RIGA - My husband, Egils, gave me the book "Tirradni" ("Native gold") for my birthday this year. It's a book about naive art; the perfect gift for a naive art observer. He's an art historian by degree. I'm often embarrassed by my lack of any formal art education.
We went to the Naive Art exhibition at Arsenals last week. I took comfort in the knowledge that Egils could fill in the blanks with his intellectual advantage, when writing this review. Not appearing inept is high on my list of priorities.
Arsenals has assumed the role of midwife for "Native Gold's" birth into a third dimension. If you liked the book, you'll love this exhibition.
Absent-mindedly passing through art filled rooms and alcoves, I searched for a hook for my review.
Egils could do the intellectual angles and I'd do the writing'sbut I needed that hook. Without warning, a group of men from a gulag's depicted in Kolimas zeltraci, by Peteris Vitols (1915-2004)'ssnatch me from Arsenals and deposit me in Siberia. Upon close scrutiny these men are not much more than glorified stick figures. Nearby, a vast snow-covered mountain range jutting into a cold blue sky'salso by Vitols'sis juxtaposed behind a small village nestled in the valley. Pine trees, sparsely scattered around the valley floor, hover around the village, seeming to protect it from the biting Siberian winds.
Suddenly, I understand how surviving Stalin's cruelty hinges on Vitols' connection with the earth, with nature and with humanity. Light and hope reach out from these simplistic depictions of the bleak Siberian landscape and Gulag.
As I move around the corner, I leave Siberia and enter a city street created by the brush strokes of Alberts Silzemnieks (circa 1920). Closely built houses, touching one another at angles that make no sense to my eye, are somehow warm and inviting. I imagine people, full of hopes and dreams, wandering through the newly independent Latvian streets of Silzemnieks' city.
Even his awkward still-lifes, with their strange perspectives, touch me; perhaps because I know that the innocence of his culture, like his art, is about to be interrupted. The Soviet powers will, in his near future, officially educate the pants off of anyone dreaming of creative expression. They will propagandize, mold and ultimately add their final insult by demanding that the artists follow a strict formula plot: individuality is dead'slong live the State.
Naive art is perfectly imperfect'sreplacing proper perspective and color combinations with raw emotion. Crude faces on large heads refuse to be embarrassed into behaving in a more acceptable manner. Woodcarvings, reminiscent of dreaded gifts once received from eccentric relatives, tell of hours, lovingly spent in creating these carvings' curves and subtle messages. This is creative expression at its purest; art that lives only a breath away from the soul of its creator. There is no shame or embarrassment in this art; no apologies for what it might lack in professionalism'sa perfect exhibit for the likes of me'screated by people who seem to have no fear of appearing inept'sperfect teachers for the likes of me.
Egils also enjoyed the exhibit, in spite of the fact that I didn't use his intellectual prowess to write this review. It seems to have something for anyone with an extra 1.50 lats (2 euros) and an hour or so to peruse Arsenals. It is probably not, however, the place to get ideas for next year's Christmas gifts.
Naive Art
Arsenals
Through Jan. 21
www.vmm.lv
