For J.N

Starting early in the morning, with nothing but natural lighe, Suzan Frecon paints slowly. Consequently, and as Stephen Westfall rightly puts it (Art in America, 2018), Suzan Frecon’s large paintings “reveal themselves slowly”. First, what we notice is the apparent simplicity of the motifs and forms. And then a familiar question arises: « How long does it take to achieve simplicity? » But paradoxically, it’s a simplicity that isn’t simple. “Simple” is a mixed stuff. And who knows why, with this idea of ​​“simple”, I think of Leibniz, who uses this term many times in his Monadologie (1714, written in French). It is not a question of making a taxonomic exegesis of the use of the notion in the work, although, by searching a little, one can come across this extraordinary quotation:              

The passing condition which involves and represents a multiplicity in the unity, or in the simple substance, is nothing else than what is called Perception. (Leiniz, Monadology)

Thus the word “simple” came to me when I visited Suzan Frecon’s exhibition at the Zwirner gallery, Paris. On the surface, these are forms that can be described as such; which gives them, in turn, a sort of tranquil objectal majesty, a tranquility, however, disturbed quite wonderfully by the colours, often completely opposed to each other, colours coming from industry or which the artist makes herself, plundering pigment for hours, or even entire days, to obtain this colour, this chromatism, which, decidedly, cannot be found anywhere but through the sieve of the alchemical pulverisation of the Freconian mixture.

But the apparent simplicity fades away as one reaches the paintings, and therefore the painted. To quote Leibniz, who did not speak at all of painting, but whom I use freely, as you have understood, one can say that in seeing a large painting by Frecon, and in friendly contradiction to our philosopher, we obtain the perception of a unity in the multitude but, once again, to notice this, it is necessary to get closer. There are therefore two perceptual times: an encompassing time, and, I would say, a time in details. And I invite the reader to “go” to the Zwirner Gallery website a zoom in on the painting (here), you will find very practical + and – symbols there. 

And then we will see that from the distant “unity”, things happen which ultimately display a sort of disparity, such as borders which are sometimes clear and sometimes overlapping, blurrings within what we had assumed to be unified, and leading, in fact, to a certain vaporization of the motif. Moreover, Frecon expects the spectator to scrutinize more closely what is at stake in the painting: 

To me it’s not interesting to look at a painting as just shapes, the interior of the paint is really important to me so that goes back to what you were saying about seeing my hand in it. I like seeing how the hand manipulates the paint, yet I don’t like to imbalance the suspension of the composition. (“Suzan Frecon with John Yau”, The Brooklyn Rail, October 2025)

Seen up close, we can see drips and halos, as if the artist deliberately contoured the shape because she didn’t wish how to achieve a clear boundary. 

When things in my work start to look like they’re hard-edged or cut out that bothers me — I want it to be substantial. That’s why I like this bleeding of the oil to set up another dimension within the color or pigment. (Frecon-Yau, Brooklyn Rail, 2025)  

And this is the second way to see the canvases. The original, the one within distance, allows the representation of some tranquil united masses, which I would dub primary perception, deploying the overall unity, the peaceful balance of motifs.

Perception is a representation, Leibniz tells us. Now what is a physical representation? It is indeed a presence. As a general rule, I never use this much-overused word, but here, I admit I have no choice, since I thought of this term, pondered it, I must agree that it is essential. So, we can now say that Frecon’s motifs are “present”. We must justify the use, otherwise, of course, on this account, anything can be “present”: a toothbrush, a fruit tree, a brand new car. And to support this, I will tell you that after this visit to the Zwirner gallery, I went into another exhibition of paintings, of which I will not mention the gallery’s name nor the artist’s, and where, in contrast to the Freconian presence, the paintings there were propelled at light speed into a distant past… where some people still painted like that. Remanence of fossil painting. But let’s get back to our subject. We note that the paintings are often diptychs, but, from a distance, this is not necessarily visible either. Why does Frecon associate one part with another, to complete its forms? Can’t she associate them in the same format? Of course, the Brooklyn Rail asked her the question. And this is the answer:   

This double dimension that I am using has two sets of measurements, which have something to do with Chartres. The cathedral is mystifying with the multiple dimensions that go on and on. I never could really understand it. I don’t think anybody does, because there are so many things in it. I was playing with this simple one-two relationship. I’ve also tried rhythmic dimensions. I found composition the weak thing in most work. I wish to strengthen the painting and make it exist, so that we will want to continue looking at it and it doesn’t fall apart.

What’s interesting here, for me, is the recurrence of what I would call the “diptych’s incision”, since, contrary to the tradition, which Frecon often evokes in interviews, where the diptychs are homogeneous and distinct, each giving its own narrative, the Freconian diptychs are continuous, i.e., logical in pattern; we do not, with the cesura (gap, emptiness, if you like), change completely of “story” between both parts. Although Frecon refers to the diptych in the history of painting; or the Chartres Cathedral and its incomprehensible geometrical “dimensions”, or the illuminated Lindesfarne Gospels (here), the implementation of the diptych never fails to puzzle me. I am quite convinced that she could certainly produce the same paintings on a single surface (think about some other very large paintings, in one sole piece, such as, for instance, Ellsworth Kelly’s “Red Panel”), however she needs, and I really believe that it is a question of rhythm, to produce a diptych, that is, to provoke a cesure in the “reading” of the painting. And this then intentional gesture, has, in the end, more to do with the “fiction” of the whole, than with the History of painting.  

Now, it’s not a question of saying that Frecon is hiding her “true” reasons or doesn’t want to “say” things; it’s more, in my humble opinion, a question of modesty. But look at this luminous “Bright Lantern”. There is something that contradicts what, for example, Roberta Smith (here) writes when she speaks of “fullness of form.” Certainly, from a distance, one can see a certain tranquil objectal majesty, the objects, the forms if you prefer, stand, they are solemn, without ostentation, and without mimēsis. Added to this, Smith sees in Frecon’s paintings “curved hillocks, small mountains, crystalline ponds, low-hanging clouds and rising or setting suns.” And even though the cited article by Smith refers to a 2015 exhibition, there is no such “natural” nor “organic” forms, as Jan Avigkis puts in (Artforum 2021) in Frecon’s paintings. In this (decidedly decisive) issue of Brooklyn Rail, the question is put to her:  

Rail: Do you think of your paintings as being derived from nature?

Frecon: Oh, I think nature is a given. It’s impossible to say we aren’t from nature. To me, nature is everything and I don’t put it in those terms where you say […] One way is the experience of looking, walking in the woods, looking at a sunset, is comparable to the experience of looking at art or listening to music. It’s just so much a part of the soul of humanity. When you are looking at the Cézanne for example, or a Pomo basket, you just feel strongly about this captured feeling. I would love it if I could aspire to capture something comparable in my paintings.

Frecon is not a naive painter, she knows very well that it is impossible to reproduce reality, so she invents another kind of one, just like every artist, in her or his full capacity, does. And the last sentence in the interview is very important. Frecon does not say “I paint mountains and rivers,” she says that she “would so love to be able to aspire to capture something comparable in [my] paintings.” Something “comparable”. But obviously, this will not do, because it is quite unlikely that someone walking through a landscape would suddenly declare: “It feels like being walking into a Frecon’s painting.” And to this impossibility is added the emergence of the gap produced by the diptych arrangement. Frecon is often referred to her diptychs, but, as it seems, less about the rupture that the gap produces. And here we definitively move away from any mimetic attempt, because a landscape, even if Frecon  would attempt (in a counterfactual reality) to reproduce one, the landscape, properly speaking, does not know any bottom-up gap at any point in space whatsoever. In fact the gap is producing something in the painting, the very structure of the canvas, which acts as a rift in the rythm of the forms, and this, once again, has nothing to do with the deep History of painting, it’s a very contemporary gesture, of which meaning is still to come at fully being thought.

PS. I very much thank Philippe Fouchard-Filippi for his quick and precious help with images and details.