Catherine Goodman: the light gets in

Catherine Goodman the light gets in

4 –27 APRIL 2019

Catherine Goodman the light gets in

Marlborough Gallery Inc. 40 West 57th Street, New York, N.Y. 10019 +1 212 541 4900 | mny@marlboroughgallery.com www.marlboroughgallery.com

Unstill life

BY JUDITH THURMAN

Catherine Goodman sometimes stays with me in New York.

I have a quiet guest room with high ceilings that looks out upon a narrow garden. Its walls are mouldy with lichen, and at the center, is an amateur mosaic of beach pebbles.

C

atherine likes to sketch the garden from the window, or, on fine days, from a bench.

Watching her work, I have understood that no space is prosaic to her, just as no face is unworthy of regard, in either sense.

Whatever Goodman’s subject—pregnant Eve, a blue monkey god (Hanuman), a landscape in Tuscany or the Himalayas—nothing she represents is static.

Once she gave me a page from her sketchpad covered with wormy squiggles made with a Sharpie; it was, she explained, the view from a moving cab. She often draws from film, an exercise that requires extreme presence in the moment, like simultaneous interpretation. The spontaneity of her drawing contrasts with the much slower tempo—the adagio—of her painting, though her ideal, I think, isn’t so much to create something finished as to capture the pulse of a scene or a body beneath its surface—its impermanence. Those famously earthy layers of her impasto, Goodman’s signature, are fissured by translucent drips of what might be the ice melting everywhere on our planet. Its own solidity is deceptive, the work suggests, since all that is solid—flesh and mountains—must dissolve. This message ought to be grim, so why isn’t it? Because her work is an act of reverence, and it honours a principle mostly sneered at by the modern art world: that beauty consoles us for loss.

A true work of art harbours a mystery—the mystery of where it comes from, which shouldn’t be confused with its “provenance”. Art historical vocabulary is often like the conversation you have at a dinner party, with a blasé stranger who wants to establish what you do for a living, where you went to school, and how to place you—are you, or not, someone important? But if you have spent time with Goodman, who has friends in palaces and homeless shelters, you know that facile acquaintance doesn’t interest her. Her work engages with the beholder as it engages with her masters, like Titian, and her

subjects, like Loic, on an intimate level at which we are all vulnerable. Simone Weil suggests the nature of Goodman’s vocation where she writes, “attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.”

Loic is the portrait of a “profoundly disabled” man, Goodman told me, who lives in a group home. He is one of many marginal or wounded people (some wounds are grievous, others invisible) whom she has drawn and cared for over the years, including a beloved sister. Loic has never visited the house in Manali, an Indian hilltown where Goodman spends part of the year, but the painting transports him there, she told me, “because that’s where he is most alive to me.” It isn’t obvious that a canvas in her studio, an untitled nude, drowsing blissfully under an arbour, is actually an avatar of Sleeping Beauty.

“She is the daughter of a poet friend,” Goodman told me, “a young girl who was touch-and-go in a coma after a terrible accident. I painted it urging the healing to happen, and it did.”

“There is a crack in everything,” Leonard Cohen writes, in a song that gave Goodman the show’s title,“that’s how the light gets in.” Cohen’s light is numinous— the contrail of a divinity—and so is Goodman’s.

“Every heart to love will come,” Cohen sings, “but as a refugee.” There are many ways, Goodman knows, to lose everything, including oneself. She is the second born of five sisters who, on their mother’s side, are the daughters of a Russian émigrée. A family’s trauma of dispossession rarely ends with one generation, or with a new life elsewhere—it gets passed on. Goodman’s heritage seems to have made her wary of a settled existence, and perhaps of investing her love in the tangible. She sets little store in material comforts. Her various studios, some borrowed, resemble campsites. Art is manual labour, and much of Goodman’s is performed out of doors. She has painted luxurious interiors (and grew up in one, paradoxically), but the images of refuge in her work are more often huts or palapas,

pastoral shelters where farmers rest. Her sense of place is fraught by her knowledge of displacement, and coloured by her sorrow for the displaced.

“There is a crack in everything,” Leonard Cohen writes, in a song that gave Goodman the show’s title, “that’s how the light gets in.”

Cohen’s light is numinous— the contrail of a divinity— and so is Goodman’s.

Catherine Goodman in her studio. Photo by Clare Walsh

Like a nomad, Goodman returns annually to a few oases: the hills around Volterra, the Scottish highlands, the Himalayas.

(Seekers of detachment gravitate to heights). Wanderlust is akin to carnal lust by virtue of a common trait that also describes Goodman’s practice: they simultaneously dissolve one’s bearings while refreshing one’s keenness of sensation.

Her work celebrates sacred animals—the cat, the monkey—hinting, perhaps, at her own pantheism.

Nor is she shy of erotic scenes, even when they may trouble moralists. Dark Diana pays homage to a detail from the master’s Diana and Acteon—the goddess snuggled in the arms of her black handmaiden— which, she told me, “is one of my favorite bits of painting anywhere, so sexy and tender.” Elliebellie, the portrait of her youngest niece, a prepubescent girl, half-naked, with thighs splayed, was, she said, inspired by a discussion of Balthus. Preening Adam, arching his back to flaunt his buttocks, Owl and the Pussycat, and even dreamy, massive Loic, are, in different ways, reveries of abandon.

The risks and pleasures of abandon, however, aren’t reserved for Goodman’s subjects. On first impression, her paintings are an enigma of sensual chaos. Their blaze disorients you as the sun does when you take off a blindfold. I imagine that a preverbal child must blink at the world this way: she can’t read it yet. To know what you are seeing is to possess a set of definitions—a visual grammar—that fits your perception to a fixed idea. When I look at my garden, I see what I expect to; I can’t unsee the familiar—that’s Goodman’s great gift.

Perspective is a powerful convention. Goodman paints space in perspective, and represents objects figuratively, though neither with strict fidelity to anything but her own vision. In doing so, she cultivates your untutored sight—that jolt of puzzlement you felt before the world was recognisable. There is no pedantry to this process, yet it is still a teaching, in the eastern sense: a disruption of illusions about what is real. And even when your eyes adjust to the density of her brushstrokes, and the brain resolves your vertigo, the images on the canvas never fully stabilise. The joy is in surrendering to their unstill life.

Judith Thurman is the author of two prize-winning biographies, of Isak Dinesen and Colette, and of a collection of her essays for The New Yorker, where she has been a Staff Writer for twenty years. Her criticism focuses on literary and visual culture.

Catherine Goodman: the light gets in

BY DR CLAUDIA TOBIN

“Colour is the deeds and suffering of light” GOETHE

“There is a crack in everything that you can put together, physical objects, mental objects, constructions of any kind. But that’s where the light gets in, and that’s where the resurrection is” LEONARD COHEN This is a group of paintings that summon hope in darkness, allow cracks or fissures to be openings for the imagination, chinks in the armour, ways of getting in and seeing more: in short, a group of paintings that let the light in.

Here is the creaturely and the human, the tame and the wild close together. The large blue Hanuman figure flicking its tail, the portraits set in landscapes known and imagined, the monkey on horseback, the reworking of Titian’s Diana and Actaeon.

These works were born out of Goodman’s sixmonth residency in 2018 at Hauser & Wirth gallery in the Somerset countryside of south west England.

This exhibition sees her work articulating new freedoms and a confidence in heightened colour, looser brushwork and a play with surface texture that marks a period of experimentation. Goodman is working on a larger scale, creating big paintings you want to step into, dive into. If she found a sense of liberation in this period of retreat into the countryside, it seems to have accelerated a process which began several years ago. The parameters of the ever-present landscapes have widened, and the weighty materiality and texture of the object world— the world of interiors—have turned inside out.

When I visited Goodman’s studio in Somerset I was struck by the relationship between two images—

Piero della Francesca’s Madonna del Parto and Hanuman the Hindu monkey-god—pinned up side by side. These images come from radically different cultural worlds: early Renaissance Italy and the ancient Hindu epic Ramayana, but they both point to birth, creation and a mysterious, half-hidden energy. They make visually manifest the point where light gets in. The Madonna’s hand tenderly resting on the slip of fabric opening in her dress draws attention to the birth to come. The Hanuman figure reveals his glowing open heart in which Sita and Rama are cradled from harm. These are images with connections to cultural traditions and landscapes Goodman knows well. For over a decade she has painted in the Tuscan hamlet of Pignano between Siena and Florence and at a hill station in the Himalayas.

The Madonna del Parto and Hanuman images have a curious lingering power over the imagination.

We see their traces in Goodman’s recent series of paintings, transformed into the motif of fissures and heart shaped openings and in the gesture of hands at the heart shared by several of her figures.

They reveal her wider concern with vulnerability and imperfection as a source of light. She paints several canvases at once, and there are associative connections between them, even as they conjure different landscapes, both real and fictional. In

Above: Benedict and Balthazar, 2017-19

Benedict and Balthazar the pulsating orange mark

tree in the Indian landscape bears a carving of the

on the stomach of the seated figure evokes the

Hanuman heart and it evokes a pair of eyes staring

Hindu practice of marking sacred chakra points with

out from either side: a seeing tree. This landscape,

Above right: Hanuman, 2018-19

red or orange dye. The stomach is concave—we

like many of Goodman’s, is feeling, seeing, and it

are looking into the body of the young man with

bears a wound—a human mark and a sacred sign—

his eyes focused beyond the viewer, his thoughts

which identifies its sentience and spiritual meaning.

inaccessible. The orange mark was the defining moment of completion in making this painting, which has had a long gestation. The calligraphic orange or red line is a feature of these works.

Tracing over the image creates a shift between flat surface and the illusion of depth—in a sense it is a play with time, a kind of after-image. The figure of the young man was painted from life, but around him is a swirling snowy landscape which invites access into imagined worlds. Perhaps the scene was conjured from Dostoyevsky’s epic novel The Brothers Karamazov, which the artist and sitter were listening to as the painting evolved. But it also pulls us into the world of film, as the mournful head of the donkey looking over the young man’s

The painting of the Hanuman figure came later in this series. Drawn from a Calicut image, it is a commanding presence with a huge and boldly outlined form and an open pulsating heart. In a sense it is the centrepiece of this group of works.

Real and unreal, creaturely and mythical, a strong limbed dancer-like figure that reaches the viewer as a still point in this series, meditative and yet ready to spring. Hanuman is a god who can shift shape and form (in the Ramayana he grows to the size of a mountain and shrinks to an ant), and he combines a mosaic of features from different species: the arched tail and face of the monkey, and the stance of the human being.

shoulder was drawn from Balthazar, a French film

The human figures in Goodman’s paintings have a

by Robert Bresson. The film traces the parallel lives

similarly metamorphic quality. In her 2016 exhibition

of a young girl and her beloved donkey, Balthazar,

of landscapes there were visitations of figures

both of them innocent and much abused. As in

or inferred presences, often lost in the process

many of Goodman’s paintings, she makes unlikely

of making. In her recent work she increasingly

connections between people and animals, and

uses collage to realise and make visible a process

places known or mythologised. The painting of the

that previously took place in the imagination.

She experiments in creating new images on her iPad

with what might seem to be vulnerability but

from existing drawings by juxtaposing imagined

turns out to be a form of light. Different kinds of

scenes with figures drawn from life. Her painting

encounter are found in her paintings of children:

of Loic was born out of this act of assemblage. The

the young girl lying in happy abandonment in the

figure is of a young man whom Goodman has visited

warm folds of the Tuscan landscape, or the three

and drawn for many years at the L’Arche community

girls painted with the bright, untamed colours

in France. He is illuminated in the foreground

of childhood, absorbed in their own imaginative

alongside the house where she has often stayed in

lives and free of self-consciousness. The Girls is a

Manali. But rather than a simple juxtaposition—a

painting which resists saying too much: the three

placing side by side—it feels like a connection has

sisters are seen close-up but on their own terms and

been made, and not simply between places and

strikingly—in their own scale. The portrait of the cat

people who are important to the artist, or with

with its lusciously painted back to the viewer says

whom she has a profound emotional connection, but

something different as we experience how much can

between the inner worlds of each. Something draws

be read from the intensity of attention concentrated

the two together. Here Loic, who cannot walk or

in that watchful head.

communicate through language, travels and inhabits a new and remote Indian landscape. The solitary timber house is a kind of visual metaphor for his body, which is simply the shelter for his inner life. He holds his hands one open and one closed at his heart.

Next to him, we see the dark doorway of the hut. The horizon flashes, darkens and is streaked with light.

The work of piecing narratives together or making the unconscious visible is made explicit in Goodman’s collaged drawings, seen here alongside the paintings. In its ability to make different versions of past and present meet, collage is also akin to the montage and editing of the filmmaker. Goodman frequently works from film, drawing from the

‘Attention is the beginning of devotion’, writes the

freeze frames of great filmmakers such as Werner

American poet Mary Oliver, who is much admired

Herzog and Satyajit Ray. It is tempting to connect

by Goodman. A special kind of empathetic attention

this practice with the framing device in her recent

has shaped her painting’s silent, receptive encounter

works, where the images are bounded in their last Collage of Loic

by Catherine Goodman, created using her iPad

moments of completion by a bold crimson or blue painted frame. In a sense the artist is resisting the linearity and unfolding temporality of the medium of film and harnessing what she calls ‘the genius eye’ of great filmmakers to create compositions for painting. Interestingly, it is the animal rather than human characters drawn from film that often live on in her imagination and reappear in the frames of her canvases. They are often companions of some sort: the young man with the donkey looking over his shoulder in Benedict and Balthazar; the monkey clinging to the pony’s back drawn from Herzog’s 1974 film, The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser. The painting of the beekeeper is the monochrome version of a pair of recent works (the other honey-hued), representing the father who finds solace in his bees in Victor Erice’s The Spirit of the Beehive of 1973. The hooded figure is at first unsettling, but his cradling gesture signifies his role as guardian of the bees.

Many of the works in this series have emerged as pairs, and here the black and white figures articulate energy in their meeting—their dance—in this moment of vulnerability and provocation.

The nudes in this group of paintings reveal strong connections to Goodman’s Eve series, exhibited at Hauser & Wirth in Somerset through the spring of 2019. Addressing the archetypal subject of Eve in our contemporary moment of revitalised feminism, they are portraits of womanhood in different moods and forms. What is striking is that none of them feel posed or passive; rather, they allow us to witness a moment drawn from a larger narrative. In one painting from the Eve series, we find the resolutely physical form of active womanhood, her contours forming a geometric diagonal pattern that links her with the tree. Is she resting against the tree or exerting her strength to push upon it? If she is Eve hiding in the Garden of Eden, there is no shame in her hiding, she is full of energy—the calligraphic ripples of red and orange over her legs and arms reiterating her readiness for movement. How different is her posture, then, to the nude at rest lying on her back in Owl and the Pussycat. This woman is seen in high saturation colour, painted in hot glowing tones without mixing a note of white. As we become accustomed to the dynamic surface of the canvas a tangle of explosive brushwork in the left corner resolves itself into the protruding beak and huge kaleidoscopic eyes of an owl. Is the owl a predator or protector? And what kind of watchfulness does it bring to the scene? If the painting explores that ever-troublesome question of the ‘gaze’ and raises the spectres of art history, we are left to make up our own minds. For me, there was a kinship between

the owl and the insistent presence of the rows of coloured masks that Goodman collected in India, and which peer down from a shelf in her studio.

The painting’s nursery-rhyme title also hints at an element of play and performance: the owl’s piercing gaze meets the small, curled form of the pussycat, nestled beside the resting woman. Perhaps they are both her spirit animals—symbols of wisdom, independence and companionship.

Staging is at work too in the pair of paintings from one of Goodman’s touchstone inspirations in the National Gallery, Titian’s Diana and Actaeon (1556-9).

The painting represents a narrative from Ovid’s Metamorphoses: a moment of trespass when the hunter Actaeon bursts in on the goddess Diana while she is bathing with her nymphs. We are in familiar territory because this is a painting Goodman has returned to and drawn from over many years—the practice of drawing from life, art and the imagination being at the root of her practice. She has found herself attracted to the late works of Titian, finding in them a vulnerability which she explores in this painting of a detail from Diana and Actaeon. She chooses to represent Diana and the woman who is her protector, shielding her from Actaeon’s implied yet unseen gaze. But if Diana is exposed, she is also proud and defiant in her beauty, and the pair are almost dancing, cradled together within the twisting ropes and bands of colour that evoke the opulent textiles of Titian’s Venice.

In his Theory of Colour (1810), Goethe wrote about the active dialectic of dark and light from which colour emerges. Many of the works in this series have emerged as pairs, and here the black and white figures articulate energy in their meeting— their dance—in this moment of vulnerability and provocation. Goodman’s paintings can be gathered together around a sense that ‘the light gets in’, as Leonard Cohen sang in his Anthem from which the exhibition takes its title, but they also speak to something expressed by Wendell Berry, the American poet of endangered wilderness whose work the artist often turns to reading in her studio.

On my visit I chanced upon one of his ‘Sabbath Poems’ in The Peace of Wild Things, where almost overcome by man’s devastation of the natural world, Berry urges us to notice: And yet the light comes.

And yet the light is here.

Dr Claudia Tobin is a writer and curator specialising in modern literature and visual cultures. She currently holds a Leverhulme Early Career Fellowship at the University of Cambridge and is a Research Associate at Jesus College. Her first book Still Life and Modernism will be published in early 2020.

Owl and the Pussycat (detail), 2018-19

List of works

01. Hanuman, 2018-19

09. Benedict and Balthazar, 2017-19

oil on linen

oil on linen

212 x 164 cm (83 1/2 x 64 1/2 in.)

199 x 159 cm (78 1/4 x 62 5/8 in.)

02. Hanuman’s Heart II, 2018

1 0. Night Beekeeper, 2019

oil on linen

oil on linen

152 x 122 cm (59 7/8 x 48 in.)

199 x 160 cm (78 1/4 x 63 in.)

03.

Owl and the Pussycat, 2018-19

11. The Girls, 2018-19

oil on linen

oil on linen

204 x 223.5 cm (80 5/8 x 88 in.)

180 x 235 cm (70 7/8 x 92 1/2 in.)

04. Kiss, 2019

12. Elliebellie, 2018-19

oil on linen

oil on linen

122 x 153 cm (48 x 60 1/4 in.)

157.5 x 124.5 cm (62 x 49 in.)

05. Pregnant Eve, 2018-19

13. Rodeo, 2018-19

oil on linen

oil on linen

200 x 202 cm (78 3/4 79 1/2 in.)

120 x 150 cm (47 1/4 x 59 in.)

06. Loic, 2018-19

14. Adam, 2018-19

oil on linen

oil on linen

202 x 209.5 cm (79 1/2 x 82 1/2 in.)

163.8 x 120.6 cm (64 1/2 x 47 1/2 in.)

07. Dark Diana, 2019

15. India Eve, 2018-19

oil on linen

oil on linen

220 x 208 cm (86 5/8 x 81 7/8 in.)

164 x 134.5 cm (64 1/2 x 53 in.)

08. Diana, 2018

16. Queenie, 2019

oil on linen

oil on linen

217 x 208.5 cm (85 1/2 x 82 1/8 in.)

153 x 122 cm (60 1/4 x 48 in.)

17. Karnataka, 2017

25. Mango Grove, 2017

pastel on paper

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

63 x 48 cm (24 3/4 x 18 7/8 in.)

18. Red Road, 2017

26. Ghika’s Courtyard, 2018

pastel on paper

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

19. Pool I, 2017

27. Enigma, 2018

pastel on paper

gouache on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

29.5 x 42 c​ m (11 5/8 x 16 1/2 in.)

20. Pool II, 2018

28. Bedtime, 2018

pastel on paper

gouache on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

28 x 36 cm (11 x 14 1⁄8 in.)

21. Mirror I, 2018

29. Hanuman, 2018

pastel on paper

gouache on paper

60 x 64 cm (23 5/8 x 25 3/8 in.)

30.5 x 30 cm (12 x 11 7/8 in.)

22. Mirror II, 2019

30. Waiting for Happiness, 2018

pastel on paper

gouache on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

29.5 x 35 cm (11 5/8 x 13 3/4 in.)

23. Corfu Tree I, 2018

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

24. Corfu Tree II, 2018

pastel on paper

63 x 48 cm (24 3/4 x 18 7/8 in.)

01. Hanuman, 2018-19

02. Hanuman’s Heart II, 2018

oil on linen

oil on linen

212 x 164 cm (83 1/2 x 64 1/2 in.)

152 x 122 cm (59 7/8 x 48 in.)

03.

Owl and the Pussycat, 2018-19

oil on linen

204 x 223.5 cm (80 5/8 x 88 in.)

04. Kiss, 2019

oil on linen

122 x 153 cm (48 x 60 1/4 in.)

05. Pregnant Eve, 2018-19

oil on linen

200 x 202 cm (78 3/4 79 1/2 in.)

06. Loic, 2018-19

oil on linen

202 x 209.5 cm (79 1/2 x 82 1/2 in.)

07. Dark Diana, 2019

oil on linen

220 x 208 cm (86 5/8 x 81 7/8 in.)

08. Diana, 2018

oil on linen

217 x 208.5 cm (85 1/2 x 82 1/8 in.)

09. Benedict and Balthazar, 2017-19

oil on linen

199 x 159 cm (78 1/4 x 62 5/8 in.)

1 0. Night Beekeeper, 2019

oil on linen

199 x 160 cm (78 1/4 x 63 in.)

11. The Girls, 2018-19

oil on linen

180 x 235 cm (70 7/8 x 92 1/2 in.)

12. Elliebellie, 2018-19

oil on linen

157.5 x 124.5 cm (62 x 49 in.)

13. Rodeo, 2018-19

oil on linen

120 x 150 cm (47 1/4 x 59 in.)

14. Adam, 2018-19

oil on linen

163.8 x 120.6 cm (64 1/2 x 47 1/2 in.)

15. India Eve, 2018-19

oil on linen

164 x 134.5 cm (64 1/2 x 53 in.)

16. Queenie, 2019

oil on linen

153 x 122 cm (60 1/4 x 48 in.)

17. Karnataka, 2017

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

18. Red Road, 2017

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

19. Pool I, 2017

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

20. Pool II, 2018

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

21. Mirror I, 2018

pastel on paper

60 x 64 cm (23 5/8 x 25 3/8 in.)

22. Mirror II, 2019

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

23. Corfu Tree I, 2018

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

24. Corfu Tree II, 2018

pastel on paper

63 x 48 cm (24 3/4 x 18 7/8 in.)

25. Mango Grove, 2017

pastel on paper

63 x 48 cm (24 3/4 x 18 7/8 in.)

26. Ghika’s Courtyard, 2018

pastel on paper

75 x 52 cm (29 1/2 x 20 1/2 in.)

27. Enigma, 2018

28. Bedtime, 2018

gouache on paper

gouache on paper

29.5 x 42 c​ m (11 5/8 x 16 1/2 in.)

28 x 36 cm (11 x 14 1â „8 in.)

29. Hanuman, 2018

30. Waiting for Happiness, 2018

gouache on paper

gouache on paper

30.5 x 30 cm (12 x 11 7/8 in.)

29.5 x 35 cm (11 5/8 x 13 3/4 in.)

Biography Lives and works in London and Somerset

1961

Born in London

1979-84 Camberwell School of Arts and Crafts, London 1984-87 Royal Academy Schools, London 1987

Royal Academy Gold Medal

2000 Founding Artistic Director along with the Prince of Wales, The Prince’s Drawing School, now the Royal Drawing School, London

2002

BP Portrait Award, National Portrait Gallery, London, First Prize

2004-05 National Portrait Gallery commission, portrait of Dame Cicely Saunders 2015

Portrait of the film director Stephen Frears acquired by the National Portrait Gallery

2018

Artist in Residence, Hauser & Wirth Somerset

Solo Exhibitions 1988-95 Four solo exhibitions at Cadogan Contemporary, London 1997

Theo Waddington Fine Art, London

2008

New Paintings, Marlborough Fine Art, London

2012

Worlds Within, Marlborough Fine Art, London

2014

Portraits from Life, The National Portrait Gallery, London

Drawing from Veronese, Colnaghi, London

2016

the last house in the world, Marlborough Fine Art, London

2019

EVE, Hauser & Wirth Somerset

the light gets in, Marlborough Gallery, New York

Group Exhibitions 2004

Two London Painters: Catherine Goodman and David Dawson, Marlborough Fine Art, London

2006

Drawing Inspiration, Abbot Hall Art Gallery, Kendal

Summer Exhibition, Marlborough Fine Art, London

2007

Summer Exhibition, Marlborough Fine Art, London

2015

Last of the Tide: Portraits of D-Day Veterans, The Royal Collection Trust, London

Summer Exhibition, Marlborough Fine Art, London

2016

A Summer Exhibition, Marlborough Fine Art, London

2017

A Summer Exhibition, Marlborough Fine Art, London

New York

London

Marlborough Gallery Inc.

Marlborough Fine Art (London) Ltd

40 West 57th Street

6 Albemarle Street

New York, N.Y. 10019

London, W1S 4BY

Telephone: +1 212 541 4900

Telephone: +44 (0)20 7629 5161

Telefax: +1 212 541 4948

Telefax: +44 (0)20 7629 6338

mny@marlboroughgallery.com

mfa@marlboroughfineart.com

www.marlboroughgallery.com

www.marlboroughlondon.com

Marlborough Contemporary

Marlborough Contemporary

545 West 25th Street

6 Albemarle Street

New York, N.Y. 10001

London, W1S 4BY

Telephone: +1 212 463 8634

Telephone: +44 (0)20 7629 5161

Telefax: +1 212 463 9658

Telefax: +44 (0)20 7629 6338

info@marlboroughcontemporary.com

info@marlboroughcontemporary.com

www.marlboroughcontemporary.com

www.marlboroughcontemporary.com

ISBN 978-1-909707-57-3 Catalogue no. 785 Cover: Hanuman’s Heart II (detail), 2018 Photography of Hanuman’s Heart II: Ken Adlard Photography of all other works: Richard Ivey Photography of the artist: Clare Walsh Design: Bright Design London Print: Impress Print Services © 2019 Marlborough