Jan Six
In an almost forgotten book by C. J. Holmes, Slade Professor of Fine Art at the University of Oxford, one can find a remark that easily fits Tjalf Sparnaay and his work. Written in 1909, Notes on the Science of Picture Making did not lose much of its relevance in regard to today’s views among art critics. He writes:
‘In reviewing the aims and ideals of the painter we need dwell only upon one aspect of them – namely, the condition that they shall be the outcome of per- sonal experience. We saw that the Narrative painter tries to render some aspect of nature as closely as his materials will admit, while the Satiric, Lyrical, Dramatic and Despotic painters do not. Of that aspect they may select only those parts which are essential to their respective purposes, and reject all the rest. All painters except Narrative painters thus produce their effects not by attempting to paint the whole of nature, but by the emphatic rendering of some part or phase of nature – the choice of the part of nature to be emphasized being the business of the painter’s personality.’
Some of Tjalf’s works show a search into nature in which he is not only trying to find its most realistic characteristics, but attempting to capture a momentum that works visually. This momentum usually originates from his choice to only depict a detail of a grander concept. These chosen details are clearly a personal touch and can only arise through his own experience of what does and what does not work.
To illustrate this, I always think of the composition that led my eye to Tjalf’s work. When I first started reading Art History at the University of Amsterdam, I was cycling one day from one lecture location towards the next. Probably thinking about early Dutch painting or another random topic we were assigned in our first year, I saw a vertical detail of a fried egg painted larger than life, mainly depicting a shiny yel- lowish-orange egg yolk. It caught my eye and I was compelled to walk into that tiny art gallery, housing these strange paintings and lithographs of extremely realistic details of ordinary life. I ended up buying a lithograph of this big egg yolk, which hung in every one of my never-ending changing student rooms. Until the end of my Art History studies, it served as that moment to gaze off to, to realize that life went on after the Old Masters passed away and how important it is to choose the right and exact details out of grander things. I got to know Tjalf on a personal basis quite soon, as an artist rarely receives a request to sell precisely no. 66 out of a lithograph series. Back then I really looked for no. 6 or 66 or (usually not a great sign) 666, when buying a print or lithograph from an artist’s print series. It would mark the start of a nice friendship and on my side the start of a lasting feel for modern art. In the year that followed, we had many conversations about realism, finding those details that give a different view on day-to-day life and what beauty could entail. In one of the discussions, I pointed out that I was so amazed that Tjalf painted himself, distorted in the shine of the yolk. Amazed, he confessed that he had never noticed this. It was great to see that when he was so fully concentrated on capturing the exact details in a composition, sometimes the overall image became less important. And that he would still be surprised by having conceived an even more realistic image than he initially thought.
Now, more than 15 years later, I feel the same sensation when confronted with one of his works. The lack of narrative, the option of gazing through the composition in search of details within details, and the ability to step back and contemplate are great. I am still asking myself why Tjalf chose this or that detail, and then I realize that that question is in essence irrelevant; all that matters is the outcome and the fact it works visually.
Another great characteristic is the fact that Tjalf is still alive. In my field, the artists are all dead. This can be quite handy when describing a certain work of art, or when one tries to offer a picture by explaining it through one’s own ideas without having to deal with the actual ideals of the creator. But talking to Tjalf about his art is actually a delight. The constant struggle to find the right composition, the right details and the right outcome in such immensely huge canvasses (I have never seen a smaller-than-life Sparnaay!) would almost suggest a rather neurotic char- acter, constantly obsessed with the right touch and result when applying the paint. But that’s not the case. As Holmes noted earlier, Tjalf’s easy friendliness, his patient ear in conversation and his gentle observation of life are actually a grand basis for his paintings. Those parts of nature that Tjalf emphasizes are what captures his mind, be it a thread of a tea bag clustered with tea droplets or glittering salt flakes on crunchy fries, water around a black olive on the glass of a bowl, or smudges of dirt on the side of a dishwasher top. And yes, luckily he never ends explaining and contemplating his own works when asked!