Pierrick Allemand
Oil paintings by the French painter Pierrick Allemand
"It's hard to ignore the wild imbalance between male and female objectification in art. Breasts, curvaceous buttocks and muffs litter the halls of our most respected galleries, turning them into little more than sumptuous peep shows for the aesthetically inclined. The grunts and hollers of the Guerrilla Girls fall on deaf ears; the Society for the Appreciation of the Female Nude (SAFN) laments the outbreak of the 'fat' nude à la Lucien Freud; and a cantankerous army of feminist groups and blogs raise their arms and banners in protest.
At times it seems the status quo will forever be as disadvantaged as the Venus Di Milo, but every once in a while an artist comes along with an armful of female nudes who reminds you exactly why Michelangelo didn't give David a huge boner. Pierrick Allemand's paintings at the Royal Opera Arcade Galleria, resurrect Edward Hopper's lonely urbanity within a 21st Century mindset. His femmes fatales, ingénues, vamps and tramps all appear to be actively engaged in a sordid or tragic narrative within the dramatic backdrops of London, New York, Paris and Barcelona.
Unlike Hopper though, Allemand's women are not tremulous waifs or hard-boiled dames, nursing their broken hearts with a stiff drink and a good mope in their underwear. Rather these women are strutting the streets in neon stockings (Les Temps Changent), celebrating Obama's victory (Yes We Can) and drinking seductively at a bar (Déesse) with robust thighs and proud bosoms. Allemand's work takes the best elements of pulp femininity, the feistiness, style and sex, runs them through a punk filter and elevates them to the status (and pricing) of Fine Art.
It must be said that Allemand's work is decidedly populist. It could easily be hung in hotel lobbies, office hallways or Pizza Express walls (well at least the more salubrious pieces). His colours and aesthetic lack edginess, but little details such as a smear of neon-pink lip-gloss, a dress with a pattern that merges with the city backdrop and some truly voracious nudity (Matinale) elevate him above the murky quagmire of domestic art.
Allemand also has a penchant for the syntax of emotion: the suggestion of a cold wind, a sideways glance or the composition of warring bodies conjures up a sense of melancholy, wistfulness or beatitude out of the noise of colour and bold sexuality. His narratives are as flowing and sensual as his forms, as though lifted from comics, a Russ Meyer film or even Baise-Moi; these girls require none of the frothy lifestyle porn Sex and the City dithers around neurotically.
These girls are the embodiment of the soul of modern cities: complex, streetwise characters with a firm grip on destiny who command every inch of the frame so slyly that objectification shirks in their wake like a withering male ego. Yes, the female gaze may still be misaligned and a distinct lack of dangling appendages is palpable; but with everyday goddesses such as Allemand's being produced, at least we're staggering tipsily towards some kind of enlightenment"
Written on
16 March, 2009
by: Katuschka
"It's hard to ignore the wild imbalance between male and female objectification in art. Breasts, curvaceous buttocks and muffs litter the halls of our most respected galleries, turning them into little more than sumptuous peep shows for the aesthetically inclined. The grunts and hollers of the Guerrilla Girls fall on deaf ears; the Society for the Appreciation of the Female Nude (SAFN) laments the outbreak of the 'fat' nude à la Lucien Freud; and a cantankerous army of feminist groups and blogs raise their arms and banners in protest.
At times it seems the status quo will forever be as disadvantaged as the Venus Di Milo, but every once in a while an artist comes along with an armful of female nudes who reminds you exactly why Michelangelo didn't give David a huge boner. Pierrick Allemand's paintings at the Royal Opera Arcade Galleria, resurrect Edward Hopper's lonely urbanity within a 21st Century mindset. His femmes fatales, ingénues, vamps and tramps all appear to be actively engaged in a sordid or tragic narrative within the dramatic backdrops of London, New York, Paris and Barcelona.
Unlike Hopper though, Allemand's women are not tremulous waifs or hard-boiled dames, nursing their broken hearts with a stiff drink and a good mope in their underwear. Rather these women are strutting the streets in neon stockings (Les Temps Changent), celebrating Obama's victory (Yes We Can) and drinking seductively at a bar (Déesse) with robust thighs and proud bosoms. Allemand's work takes the best elements of pulp femininity, the feistiness, style and sex, runs them through a punk filter and elevates them to the status (and pricing) of Fine Art.
It must be said that Allemand's work is decidedly populist. It could easily be hung in hotel lobbies, office hallways or Pizza Express walls (well at least the more salubrious pieces). His colours and aesthetic lack edginess, but little details such as a smear of neon-pink lip-gloss, a dress with a pattern that merges with the city backdrop and some truly voracious nudity (Matinale) elevate him above the murky quagmire of domestic art.
Allemand also has a penchant for the syntax of emotion: the suggestion of a cold wind, a sideways glance or the composition of warring bodies conjures up a sense of melancholy, wistfulness or beatitude out of the noise of colour and bold sexuality. His narratives are as flowing and sensual as his forms, as though lifted from comics, a Russ Meyer film or even Baise-Moi; these girls require none of the frothy lifestyle porn Sex and the City dithers around neurotically.
These girls are the embodiment of the soul of modern cities: complex, streetwise characters with a firm grip on destiny who command every inch of the frame so slyly that objectification shirks in their wake like a withering male ego. Yes, the female gaze may still be misaligned and a distinct lack of dangling appendages is palpable; but with everyday goddesses such as Allemand's being produced, at least we're staggering tipsily towards some kind of enlightenment"
Written on
16 March, 2009
by: Katuschka