Richard Magee’s work discusses the interplay between surface and meaning, where the canvas transforms from a mere backdrop to a metaphorical body. From his exploration of memory to his innovative use of technology, Magee’s art offers a reflection on the relationship between creator, object and observer.
He is among the first artists showcased by the Corinthian Contemporary Art Partnership (CCAP), a foundation created in 2022 by Charles Bromley to nurture new talent, with works like Channel Tunnel ’94. CCAP fosters rising artists by exhibiting their pieces in members’ homes and partnering with curators and galleries, blending traditional art collecting with modern promotional strategies, positioning artists like Magee within a vibrant global art scene.
hube: Your artwork often incorporates unconventional materials like plaster and handkerchiefs. What inspires your choice of materials, and how do they contribute to the narrative of your pieces?
Richard Magee: The white canvas is already a defined surface. Once aware of that, it’s a small step to think that surfaces can problematise or seem more appropriate for different works. Sometimes, I’m interested in the canvas being presented as a sort of substitute body. My small, flesh-coloured, textured Brief Mark series should be read ontologically as something like pockmarked skin.
h: The Brief Marks series features postage stamps on paper. What are the conceptual origins of this series, and what is the meaning of the piece?
RM: ‘Briefmark’ means postage stamp in German, and I collect stamps, but only from the year I was born. I organise them on pages with broad themes like children, animals, or landscapes. They’re interesting to juxtapose or serve as time capsules of ideas from a certain time and place.
But… the Brief Mark series is different. It’s a loose title for small paintings, around 12 by 18 centimetres. These are interchangeably shown alongside a portrait where the space at the back of the head is missing.
On a wall, the little paintings look like thought bubbles coming from the figure’s head. They visualise the kind of procession of thoughts we have all day but barely notice. The head painting doesn’t change, but the small ones can react to the context in which they are shown.
The title introduces a situation where small ideas and observations, which wouldn’t normally be ‘enough’ for me as larger paintings, can exist. For example, how ‘war mega’ in German is saccharine – ‘Yeah, that was super’ – but for English speakers, the phrase sounds sinister.
h: What inspired the idea behind the portrait with the blank head?
RM: It was originally part of a larger painting that didn’t work out, so I recycled it. Recognising moments like that in the studio feels somewhere between the satisfaction of solving a maths equation, winning a scratch card, or finding money in a coat pocket you haven’t worn in a while.
Painting would be unappealing if I just executed a plan all the time. Besides, from experience, anytime I try to stick too closely to a plan, the painting resists too much intention.
That’s why I like it so much.
h: Your work Ghost in the machine says something’s in the way is a fascinating title. How do you approach titling your works, and what significance does this title hold?
RM: There’s a lot happening in that painting. It was made specifically for the biannual Urgencies show at the CCA in Derry, which aims to gauge what’s important to artists connected to the region.
At times, titles are important, but generally, I’m less drawn to specific titles now, instead thinking of groups that follow different processes. Nowadays, too many paintings rely on long titles from poems and songs.
I’m interested in being more obdurate and playing with word games. I alter titles – small changes in punctuation or spelling across different forms of exhibition documentation. It’s a way to keep the audience engaged and a small act of defiance against how overly explained, audience-friendly, and packaged the contemporary art world has become. That’s something I think is indicative of a wider problem.
For the painting you mentioned, it’s important to me that the title also contains ‘(after Willie Doherty)’. The source image comes from a search engine screenshot of a photograph by Doherty, a Derry-based photographer nominated for the Turner Prize the year I was born.
I was thinking about how images, perhaps due to the internet’s ubiquity, can regain significance, ‘haunting’ the present. That’s where the ghost idea came from.
h: You have exhibited your work internationally, from Hamburg to Sicily. How do different cultural contexts influence the reception and interpretation of your art?
RM: There’s talk of a collapsing provinciality in the art world due to the omnipresence of platforms like Instagram and Contemporary Art Daily. But it’s interesting that there are still pockets of localised influence – something I wonder about as cultural funding becomes even rarer.
When I moved to Germany, friends mentioned some artists I didn’t know, while equally, and surprisingly, they had different takes on German artists lionised in places like London where I studied before.
Regarding my work… I have a recurring fantasy about being randomly teleported somewhere on the planet and working there to see what happens. It’s better as a daydream, though.
On the other hand, one thing I’m navigating now is next year’s project in my hometown of Derry. It’s home, but apart from a few weeks a year, I’m rarely there. It’s where I first discovered art through the Void Art School as a teenager. The political context of the place is stimulating and provides an interesting challenge – whether or not to engage with it, and what each approach could mean.
It’s energising and challenging to navigate that mentally, knowing that, first, I’ve constructed it myself, and second, that everything will change once I do the project.
h: Your art often explores themes of memory and history. Can you share a specific work that delves deeply into these themes and explain its personal significance?
RM: One is The Self-Aware Image. It’s a large orange painting that grew laterally. The final idea was to imagine what a painting would see if the relationship between the audience and artwork were inverted, so the painting itself was the audience.
The background of the painting comes from an illustration in a children’s encyclopaedia, showing people from different historical periods alongside the objects they created. Cavemen with cave paintings, Ancient Egyptians with hieroglyphs, 15th-century Europeans with a printing press, etc. The figures are painted in non-waterproof ink, then blotted and repainted several times to look ghostly. Their objects were painted in acrylic, so they survived the process intact. The painting procedure mimicked the passage of time.
At some point, I found small round driving mirrors that looked like eyes. By chance, I discovered a scrap of canvas with a mouth I had drawn, signed in the corner. I arranged the two mirrors and a scrap of canvas, then painted them onto the canvas, making it resemble a face.
The final step came when I quickly painted what could be seen in the room into the eyes/mirrors for my and my colleague Sara Malie’s graduating exhibition. The smallest part of the painting is the most detailed – inside the eyes, you can see my other paintings and Sara’s sculptures in the room.
It’s wordy to explain, but the painting makes more sense visually in person. Oh, and the title references a book by Victor Stoichita.
h: The transition from traditional to contemporary art forms can be challenging. How do you navigate this evolution in your work while maintaining your artistic identity?
RM: You mentioned Ghost in the machine earlier. At one point, I was thinking, what if there’s a machine in the ghost? That led me to carve wooden stamps the size of keyboard keys. Woodcut is a traditional medium, but using it to replicate something as modern as keyboard keys for Bluetooth technology is both practical for painting and contrary to expectations.
I use technology like Photoshop and InDesign all the time, but I feel a lot of new media art relies solely on the novelty of technology. And I’m a killjoy – I don’t like art just being entertainment or distraction. I can look at my phone for that.
h: You’ve driven 10,000 miles through the deserts of the Southwestern United States, producing ongoing works from this journey. How did this experience impact your artistic vision and practice?
RM: That journey was fascinating. It gave me the opportunity to undertake an expensive trip, which I wouldn’t have been able to afford without the scholarship I received.
While there, I took a stack of paper with a header and footer I’d designed and printed, then worked on them throughout the trip and afterwards. The project was called Selected (false) Rumours. I’ve spoken about it before elsewhere. It eventually turned into one publication, and another piece of writing called Texas Looks Like Donegal, which isn’t public – I’d fear revisiting it.
Reflectively, the trip was influenced by Fluxus, Bill Drummond, and Gonzo journalism. The proposal initially involved Land Art, but looking back, I’m not sure why. I’m not interested in making land art myself. I spent just as much time going to places like Area 51 or the Biosphere as I did visiting Spiral Jetty or or Double Negative.
The journey allowed me to blend research and art-making, and personally, it gave me the confidence to do something challenging while still young. The first time I drove on the opposite side of the road was in a rented Kia Soul during rush hour in LA. Looking back, I see it as a nascent version of my current practice – making my work while writing on the side. The two are interconnected.
h: What advice would you give to emerging artists who want to break conventional boundaries and experiment with different mediums and concepts in their work?
RM: It might sound boring, but if you want to break the rules, you need to put in the work and learn the technical processes first. Once you’ve mastered those, you can subvert them. Sometimes, work is just work – it’s not always fulfilling or fun, but if you can find a necessity in it, you’ll get through.
To be honest, the one skill I wish I had learned faster is how to deal with disappointment. The art world and other artists can be more unkind than kind sometimes.
Photography by SARA MALIE courtesy of the artist
