Joan Mitchell

My enthusiasm for color is so strong it can take over my memory.  Some of my favorite black and white films are those I once mistakenly remembered as being in color: Hiroshima, Mon Amour; I Confess; The Lady from Shanghai.  This also happens to me with abstract art. Recently I was looking at Franz Kline pictures. At the same time that my sense of wonder for the art renewed, I felt anxiety moving me to self-doubt. Why had I remembered there being more color in his work? -- surely that seems absurd. 

I worried that, upon seeing Marion Cajori's film, Joan Mitchell: Portrait of an Abstract Painter, I might be in a situation again of questioning my reality. Fortunately, this was not the case. Mitchell's paintings flame out from the film in wild traceries of color. 

It is a short documentary, compared with other of Cajori's portraits -- runtime is less than an hour. Cajori is limited by Mitchell's reluctance to talk. Mitchell seems neither unfriendly nor inarticulate. Rather, there are flashes in which she possesses the hospitality and skill of a masterful storyteller. What stops Mitchell from talking is probably an irresolvable contradiction. The color in her paintings is out of spontaneous expressions: the color in her paintings is out of a complicated reflexive process invested with meditations on nature. For Mitchell, it seems truth is impossible with language. Only image will do.

It is a pleasure to watch Mitchell at work in Paris and talk about the quality of light there. She doesn't react to light intellectually, like a poet does. Her way of transposing light into jaggedly arranged strokes of color is a process language doesn't match. Her paintings suggest a preconscious authority -- the wilderness in stride. 

Image: "Ladybug" by Joan Mitchell, 1957