ABSTRACT
It is a commonplace that special, privileged access to artistic inspiration and process proves revelatory to the viewer. Even, perhaps, the most sceptical among us have experienced something of the quiet seductions of this ubiquitous belief. We might, for example, find such access in the raw, sometimes diaristic quality of artists’ writings, or in the explanations contained in the tape-recorded interview (providing meanings indiscernible in the actual work), or in film footage of artists at work – silently or in conversation, getting on with the business of making art. All these modes of explanation and representation are, of course, merely other kinds of evidence, but all can be seen as affording various kinds of primary access to artists’ intentions and thus clues for us to work with, when encountering the actual art work. How often have we stopped to watch an artist painting outdoors, not only comparing the scene depicted with the view at hand, but also looking at the artist him- or herself, examining their clothes, their hands and faces, as well as their palette, brushes and paints? This scrutiny is perhaps especially so when we stop to have our portrait done – when the looking goes both ways and when our nosiness and narcissism becomes the quiet subject of a lousy picture.
