CHICAGO — I was not familiar with Duncan McGillivray-Smith before I saw his auspicious debut exhibition, Ataraxia, at Ackerman Clarke. “Ataraxia” is an ancient Greek philosophical term for a state of tranquility that is achieved by detaching from external desires and concentrating attention on inner peace. While these paintings project a sense of calm, there is also a feeling of disquiet. The normal and anomalous overlap and become difficult to tell apart. That tension animates these peculiar images, in which figures and shadows, flatness and space, are equally important.
Of the exhibition’s seven oil paintings, two are relatively small (no more than 18 by 14 inches). In the other five — all between 32 by 42 and 84 by 74 inches — the interplay between the featureless figures and their shadows transforms the oddly elevated views into mysterious narratives arising out of common human activities, such as skiing or felling a tree with a crosscut saw.
In “Late Day in a Small World” (2023), McGillivray-Smith depicts a stage-like outdoor space in which the ground takes up most of the picture plane. Along the top edge is a thin pink halation line that represents the horizon. Below, on the blue surface, two men and a woman are standing around a tree that divides the plane vertically; behind it is a black and white cow known as a Holstein Friesian. Above the horizon, visible through a row of narrow white trunks and dense green trees, is a gently sloping mountain spanning the length of the canvas, and a dramatic blue and pink sky.
Duncan McGillivray-Smith, “Late Day in a Small World” (2023), oil on burlap
The three people, all apparently dressed in pajamas, are engaged in an animated conversation about something we can only guess at. Large blue shadows extend from these figures and the trees. A featureless man facing us points toward the left edge of the work; below his hand, we can see a snake crawling out from under a boulder.
As on a stage, the principal players and key props are largely visible. Yet here we have no idea what’s going on. This resistance to interpretation is what held my attention in the confounding “Four of Us” (2024). Amid a similar stage-like setting with a backdrop of trees, houses, a mountain, and an evening sky, two figures are using a crosscut saw to cut down a thin tree or sapling. While the man on the left is wearing a plaid shirt, brown pants, and pink shoes or socks, the one on the right is a solid red shape surrounded by a blue halation line. Located in the foreground, these two people form the base of a triangle, with a third person further back, creating the apex.
Duncan McGillivray-Smith, “Four of Us” (2024), oil on canvas,
Each person casts a large shadow that suggests another figure who appears capable of taking on a life of their own. This effect is enhanced by a fourth shadow rising up from the painting’s bottom edge. What is casting the light that makes the blackish-green silhouettes contrast sharply with the green ground speckled with blue, orange, red, and light green daubs? Who is the fourth person? If the tree falls, will it hit anyone? Are the silhouettes premonitions of disaster?
This is McGillivray-Smith’s great strength — in his seemingly serene scenes, ominous outcomes lurk as shadows or the uninvited snake. His use of shadows is inventive and uncanny. In “Thaw on the Mountain, Ice in the Valley” (2024), we see three skiers but four shadows on a white ski slope that divides the picture plane diagonally — the fourth, a head and shoulders rising from the bottom right edge, indicates a person outside of the pictorial space. One skier wears a sweater decorated with clouds and a sun rising in a brown sky, and the profile of a black horse on a green hill — a world within a world.
Duncan McGillivray-Smith, “Thaw on the Mountain, Ice in the Valley” (2024), oil on canvas,
While we have seen the silhouette of an unseen person in “Four of Us,” in this work, McGillivray-Smith splits the shadows of the skiers between the snow-covered slope and the valley with mountains in the distance, which fills the rest of the canvas. Two of the figures cast shadows that extend across the snow and onto these mountains. This improbable divide is integral to the logic of the painting and the world it evokes.
McGillivray-Smith’s debut is impressive. Each of the scenes he builds through paint has its own logic and feels hard won. The composition and elements work in tandem to convey an open-ended narrative. Finally, and most importantly, these domains all belong to the artist.
Ataraxia continues at Ackerman Clarke (2544 West Fullerton Avenue, Chicago, Illinois) through November 22. The exhibition was organized by the gallery.
