What Are They Looking At

A renowned artist visited the studio of The Rantonteur and, whilst viewing his workmanship, posed a question that subverted the relationship between human and artwork:

"What are they looking at?"

The assumption that the human occupies the position of authority in the relationship between viewer and object was destroyed with those five words. In their place, we are presented with what could be regarded as the closest thing one might ever find to an explanation of The Rantonteur's work.

Those who expect landscapes find themselves looking at their own conscience. In place of the common beauty often sought in a painting, they find a deeply unsettling unease. There is no title or explanation within which one can seek refuge. There are no spectators, only witnesses. Each piece strips away our carefully rehearsed identities, fashionable opinions and the precarious certainty borrowed from another's critique. We all stand alone in front of the canvas, with nothing but a reflection of ourselves to contend with.

We have always brought a false expectation to paintings: we expect to look at them, while all this time they have been looking at us. This is fundamental to The Rantonteur's paintings; they neither accuse nor absolve us. They have a stout refusal to lie that urges us to be honest with ourselves.

The paintings offer us an opportunity; we can leave as we arrived, or we can step into what they are quietly revealing about ourselves. The only certainty about an encounter with one of these canvases is that each individual will have a unique experience. My only caution to those standing at this crossroads of pigment and brushstroke is this: it's easier to invent external enemies than to confront the stranger who has lived within us all along - and our pretence will eventually become exhausting.

I have spent a number of years in close proximity to The Rantonteur's paintings; photographing, cataloguing, wrapping in tissue to preserve and protect. Their familiarity has become companionable and comforting. I find myself revelling in their breathtaking colours - it was not always this way.

I have a painting of my own. Although it has never felt like ownership, more of my having been chosen as the keeper of an artefact. One that quietly observes me from across the room. Did I choose it, or did it choose me? The painting offers neither condemnation nor comfort. Whatever the outcome of an encounter - it is entirely of our own making.

Perhaps the visiting artist asked the wrong question. Perhaps the question was never, "What are they looking at?" but rather, "What have they seen?"