It would appear that an artist's bedroom is much the same as an artist's mind - fascinatingly bizarre, yet almost impossible to analyse.
Somewhere in suburbia sits an awkwardly ageing bungalow, slightly unsure of itself as it displays the smatterings of personality its neighbouring structures are missing. A procession of tea lights and paper lanterns guides me down a dangerously dilapidated path, and leaves me standing at the front door of one of Britain’s most promising (and enigmatic) young artists.
Heavily peeling wallpaper, taxidermy butterflies, human skulls and unfeasibly abstract Polaroids pepper the room in which Claire Barrett lays her head and creates her self-proclaimed ‘apocalyptic artwork.’ The bedroom is not a million miles away from what I had envisioned (dark artwork and dead things are not exactly an unthinkable pairing), but the Wonder Cabinet-esqué room still manages to evoke the same feelings of discomfort as one would experience in an abandoned house. There is a sense of condemned vacancy, yet traces of personality still very much remain.
Barrett, a twenty-three-year-old contemporary artist from the South of England, sips blood-red Cabernet Sauvignon (which is slightly disconcerting when coupled with the omniscient stare of the eye-less skull), and talks softly but self-assuredly about her love affair with design. “I always loved drawing, and as a child I was very competitive about my art” she states with poise, as if there could be no possible alternative. “The first time I properly knew I wanted to make art was in Year Six in primary school. We had to draw something from our home, and I used to have this little cactus with googly eyes on it. It was on the first page of my sketchbook, and it was amazing. And that was it! I wanted to be an artist.”
Strange then, that the eventuality of Barrett’s artwork would jolt from jovial charactures of cacti, to impossibly dark renditions of an ink-based Armageddon. Although much of her work appears heavily abstract upon first inspection, Claire insists that her canvases denounce the effects of human influence on the natural landscape. In doing so, her art immediately stands alone from the subversive offerings of the brutally confrontational modern art movement.
“I don’t really think my work fits in at the moment, because it’s quite nostalgic in a way”, she informs, clearly relished by the prospect of her own uniqueness. “I’m dealing with traditional ideas of landscape, whereas I think more recent things tend to be quite ballsy and in your face…I like something a bit more subtle.”
The concept of Barrett’s work is indeed subtle. The final aesthetic of the art, however, delivers the same sinister and uncomfortable impact as a Freudian nightmare. Comprised mainly of black ink or graphite and almost overbearing in size, the pieces seem to engulf the viewer in the artist's message of ‘This Is What You’ve Done’, whilst maintaining enough visual grace to successfully avoid the garish presentation so prevalent in contemporary art.
This is clearly the result of Barrett’s disinterest in using shock as a device to make the audience take notice, an admirable quality in an age of menstrual blood enthusiasts like Tracy Emin, and formaldehyde aficionados such as Damien Hurst. Adamant that her main source of inspiration is derived from the landscape itself, Barrett is able to create fiercely individual work whilst conveying an almost classical appreciation for beauty and competence.
Secondary to her ecological muse comes the inspiration taken from other established artists, all of which make perfect sense when considering the evolution of her own particular style and approach. When asked which artists have impacted the outcome of her own work, Barrett immediately replies, “Hundreds.” When pressed to whittle this expansive answer down to two or three individuals, she effortlessly delivers the names Mark Rothko, Richard Serra and Rachel Whiteread, with the kind of rehearsed quality one only achieves after years of admiration.
Despite Claire’s cultivation of a perfectly unique style, she battles internally with the notion of borrowing too many points of inspiration from her beloved peers. I ask if the work of the afore-mentioned artists is in any extent reflected in her own creations, to which she sombrely replies, “Almost a little bit too much sometimes. I have to keep check on it.”
Perhaps my untrained eye is ill-equipped to pass such judgement, but I personally feel that there is little aesthetic likeness between the sculptural and sparse work of Rothko, Serra and Whiteread, and Barrett’s darkly passionate portrayals of an abstract Judgement Day. Although there may exist obvious conceptual parallels between the work Barrett produces, and the work she admires (all make attempts to change the way in which we think about the space around us), her innovative style should instil a sense of unbreakable self-belief, rather than provoking any questioning of originality.
Barrett also cites architecture as a significant point of inspiration, and somewhat unsurprisingly she champions the designers who work with a clear sense of ecological awareness. “I’m really into modernist architecture”, she tells me, with a contemplative gaze. “Really blocky, striking stuff like Frank Lloyd Wright, who tried to make buildings that worked in harmony with the landscape.”
Although Claire is quick to allude to the artistic movements she so admires, I am interested to learn if she harbours any distain for certain stylistic approaches.
With an obvious disinterest for confrontational artwork, I wonder if, in the opinion of this still-emerging artist, there are any individuals who do not deserve the acclaim they have achieved? “Well there’s not really a particular artist that I don’t like”, she hesitantly informs, with the kind of sensitive reserve most commonly found in individuals who have not yet been hardened by the industry. “If I find a movement that I really don’t like, it is because I don’t understand it. Most of the movements that I now completely adore, I used to hate. Before I started University I hated landscape, and I hated minimalism because I thought it was completely pointless. But now I work in landscape and I did my dissertation on minimalism, so it’s completely backwards.”
As someone who has witnessed the failings of art school education on a first-hand basis, I am immediately pricked by the word ‘University’, and feel compelled to question my subject about her own experience. Barrett however, who studied Fine Art at Farnham’s University for the Creative Arts and graduated in 2009 with a thoroughly respectable 2:1, seems positively perplexed when I tell her of my own dissatisfaction for British art institutions. “I had a great time at University” she informs, somewhat mystified. An expression which almost suggests mistrust spreads across her face as she contemplates the possibility of not enjoying the study of art. “I think as long as you go out there and demand the attention of the tutors and show them that you’re focused and willing to plough on through, then they will give you all of the attention that you need.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I suppose this clash of opinions only serves to emphasise Barrett’s magnified appreciation for her craft in comparison with my own. As I cast my glance around her bedroom for a second time, my eye slowing over the piles of canvases, stacks of sketchbooks and reams of ink-blackened paper, I realise that Barrett possesses a trait that I am missing - the ability to fully immerse herself in art.
The presence of such items displays the ongoing manner in which Barrett coexists with her work, on both a literal and metaphorical level. A cliché it may be, but to be present in this artists personal space and to witness the close proximity in which she lives amongst her materials is to realise that this individual truly is at one with her work.
But how, I wonder, are such large-scale pieces created in this inspirational yet highly restricted space? “Most of the work I was making at University was created in a drawing studio, which was just enormous. It was the size of three houses, I had the whole space to myself and I could spread out”, she reminisces. As her eyes trail across her now confined-in-comparison bedroom, I notice a pining expression cast itself across her pale face, not entirely dissimilar to that of a caged animal looking out at the free world.
An interesting spectacle to observe she may be, but deep down I know it is wrong to keep such an obvious free spirit under the confines of four suffocating walls.
Whilst I am occupied with this thought, Barrett extends her reach to a bedside table and offers me a pocket-sized sketchbook to study. The book contains her most recent compositions, and before I even begin to flick through the pallid pages I am struck by the impossibly small dimensions of the book in comparison to vast canvases she is now synonymous with.
Surely a character with such hunger for literal freedom cannot be confined to A5?
“Because I’m now restricted to this tiny room, my work has got so much smaller. It’s all too confined. And I haven’t been making as much.” The sense of regret and disappointment seems to seep from every pore as she divulges this information to me. I really do feel as though I am in the company of a bird who’s wings have been clipped - and just as a bird needs freedom to project beautiful song, Claire Barrett needs freedom to create beautiful and true to self art.
Thumbing carefully through the pages of this newly cultivated sketchbook, I am presented with the repetition of collaged postcards - all of which seem to depict some form of sprawling landscape. Baron desserts have been pasted onto virtuous mountains, and cascading waterfalls have been paired with mighty forests. I suddenly feel as though the book I am holding is not so much a place for artistic musings, but a definite and insatiable cry for help.
Momentarily avoiding my carefully planned notes and acting on instinct alone, I ask Claire where she would like to be. Do these scenes of infinity hint towards a specific location, or are they simply evocative of ‘anywhere but here’?
“I would really like to go and make work in America. Just make work as I walk around. That’s something I’d really like to do.”
I should have known that a country in which England can fit itself nearly forty times would be the ideal location for a wandering soul. Interrupting my thought with a now animated tone and brightened eyes, Barrett escapes off into an obviously lucid daydream. “Half of the landscapes I am obsessed with are there. The vast deserts, the mountains…just the vastness of the place. You can walk from one side to the other and see so many different things on the way. Whereas England…Well, its all very English.”
Totally immersed in thought, I believe her to have forgotten my presence. But rather than feeling insulted and ignored in favour of wistful thinking, I am as content in my psyche as she. For Barrett to achieve some form of solace from the confines of suburbia - even if it is only in her mind - is a feat tinged with great joy, and wrenching sorrow. I am pleased to witness her mood lift at the prospect of never-ending space, but I dread the moment in which her mind snaps back to reality, and cruelly snatches her away from her sprawling oasis.
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