“I am a colorist,” Ado Hamelryck liked to say about his work, a remarkable statement for an artist who knew how to delve so deeply into blackness. Was it irony, a conceptual statement, an artistic provocation? His comment is certainly layered, and is worthy of nuance. If colorism refers to the painterly use of colors, the question arises: is black really a color? In physics, black is defined as the absence of light. When something appears black, it means that it absorbs all wavelengths of visible light and reflects none. Color is created by the reflection of light, so black—from a physical perspective—is not a color. In art, however, the situation is different. There, black is indeed considered a color because it comes from pigments or dyes, such as paint or ink. Psychologically, the same is true: our eyes and brains can distinguish black as a color, just like, say, red or blue. With this, we encounter an apparent contradiction: black is both color and non-color. Both views are correct—it is simply a matter of perspective. In Hamelryck’s work, this tension plays a crucial role. When he called himself a colorist, he was referring not only to the black that pours from an ink or paint pot, but also to the effect of light, to the subtle, discreet play of color that his works engage with the surrounding space. It is precisely the power and splendor of paradox that this artist has managed to capture in his work like no other. For nearly five decades, Ado Hamelryck has built up an impressive body of work that is as extensive as it is consistent. The term life’s work is more appropriate than ever. However, I will not attempt an exhaustive, systematic study here—that would, after all, require much more time and dedication. Rather, I want to take a look at his work, illuminate it, and I don’t mean that only in a figurative sense. As an art critic, I often ask myself the question: what is the appropriate distance is to fully understand an image? If we stand too close, it seems to withdraw; if we stand at a distance, it seeks to approach us. In this constant interplay between distance and proximity lies the phenomenological experience of art—a subtle game of appearance and disappearance. Hamelryck shows us how an image is created not only in space but equally in time. His work has a decidedly graphic character, derived from the ancient Greek verb graphein, which means not only “to write,” but also “to draw, sketch, engrave, carve.” This is reflected in his tableaux, sculptures and drawings, which are at once physical objects, material supports made of wood, paper or Styrofoam. Although Hamelryck’s oeuvre appears to be a relentless quest for visual purity, it transcends the medium-specific discourse of modernists such as Clement Greenberg. Where Greenberg argued that art should focus on the unique properties of its medium—for painting, for example, this meant flatness, color and paint as matter—Hamelryck takes a different approach. His work then aligns even more with what Donald Judd called specific objects: art that transcends the traditional boundaries between painting and sculpture. In this sense, there is a kinship with Minimal Art, albeit with a distinct, expressive touch. Art historian Michael Fried saw this art form as a reaction to the exhaustion of painting and an exploration of the tableau as a three-dimensional object. According to Fried, Minimal Art revolved around an object within a situation—a “theatrical” context that includes the presence of the viewer. In this way, Hamelryck’s sculptural bodies manage to trigger and intrigue the spectator. Not only for the artist himself, but also for us as viewers, his works are elaborate exercises in attention and concentration. His daily, dogged, repetitive devotion to the creative process is reflected in a constant invitation for us to look—and look again. “Paradoxical as it may sound, the extreme monotony is sometimes enchanting,” wrote the incomparable Francis Smets. The more minimalist the artistic gesture, the more intense the viewer’s experience. Hamelryck’s works carry us along in the visual rhythms he applies pastily onto his dark supports—a serial repetition that shifts and differs again and again. A visual poetry unfolds on the irregular skin of his works—their silver linings, if you will. Perhaps this is why he was so devoted to graphite? It is precisely here, in the frayed edges of the image, that a refined play between light and dark, white and black, between viewer and artwork, materiality and emptiness, time and space, emerges. His textures and accents make the surface vibrate, as if a hidden dynamic lurks in the apparent stillness. It is these glimmers and sparkles that give Hamelryck’s works an additional finesse—a perceptual pleasure that leads us to the realization: black is a color. For Nothing Really Ends, we have made a careful selection from Ado Hamelryck’s oeuvre—not with the ambition of being exhaustive, but to give a representative impression of his artistic signature. And it is one of patience, silence, stillness and deceleration—an extraordinary way of seeing and working that is often at odds with the frenetic pace of our time. Hamelryck had little use for speed. Rather, he compared his artistic persistence to the steady gait of a marathon runner. Or, even better, to that of the tortoise in the classic fable of Aesop, who defeats his opponent, the hare, with perseverance and determination. This exhibition also testifies to that, even now that the artist is no longer here. Everything is a matter of time. The art that Ado Hamelryck leaves us shows how an end is only a horizon—an imaginary line that does not draw a boundary, but marks a new beginning. PIETER VERMEULEN | Curator