On Leonardo, red chalk, handwriting and the beginning of Studia Rubra
Dear reader,
anyone familiar with my photographic work will know that colour usually plays roughly the same role in it as a bagpipe quartet during a minute’s silence: it may well have its place, but not necessarily here. My images are black and white. Not occasionally, not out of nostalgic attachment, and not because I have failed to locate the saturation slider in Photoshop. Black and white is a fundamental part of my visual language.
Colour always tells its own story, even when nobody has asked it to. A red dress, a blue wall or a warm skin tone introduce meanings into an image that can only be controlled to a limited extent. In my work, the body, light, shadow, posture and writing are meant to speak. Colour would be only too eager to push itself to the foreground, spread out comfortably and remind the viewer that red may signify passion, danger, blood, love, revolution, Christmas or a furniture clearance sale.
And now, of all things, I am beginning a series in which red not only appears but is almost impossible to overlook.
The series is entitled Studia Rubra — red studies. It will probably remain the first and only series within Artis Umbrae in which colour has a permanent place. This is not, however, a late conversion to colour photography. I am not about to start photographing dramatically lit models in front of orange curtains or losing myself in the psychological effects of complementary colour contrasts. The red in Studia Rubra is not a photographed colour. It is material. It comes from red chalk, from the hand, from pressure and from the direct physical treatment of the sheet.
The colour is therefore not part of the photographed reality, but a visible trace of the process by which the work was created.
Learning from Leonardo without pretending to be Leonardo
The point of departure for the series lies with Leonardo da Vinci. More precisely, with his study sheets: those pages on which drawings, anatomical observations, geometric considerations and handwritten notes are brought together. They do not appear to have been carefully staged as works of art produced in reverent anticipation of a museum visitor. They look like visible thought.
A hand is examined, a movement repeated, one line discarded and another placed over it. Notes, questions and observations appear in the margins. Some elements seem precisely planned, while others appear almost incidental. It is precisely this quality that gives these sheets a vitality often absent from finished works. One does not see only a result. One sees an intellectual and physical process materialising on paper.
Naturally, it would be presumptuous to attempt to imitate Leonardo. The very idea has something touchingly megalomaniacal about it: one buys a few red-chalk pencils, writes backwards for a while and waits for the Renaissance to break out again. That is not the point.
What interests me is not the historical surface of his sheets, but the principle behind them. Drawing and writing are not later decorations. They are equal forms of thought. The image explains the writing, the writing alters the image, and the free space between them is not empty but holds everything together.
In my work, photography initially takes the place of drawing. The body is photographed, lit and transformed into a reduced form. This photographic fragment then becomes part of a larger sheet. Red chalk, handwriting, lines and empty spaces are added. The photograph remains recognisably photographic, but loses its customary independence. It is no longer the completed final product, but becomes part of a new physical object.
What red chalk actually is
Red chalk is a reddish-brown drawing material whose colour is primarily produced by iron oxides. In art, it appears in the form of chalk, pencils or blocks. In Italian it is commonly known as sanguigna. Its colour can range, depending on its composition, the paper and the pressure applied, from a pale, dry terracotta to a deep brownish red.
For centuries, red chalk has been used for portraits, anatomical studies and representations of the human body. The reason lies not only in its historical significance. Its warm tone has a certain affinity with skin without attempting to imitate a natural skin colour. It can give volume, muscles, folds and movement a physical presence while remaining unmistakably a drawing medium.
It is precisely this intermediate position that interests me. Red chalk is neither a neutral line nor a luminous colour. It recalls earth, rust, dried blood and aged pigment. The material already carries a history within it, without immediately turning the work into historical costume.
In Studia Rubra, red chalk is placed in contrast with black-and-white photography. The photographic fragment appears comparatively cool, precise and technically reproducible. The red-chalk line, by contrast, remains warm, physical and immediate. One sees not only its form but also the pressure of the hand, the direction of the movement and the irregularities of the paper.
The red does not therefore become a decorative addition. It forms a second layer of the image.
Why red chalk?
I could, of course, have created the writing with ink, Indian ink or a digital brush. Technically, much of this would have been easier. A digital line can be moved, smoothed, enlarged, recoloured and, if necessary, erased completely. A crooked word can be corrected; an unsuccessful letter disappears at the touch of a key.
Red chalk refuses this convenience.
That is exactly why it belongs in this series.
The material connects the work with historical study sheets without merely imitating them. At the same time, it creates a deliberate contrast with my otherwise exclusively black-and-white visual world. Colour does not appear as an ornamental ingredient, but as a visible part of the working process. It marks the point at which the photographic image leaves the protected space of the computer and once again becomes an object that can be worked on by hand.
The red is not intended to dominate. It should run through the sheet like a trace, sometimes strong and distinct, sometimes only faintly visible. Red chalk is not a colour placed over the image to make it more pleasing or spectacular. It is a second voice entering into a relationship with the photograph.
In this sense, the red in Studia Rubra is not an exception that contradicts my previous work. On the contrary, it confirms the rule. Colour may appear here because it has a specific task. It is not meant to beautify something that would otherwise fail. It is meaning, material and action.
Why working with red chalk is more difficult than it looks
In historical drawings, red chalk often appears effortless. The lines seem light, soft and almost inevitable. This is, however, one of those illusions that skilled craftsmanship tends to produce: one sees the confidence of the result rather than the obstinate hours that preceded it.
Red chalk is not a particularly compliant writing material. A sharpened red-chalk pencil can break easily. Its core is brittle, and sometimes disintegrates while being sharpened, as though it had developed a personal objection to the project. The point wears down quickly, constantly altering the width of the line. A block of red chalk is more robust and has a beautiful immediacy, but it allows less fine control.
The paper also plays a decisive role. On a very smooth surface, the chalk may barely take hold. On heavily textured paper, by contrast, the line becomes restless and breaks into small interruptions. Too much pressure creates a heavy, blunt mark; too little makes the writing appear pale and indecisive.
Red chalk also smudges. Even a hand passing over a finished section can move the pigment or spread a reddish haze across the paper. The order of work must therefore be planned. Where do I begin? In which direction do I move across the sheet? Which areas must no longer be touched once they are complete?
Even small practical decisions have immediate consequences.
Corrections are possible only to a limited extent. A digital line can be removed without trace. Red chalk retains a memory even when one attempts to lift it from the surface. The paper does not forget completely. This quality can be irritating, but it is precisely what creates the vitality I am seeking. A line may be imperfect, provided it is not arbitrary.
The material forces me to work more slowly. Every letter must be prepared before it appears on the page. Even so, not everything can be controlled. The pencil breaks, the point changes, the paper reacts differently from what was expected. These resistances are not faults in the series. They are part of its nature.
Writing as part of the image
The writing in Studia Rubra is not a caption. It does not simply explain what can be seen in the photograph, nor does it serve as decorative ornament. It is intended to create an independent level of meaning. The image may show a body while the writing speaks of touch, memory, closeness or separation. The two belong together without one completely translating the other.
My point of departure lies in Renaissance cursive scripts, particularly Cancellaresca, the elegant writing tradition that developed in Renaissance Italy. I adopt certain proportions, movements and letterforms from it, but combine them with elements drawn from my previous work with Copperplate, Bastarda and other historical scripts.
My aim is not exact reconstruction. Simply copying a historical script as accurately as possible would be a technical exercise, but not yet an individual visual language. I am therefore attempting to develop a script that is historically rooted while still recognisably following my own hand.
The writing should not appear as though it had been cut from an old copybook and pasted onto the image. It must grow together with the photograph, the red chalk and the composition as a whole.
A script that is not yet finished
This script is still developing. I am working on the shapes of the letters, the connections between them, the rhythm of the lines and the relationship between restrained basic forms and freer movements. Some letters already function; others still appear forced or too heavily derived from familiar models.
The material creates an additional difficulty. A form that works with a flexible nib and ink cannot simply be transferred to a brittle red-chalk pencil or block. A nib produces fine and broad strokes through changes in pressure. Red chalk behaves differently. It has no flexible point; instead, its shape changes through abrasion. A movement that appears elegant in ink may become heavy and awkward in chalk.
The writing on the first sheet therefore reflects the present stage of my work. It is not a final result, but part of the study.
In several months, it will probably look different. It will likely become calmer, more confident and more coherent. Certain letters may change considerably. Some connections may disappear while others emerge. The size, angle and spacing may also continue to evolve.
Normally, such development would be concealed and only the apparently definitive result presented. In Studia Rubra, it is intended to remain visible. The series is, after all, conceived as a book of studies. This includes not only the study of the body but also the study of my own hand.
The later sheets will therefore not simply repeat the first work. They will also document the development of my writing. Each sheet records a specific moment: the state of a photographic idea, a technical ability and a search that has not yet been completed.
This is one of the central attractions of the series for me. It shows not only what I can do, but also what I am working towards. That is riskier than presenting an entirely polished surface, but probably more honest.
The image becomes an object again
Digital photography has a curious quality: an image can be everywhere and at the same time have no particular location. It lies on a memory card, a hard drive, in the cloud, on a website and perhaps in three separate backups, none of which one later remembers as the actual final version. The image exists, but initially it has no body.
Only the print turns it back into an object. Paper has a surface, an edge, a size and a weight. It responds to light, humidity and touch. It can be damaged, stored incorrectly or have coffee poured over it. In other words, it once again participates in real life.
With Studia Rubra, I go a step further. The printed photograph is not the finished work, but the starting point for manual intervention. The writing is not inserted digitally. The red chalk is not simulated in Photoshop. Lines, variations in pressure, irregularities and small mistakes are created physically on the paper.
These imperfections are important. Digital image editing encourages us to undo everything. A line is unsatisfactory? Undo. The spacing is wrong? Move it. The colour is three per cent too warm? Correct it. This can be useful, but it can also lead to a peculiar sterility. Nothing is allowed to happen unless it is completely controlled.
On paper, there is no “undo”. The mark is there. It may be altered, worked over or incorporated into the composition, but one cannot pretend that it was never made. This demands a different form of concentration. The hand becomes slower because it knows that its decisions have consequences.
That sounds more dramatic than it is. It remains a sheet of paper, not open-heart surgery. Nevertheless, the irreversibility changes the working process noticeably.
A series beginning with a single work
My previous series usually developed from a broader concept. There was an idea, a thematic structure and several images intended to relate to one another. I often knew before the shoot approximately how many works would be required and what role each image would play within the cycle.
Studia Rubra begins differently.
The series begins with a single work: De tactu — On Touch.
This is unusual for me. A single image may be strong, but it remains, at first, a promise. It is not yet possible to know whether it will truly become an extensive series or remain a solitary attempt later described politely as an “experiment”. Nevertheless, I want to allow this open condition deliberately.
The series is intended to grow slowly. My intention is to create at least one new sheet each month. Not a complete shoot every month, and certainly no industrial production of pseudo-Renaissance sheets, but one new work emerging from a photographic study and its subsequent physical treatment.
This slowness is not incidental but part of the concept. The series is not intended to become a theme completed and filed away within a few weeks. It should accompany me over a longer period and be permitted to change. Perhaps the handwriting will become denser. Perhaps the photographs will become smaller, more fragmentary or more abstract. Perhaps anatomical observation will become more prominent, or perhaps thoughts about touch, the body, closeness, memory or transience will emerge.
I do not yet know.
And, for once, that is precisely the plan.
Touch as a beginning
The fact that the first work is entitled De tactu is no coincidence. Touch is one of the most immediate forms of human perception. We see a body from a distance. In order to touch it, we must surrender that distance.
Touch may be tender, probing, cautious, demanding, protective or rejecting. Hands can connect without two people thereby becoming one. They can perceive something hidden from sight. In this sense, touch is not merely contact but a form of knowledge.
The image shows hands meeting in different ways. A larger representation remains physical and concrete; a smaller one appears almost like a memory or an afterimage. The writing does not sit obediently beside the photograph in order to explain it. It continues an independent thought.
What interests me is less a clear narrative than a field of tension. What becomes connected through touch? What remains separate? At what point is a body not united with another, but perceived in the first place?
Such questions cannot be answered conclusively in a single sentence. The image is not intended to solve them. It is intended to make them visible.
Original, edition and the question of the actual work
For each motif, the manual process first produces an original. This original is unique. The handwriting, the application of red chalk, the pressure and the small irregularities of the paper cannot be repeated identically.
Alongside it, each work is published as a limited photographic edition of ten numbered prints. Two Artist’s Proofs are added, intended primarily for exhibitions. The original initially remains in my private collection, although it is in principle also available for acquisition.
The work therefore exists in several states. The original is the material starting point on which the writing and drawing were actually carried out. The edition transfers this sheet back into the medium of photography. It is not simply the reproduction of a painting, but part of a circular process: photography is printed, manually altered and then photographically recorded once again.
At first glance, this may appear unnecessarily complicated. Everything could, after all, be assembled digitally. Technically, that would be simpler, cleaner and probably faster.
But that is precisely not the point.
The physical creation of the original changes the result. A simulated red-chalk line has no friction. Digital handwriting encounters no resistance from the paper. Even if both could be reproduced with deceptive visual accuracy, the working process would be different. And here, the process is not merely a means to an end. It forms part of the work itself.
An open book of studies
Studia Rubra is not a homage in the sense of a stylistic disguise. I do not wish to imitate the Renaissance, nor to produce photographs pretending to have been discovered in some forgotten workshop.
Instead, the series adopts an older attitude: the image as a place of investigation.
Each sheet is intended to contain an observation. Not necessarily a scientific one, but a physical, formal or intellectual observation. A position of the hand, a tension, a touch, a relationship between closeness and distance. The writing may clarify the thought, contradict it or lead it in another direction.
Over time, this may develop into a kind of photographic notebook. Not a closed system, but a sequence of approaches. The individual sheets do not need to form a linear narrative. They should be related through their materials, their working method and their underlying attitude.
For the moment, the series consists of a single work. That is very little, and at the same time enough to mark a beginning.
Everything else will follow — sheet by sheet, month by month, without haste. Some series do not begin with a completed plan. They begin with a trace on paper and the question of where that trace may lead.