The Brooklyn Rail

The latest exhibition of Sean Scully—one of America’s preeminent contemporary abstract painters—in Caen, Normandy, does not take place in a conventional venue such as a gallery, museum, exhibition hall, or art fair. Instead, as part of the 2024 Normandy Impressionist Festival, the show, titled Procession, is held in Caen’s historic Saint-Nicolas Church, originally completed in 1083. Reflecting on the Romanesque architectural style that proliferated across Europe following William the Conqueror’s Norman invasion of England, it is challenging to grasp the significance this structure, likely the sole stone edifice in the village, held for its medieval community. Beyond serving as a sacred site of worship where newly converted Christians gathered for Sunday services, the church also offered the community a rare opportunity to encounter art, as this was the most effective way to communicate biblical history to a largely illiterate population. By contrast, the 19th-century proliferation of museums has rendered it rare for individuals today to have their first artistic encounters in a church. Sean Scully himself, however, first encountered art in a small Catholic church in London at the age of five, where he was captivated by the Crucifix, the Stations of the Cross, and depictions of the Virgin Mary. Returning his works to this sacred space thus brings his artistic journey full circle.

Romanesque churches are organized around a Latin cross plan, and this structure naturally guide the exhibition’s layout. Upon entering, visitors are greeted by an absorbing tunnel. Flanking the long nave are twelve three-meter-high canvases from a series created between 2019 and 2020. Titled The 12, these works, displayed within a church, evoke strong Christian symbolism, immediately summoning images of the Twelve Apostles. Despite the church’s dramatic dimensions, the paintings remain prominent. Composed of horizontal stripes assembled in a tabular manner, the repetitive irregular stripes create a sense of movement reminiscent of water, evoking both physical and metaphysical qualities of lightness. The simplicity and repetition of the compositions, combined with their sequential arrangement, create a ritualistic visual rhythm that echoes the prayers and chants so foundational to religious practice.

The dominant colors in the series—blue, red, and purple—play central roles in the visual and symbolic language of the Christian faith. Blue represents the heavens and eternity, embodying the promise of eternal life. Red symbolizes the blood of the martyrs, the Holy Spirit’s burning fire, and Jesus Christ’s passion and death. Purple signifies penitence, sorrow for sin, and preparation for Christ’s second coming as King. Although Scully often claims that his use of color is devoid of associations, he acknowledges an exception: “I associate Catholicism with elements of dirt and smoke. I see the religion as sensual and intimate due to the imagery it evokes—smoke, wine, body, tears.”¹ He translates this into his art through the use of smoky, muted blacks and whites. Furthermore, red drips can be seen at the bottom of three canvases. These might be interpreted as the Virgin Mary’s tears, weeping for our sins and salvation. More dramatically, they could evoke the "Weeping" Statue of Civitavecchia, discovered in 1996, which caused a sensation due to numerous instances of blood reportedly flowing from her eyes, culminating with Pope John Paul II receiving the statue in the Vatican, praying to it, and crowning it.

The stripe tunnel concludes abruptly, as a titanic sculpture obstructs the view of the altar and the exhibition’s second half. This imposing visual anchor, Opulent Ascension North (2022), is a nine-meter tower composed of layered wooden pieces covered in various colors of felt, adhering to a color scheme of whites, grays, blacks, and beiges. The irregular shapes of the layers make the sculpture resemble a modern interpretation of a Romanesque column on the verge of collapse. However, a perfectly cut-out rectangle within the sculpture restores its fortitude and serves as a doorway. Despite the lack of light emanating from this entrance, few can resist the urge to enter. The space is dark, but it opens at the top, allowing light to enter in a powerful gesture that suggests religious allegory.

Following the vibrant series of paintings near the entrance, Scully’s ash-colored sculpture moves the exhibition into a deeper, more solemn mood as we near the apse. Two paintings of the same size and dark color palette, Doric (2016) and Doric Air and Darkness (2016), are placed opposite each other, engaging in a dialogue. Their titles resonate with the architectural surroundings, reflecting the Roman architectural principles, heavily influenced by Greek classical orders, that underpin the Romanesque style. The massive, thick walls behind the canvases, with small rubble-filled openings, mirror the ‘bricks’ in Scully’s canvases, from which light struggles to escape through numerous applied paint layers. These paintings exemplify Scully’s most characteristic motif, cultivated since 1981 when he departed from Minimalism and the dense optical grid of the 1970s. Despite their muted chromatic variations, these works quiver with life and emotion.

As the exhibition progresses, the selection of works becomes increasingly personal. The altar, the final stop in the church’s layout, features a figurative tryptych titled Madonna A–C (2019). Their recent completion date is surprising, as Scully abandoned representational art for abstraction when he moved from England to America, seeking fertile ground for his pursuit of formal reduction. The colors of these new figurative works correspond to some paintings from The 12 that open the exhibition, creating a thematic link between the beginning and end. When asked about his decision to return to figuration in these works, Scully cites a personal tragedy that spurred him to immortalize his son, Oisin, in his paintings. Presented alongside his wife, Liliane Tomasko, is an iconographic reference to the Madonna and Child. Thus, the exhibition culminates as we enter Scully’s personal altar, his own place of worship.

Historically, churches were one of the first safety zones in times of warfare, as civilians in countries engulfed by conflict sought refuge in places of worship. Unfortunately, our contemporary world often has little regard for this honorable tradition, but the Saint-Nicolas Church nonetheless serves as a refuge for Sean Scully, removed from the relentless commercialism of the art market. This auratic show, characterized by grand visual unity and illuminated by the natural light shining from narrow windows above instead of harsh museum or gallery reflectors, inspires a profound introspective and contemplative state. We are once again reminded how Sean Scully is able to renew our understanding of abstraction through his desire to capture “something that can reflect the dimensionality of the human spirit within the grid of our world.”²