be a vignette from a parent’s bad dream (familiar child in
familiar but incongruous setting). These landscapes relate to the
precariousness of raising a young family, and judging by the portrait
of Reuben, Ford’s eldest son, the father is not the only worrier in
the household. The apple has not fallen far from the tree.
Ford has
recently completed long-term major renovations to his home, having
settled in a rural location far from the South London of his youth, or
his days as a scholarship student at the Byam Shaw school of art.
Besides the portraits of both his sons, ‘La Familia’ especially is a
painting that reflects this new period in his life, working from a
studio annexe at home in close proximity to his family, far from what
Thomas Mann called ‘the guileless unrealism of youth’. There is a
strength, a fizz of excitement and energy in his work that has been
enhanced by his new-found responsibilities. Indeed Flaubert’s
oft-quoted adage is now even more apposite to Nathan Ford’s painting
than ever before. ‘Be regular and orderly in your life like a
bourgeois, so that you may be violent and original in your work.’ This
set of paintings represents Nathan Ford’s most pioneering body of work
to date.
Aidan Quinn 2011