In the 1960s, when fashion houses began incorporating Bridget Riley's designs into their collections, she saw it as a reduction of her art to mere style. She expressed her belief that it would take at least 20 years before people would start viewing her work with the seriousness it deserved. Today, a retrospective exhibition of the British artist can be seen in Berlin. Her works are a profound lesson in deep and focused observation.
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It’s inherently difficult for me to remain still. That’s why looking at art, before it became an intellectual or emotional challenge, was first a purely physical one. Step by step, I learned to confront it. To keep my body still long enough for the experience to unfold, to avoid looking too quickly, and not to miss the details. In truth, I’m still learning to overcome this impatience.
How does Bridget Riley see the world?
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Unlike me, Bridget Riley, born on April 24, 1931, practiced the art of attentive observation from a very young age. Her mother, Louise, taught her to look at the world in a way that revealed space, phenomena, and objects. Thanks to her, young Bridget understood that the world consists of colors, shapes, textures, reflections of light, and all forms of movement—not just physical objects. The visually rich nature of her family’s home in Cornwall gave her an intimate first lesson in sensory perception.
Riley made the decision about her professional direction as a teenager. Since dedicating herself to art—according to Paul Moorhouse’s biography, Bridget Riley: A Very Very Person—her focus has never been solely on the visual aspect. Her aspiration was for her works to enrich the spirit, transcending the mere act of viewing. Searching for her form of expression, Bridget Riley began creating intricate structures based on simple shapes such as circles, squares, triangles, and lines. She altered proportions, disrupted geometry, deconstructed, and rebuilt. Although her works initially strongly stimulated the sense of sight, Riley has always opposed labeling her art as Op Art (optical art), a genre of abstraction designed solely to affect the viewer's eye. She continues to emphasize that her works are not limited to creating optical illusions, and they are meant to engage not only visually but also emotionally.
In the 1960s, as her popularity grew, fashion houses began replicating (and, notably, doing so illegally) her designs in their collections. Riley saw this as reducing her art to mere style. She remarked that it would take at least 20 years for people to start taking her work seriously. Sixty years later, filled with both seriousness and excitement, I am going to see her exhibition in Berlin.
Riley’s paintings allow us to see what we feel
The vast space of the Max Hetzler gallery is filled with 13 paintings. Not a single canvas, as all are painted directly onto the walls. The paintings on the ground floor overwhelm me with their demanding scale (their dimensions range from a few meters to several), so I begin with the smaller ones in the upstairs room. I have it all to myself, and taking advantage of this comfort, I sit on the bench. "Cosmos" (2017), the first painting I observe closely, is a galaxy of intensely vibrating dots in purple, light brown, and green. At first glance, it's difficult for me to penetrate this vibration, and I need a moment to sit through the afterimages, the strong visual impression materializing here as transparent circles with light gray edges. I want to separate what is happening in the painting from what is happening in my head. I'm not sure how long this takes because, rather than focusing on time, I prefer to focus on space. As my eyes adjust, the sensations begin to clarify. Looking smoothly transitions into feeling. My breath quickens slightly, and my body becomes more tense, as if trying to keep up with the rhythm of the seemingly motionless, harmoniously arranged dots. I feel as though what I'm looking at is constantly changing. The movement is no longer only horizontal; some dots seem to break free from the order and move further away from the wall. This intensity excites me so much that, to catch my breath, I shift my gaze to the next painting. "Angel" (2022) appears, at first glance, to be nearly the same as the previous work, but with larger and more scattered dots. However, everything turns out to be different within them. They seem frozen in stillness, suspended in the air to such a perceptible degree that I focus on the white, soothing space more than the colors filling it. I think about the artist's working method. Since the early 1960s, Riley has often built her compositions based on the psychological states of alternating periods of rest and disturbance (repose – disturbance – repose). Today, I experience this sequence not only by looking at individual pieces but also by shifting my gaze from one painting to another. Driven by the dynamics of emotions, at a certain point, I feel that I no longer want to remain in one place. I get up, walk several meters away, turn around, and feel as if "Angel" is also moving. From this new perspective, it seems to follow me, and the dots scatter across the white surface of the wall at varying speeds. It's interesting how much one new variable – distance – can contribute. I increase the distance even further and descend downstairs.
What matters is presence in the space
The space at Max Hetzler is filled not only with 13 paintings. I have the sense that I am also filling it. The intensity of the sensations makes me feel more aware of my body. I also feel less intimidated and finally ready to stand before the largest paintings. As I pass by the compositions, I realize that I am forgetting the impressive size of the gallery. I stop noticing the large, solid walls; the paintings seem to be suspended in their own intimate space. The last one I stand before is "Dancing to the Music of Time" (2022) – still dots, but this time larger, darker, and more saturated than those seen in the paintings upstairs. They form into sequences that float beside each other, intertwining at times so closely that they begin to merge. Their surface seems velvety. As I look at them, I have the sense that I know how I would feel them under my fingertips, almost as if I were touching a body I am familiar with. I gaze for so long that my eyes demand rest. I have to close them for a moment, shielding them with my hands, completely cutting off from the stimuli. Giving them a break, I begin to think about Bridget Riley’s eyes. What did they see, what affected them most intensely? I’m even more curious because I know the artist doesn’t create the final versions of her paintings by herself (assistants paint them) because she wants to remain, to the very end, in the role of an observer. I remember that Riley is supposed to arrive in Berlin the day after my visit, so I send an email to the gallery hoping someone will pass on my question to her. The reply comes two hours later: “Bridget Riley is currently at the gallery and is enjoying the space. In response to your question: there isn’t one specific piece that stands out for her, rather the experience of viewing all the works together – something that has never been possible before.”
Bridget Riley’s first exhibition took place in 1962 at London’s Gallery One. I find if moving that, six decades later, the artist comes to the gallery to see her works with the same curiosity that I am feeling. It’s also a great reminder to keep the ability of looking with innocence of the first- time experience, no matter how well we know or understand what's in front of our eyes.