The Landscapes of J.C. Nachenius, by Nico de Haas

A visual artist does not create his works so that someone else may write about them. Nor is it possible to describe a painting to one who cannot see. At best, one can craft a piece of prose inspired by a painting, but this benefits painting hardly at all, and literature only rarely.

The simplest and most effective thing to do is to encourage the public to behold for themselves.

That requires attention, calm, and the gift of receptivity. A work of art arises from the inspiration of the artist; it is born in solitude. The maker has listened to the rhythm of the whole; at times he has seen the earth more beautiful, clearer, and purer than most people ever perceive it. And something — or much — of this vision he has captured in lines and colors, in surfaces and forms.

That is why the creation of art is never mere craft or formula. Works of art are never manufactured to order, though they may occasionally arise from a commission. But such a commission presupposes wisdom on the part of the patron; without it, no collaboration is possible. Works of art emerge in a mood of sensitivity, openness, and receptivity to perfection — what is often called inspiration. Yet there is nothing magical in this; one might, however, speak of a mystical bond between painter and nature, if mysticism is understood in our sense as a state of special clarity of mind.

But spirit alone is not enough, neither for the painter nor for his painting. The stubborn reality of painstaking craft has its say as well. For the natural demand of the beholder is, and must be, that the work is well made, that the technique underlying it has been mastered. For how could the clumsy hand follow the spirit if it already failed in handling its tools?

In the greatest works we hardly think of such questions: the technique recedes entirely behind the image, which appears to us as the most complete solution to the subject, hardly as something that could have been otherwise. This is what all great art shares: we accept it as the only conceivable expression of its theme, a solution to which we would wish to add nothing, from which we would wish to take nothing away.

The last years have brought us few true works of art and many experiments. All these trials are quickly forgotten, and when we now look back on the productions of the “-isms,” we can only wonder how these soulless contrivances — these purely cerebral and often wantonly insolent market pieces — could ever have been taken seriously. That there were even buyers willing to pay for such brazen things seems astonishing.

Yet, far removed from the clamor of charlatans, true artworks have continued to appear. Often in the solitude of a rural setting, as the distillation of the eternal cycle of unchanging nature. Unchanging — yes, but revealing itself in countless ways, ever new and fresh in its visions of her manifold forms. One of the few who remained faithful to his own nature, who pursued his path unshaken by the corruption of the times, was J.C. Nachenius. And so, now that reflection on the eternal values of our folk begins to glimmer like the dawn of a new age, we turn our attention to his work — this time especially to his landscapes.

We shall not lapse into empty description here. Cataloguing a work cannot bring us closer to its inner essence. Instead, we ask for true attention to these images, which can, of course, only offer a pale approximation of the far more beautiful and noble originals. For these landscapes speak of the grandeur of the open country, of the spacious freedom of nature, and of the unity of the organically grown and the built.

Some works abound in inexhaustible detail, yet remain clear and transparent. Others impress with their gentle atmosphere and intimacy of vision. The viewer must take time, must win for himself the stillness in which these qualities may be discovered and inwardly experienced. For to enjoy art is to be active: to cooperate, to be willing to be shaped.

In this case, it will not be difficult. These works do not burn into the soul like sharp acids. They act rather as healing and restorative. They bring beauty, freshness, and above all, character. Compare the various species of trees and the ways in which they are depicted. And beyond them, the sky — boundless and distant, yet filled with a play that will never cease to fascinate.

Each viewer will experience something different. Many will feel the impression: how beautiful is the earth, how good and rich is nature. Others will discern in these tree forms something of the fate of humankind, and seek in them more than lies within the reach of painting or graphic art. But all will undergo the enchantment of these pure and honest works, which so fully accord with our own being, and therefore are able to speak so directly to our souls.

Nico de Haas in Hamer, January 1941