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Yoko Matsumoto

Darkness Against Nature

Words PLUS MAGAZINE

Yoko Matsumoto’s artistic journey is a testament to the transformative power of color and form, where light and darkness coexist in a delicate dance. Her practice, rooted in a profound exploration of the immaterial and intangible attributes of nature, reveals an intimate dialogue between the artist and her medium. Known for her unconventional technique of working with canvases on the floor, Matsumoto’s physical engagement with her work allows for an expressive immediacy that is both visceral and evocative.

In her latest exhibition, “Darkness Against Nature” at White Cube, Matsumoto invites us into a world where darkness is not merely the absence of light but a spectrum of hues that convey the depths of human emotion and subconscious thought. From the ethereal pinks that challenge their traditional connotations to the verdant greens that capture the essence of nature’s omnipresence, her paintings transcend mere representation to become meditative reflections on existence. As we delve into this interview, we uncover the layers of Matsumoto’s creative process, her evolution as an artist since the 1980s, and the profound influences that have shaped her unique vision.

PLUS MAGAZINE: “Darkness Against Nature” delves into the immaterial and intangible attributes of nature, intertwining with the depths of interiority. Could you elaborate on how these themes have evolved in your work since the 1980s and how this evolution is reflected in the pieces showcased in this exhibition?

YOKO MATSUMOTO: Impressionist artists, such as Monet, also struggled to capture the truth of nature’s light. I saw darkness beyond capturing the light. And the darkness was not only black. In my paintings, darkness could be white, blue, and indeed, pink. When you get down to it, color is also light and darkness, and these are essential elements in my work. In terms of ‘evolution,’ the theme of the 1980s and today hasn’t really changed, and even if people say it is old-fashioned, it seems to come back to ‘nature’ in the end. Nature, including humans, is always wandering in search of light, and where there is light, there is naturally also darkness. Whether I work in acrylics or oils, I always feel that I am pursuing this alternation in my work.

P: Your journey from Tokyo to Cleveland and New York in the late 1960s seems pivotal. How did the exposure to Abstract Expressionism and Colour Field painting, as well as the discovery of new materials like acrylic paint, transform your artistic approach and your concept of ‘painting with color and form alone’?

YM: If I had not discovered acrylic paints (Liquitex) in New York, my career as a painter would not be the same as today. I also tried to make them my own medium, by adjusting the amount of water and gloss polymer medium, experimenting for about ten years of trial and error, and trying to make pink ink paintings – Suibokuga – in Japan. That is probably my unique method. Originality is important to me. The concept of ‘painting with colour and form’, or rather my aspiration as a painter, has remained consistent, as is evident from my earlier comments on light and darkness. Light and darkness, including all colours, the essence of nature and the form that emerges from the pursuit of these elements – this is what my paintings are about.

P: The use of pink became a defining element of your paintings from the 1970s onwards. What drew you to this particular hue, and how do you perceive its role in conveying subconscious depths and inexpressible thoughts?

YM: I believe that pink was a color promised to me since I was in my mother’s womb. For me, there was no point in using this color unless I could express my unique shade of pink. Acrylic paints (Liquitex) made this possible with ACRA Magenta, Phthalocyanine Blue, Cerulean Blue, and Burnt Umber, allowing me to realize this pink of mine. It is undoubtedly these Liquitex colors that have developed my pictorial expression, but as I mentioned before, pink also represents darkness for me. Contrary to its usual glamorous and feminine connotations, my pink carries negative elements such as anger and rebellion, especially in my works from the 1980s. In this sense, it is a color of the subconscious depths and an indispensable element in establishing my unique acrylic paintings.

P: In the early 2000s, you returned to oil painting after a long hiatus, marking a shift from pink to green. Could you discuss the challenges and rewards of re-engaging with this medium and how the color green reshaped your artistic narrative?

YM: The physical strain of painting with the canvas on the floor, especially on my lower body, was immense. I even thought about giving up painting. However, I found myself somewhat unsatisfied with just creating pink acrylic paintings and decided that if that was the case, I would have to set up a canvas and paint in oil again. But I couldn’t go back to the conventional way of painting. When I resumed oil painting, I changed the whole process to what I do now. Physically, I switched from linen to the cotton canvas I was used to with acrylics and used large round brushes. I started by drawing with a lot of charcoal on a primed canvas, choosing green as the main color. Green is a color that occupies most of nature, and I wanted to create a painting of green that was not bound to such reality and could stand on its own as a painting. Twenty years have passed in a flash since I worked on the green oil painting. This fact speaks to the difficulty of working with this medium and the colors, but perhaps it also reflects the joy I have found in it, which has made the twenty years fly by. The return to oil painting has freed me from previous constraints, and the color green seems to have deepened my painting, which is based only on color and form.

P: Your technique in acrylic painting involves working on the floor, applying thinned layers of paint, and wiping away the pigment to create a diffusion of color and light. How does this physical engagement with the canvas influence the emotional and psychological impact of your work?

YM: With water-based acrylics, achieving the expression I wanted on an upright canvas was impossible. The paint would drip off the brush because it was too thin, so I had no choice but to paint with the canvas on the floor. I moved around the canvas and threw my body onto it. Acrylics dry quickly, so no matter how large the piece, I would finish it in a day. This was a necessary constraint for the expression I was after. There was always a momentary negotiation with the material, and I made intuitive, almost unconscious, sensory decisions in those moments. But there was no emotional intention behind what I was painting, and indeed, there was no time for such thought. I forgot about time and space and worked as one with my body and the canvas.

P: The exhibition features two new watercolors created this year. How does the medium of watercolor allow you to explore different dimensions of your artistic vision compared to your work with acrylic and oil paints?

YM: Watercolor is not a preparatory drawing for a work on canvas; it stands on its own as a painting. However, while it is essentially so, the medium is relatively close at hand and has allowed me to discover colors and tones or get a sense of shading in an experimental way, which I used to practice in my earlier watercolors. Incidentally, the cobalt greenish color that appears on the right-hand side of the new work presented in the exhibition was a new discovery. Interestingly, this time my focus has shifted to the spatial awareness of the pictorial space, not just the hues, resulting in a work that is different from my previous ones. My work has taught me that what I have learned through the production of acrylic and oil paintings is reflected and influenced by each other, regardless of medium or dimension. Not only watercolors but also works on paper are a pleasure to experience and discover and are an essential part of my work.

P: Your paintings, such as “Field of Midian” and “Thought Circuit III,” evoke dynamic natural phenomena and cognitive processes. How do external conditions like weather, humidity, and your physical movement inform the creation of these intricate compositions?

YM: I have never had a rough sketch or concept before painting. Creation always comes unexpectedly out of nothing. I start from nothing – ‘無’ in Japanese, with a completely empty mind. Then, by chance, wonderful fields of color and brushstrokes appear. These unimaginable and unseen coincidences support my paintings. But underneath, there are layers of everything I have seen and felt, not to mention external things like climate and humidity, and my physicality, which may contain consciousness. I go to the canvas in a state of nothingness – ‘無’, but as a result, the work appears as intricate compositions. Perhaps it is because I am in constant pursuit of nature, including humans, and the accidental, miraculous formations that arise within chaos and order.