"Memory is short, very short," Giacometti said in an interview. "When you look at reality, it's so much more complex, and when you try to do the same thing again from memory, you realise how little you remember." This is a remarkable - if disjointedly random - study of one of this century's most fascinating artists, a man who became increasingly obsessed with the idea that all he was trying to do was to copy his sensations.
"Simply to copy, so as to take account of what one sees.
Alberto Giacometti, who was born in the Swiss village of Stampa near the Swiss Italian border in 1901, died 30 years ago this week. He was the eldest child of the artist Giovanni Giacometti, and as Sylvester points out in a thoughtful text which, thankfully, focuses more on the work than the man, remarks' of his subject: "Things were made easy for him to become an artist. He had a handsome face, a clever tongue, shone at school, quickly displayed an amazing facility in painting and sculpture. His father was a successful enough artist to help him but not so successful to demoralise him." Looking at Giaconetti is the result of having known the artist, sitting for him, watching his development, listening to his views and ultimately offering an overview shaped by hindsight. So it is both an examination of a body of work in progress and a final verdict. Perceptive and deeply felt, intimate without being intrusive, Sylvester's obvious passion for the work never clouds his judgment. Above all, Giacometti himself articulates, even questions his own artistic philosophy.
