Victor Pasmore

'True painting, in any form, always develops a concrete existence of its own, independent of what it represents. But, if painting is to manifest itself completely free from visual representation then this principle becomes absolute.

To emphasize this condition unequivocally I started by abandoning the paintbrush, with its illusionistic associations, and adopted the paper collage technique of early Cubism in which the paintings was built forward from the picture-plane. This affirmation of the concrete surface and pigmental substance of painting led to the notion of constructing a picture like a carpenter constructs a box with wood, saw, hammer and nails. Hence the college developed into relief.

But to start intrinsically from the premiss of the painting or relief itself meant rejecting any form or method which implied a reflection of the heterogeneous effects of visual experience. The first step, therefore, was to adopt an organic process of construction in homogeneous terms.

Beginning from a standpoint of the rectangular picture-plane, this meant projecting analagous sections of its surface forwards into actual space, thus producing an orthogonal structure equivalent to that of architecture.

But once involved in three-dimensional relief, the problem of independence raised fresh questions in respect to the status of painting. If painting is to become a free object in its own right, capable of producing a maximum aesthetic impact, then it could be argued that its form would have to correspond to the dimensions of the space it occupies like any natural object. Did no the naturalist tradition use perspective in order to produce an illusion of space and solidity? This suggested that the surface format of painting could not provide the conditions necessary for complete independence unless combined with sculpture or architecture. In response to this, therefore, I continued with the development of relief projection.'



'Today meaning dissolves in order to create new meaning and what is known becomes unknown. In art the peripheral images of thought and perception reappear as anonymous objects before which is always a question. While reason sleeps the symbol awakes.'



Victor Pasmore

If we take a sheet of paper and scribble on it vigorously we become involved in the process of bringing into being something concrete and visible which was not there before. The shape and quality of what we produce is the outcome of forces both objective and subjective: a particular tool, a rotary action and a human impulse. The more we concentrate on this operation the more we are drawn into it both emotionally and intellectually. But as the line develops organically, in accordance with the process of scribbling, we find ourselves directing its course towards a particular but unknown end; until finally an image appears which surprises us by its familiarity and touches us as if awakening forgotten memories buried long ago. We have witnessed not only an evolution, but also a metamorphosis.

In calling this development a work of art we are initiating a new creative process into the history of Western culture because, if we analyse the means by which our object was brought into being, we find that it was essentially intrinsic. What mattered initially was not what our scribble would represent, but what it might become.

Victor Pasmore
February, 1969

Catalogue introduction to Victor Pasmore - The Space Within - New Paintings 1968-69, The Marlborough Gallery, London, 1969



Poems by Victor Pasmore


The Pool of Narcissus


Look into the pool
Narcissus found;
See symmetry reflected there.
And deep behind those lustrous eyes
See the place where love resides.
But the water moves
And the mirror fades,
And in its place a hollow cave
Where hatred burns and greed devours
And murder lurks between the shades.
Supreme intelligence;
By what geometry
Will you construct the physical world
Now that you have reached the sky?
Where will you go now in the arena
Where space is curved
And time an illusion?
Will you cast your seed among the stars
Or will you fall,
Like Icarus,
To the ground from which you sprung?
Measure of all things;
God's special creation.
Is this an effect of optical illusion
Or have you been elected king
To awaken consciousness?
But man is absurd screams the poet;
See him stand on the brink of nothing
And dressed like a clown





Metamorphosis

Hear the sound of a magic tune
Caress the night,
Awake the moon.
But whose the tear,
The piercing cry
Which splits the silence in the sky?





From a Stone in the Taj Mahal

A rose,
Alone in a garden bower.
Go; breathe its perfumed ecstasy,
One moment - now.
Hear the voice
Which calls from star to star.
Stand on the edge
Where moments pass away
And all that's gone dissolves
Deep in the cave
Where love commands the night.
Along a road
All edged with flowers
Which passes time in endless years,
Between the tracks and grassy verge
I found a puddle
Made with tears.
All time is set
When that which passes on
Beckons the hour.
From time is love's monument,
And eyes which smiled then
Will smile again
In a garden bower.





The Pulse

By what means can we know
Now that your prophets
Sleep in the tomb
And your word lies hid in the cave?
See the tiger spring
In the forest dark.
Hear the lion roar
And the rattlesnake:
Find the ant and honey bee.
Touch the seed in the lemon tree.
Your hands alone by the river's edge,
When evening curtains start to fall.
When the glow-worm shines and twilight fades
Feel the pulse
And hear it echo down the garden wall.


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