David Evans never felt comfortable with the “artist” tag; even as an establishment figure within the Scottish art scene, he always described himself as a “painter”. This text, prepared with the invaluable support of the artist’s family, explores the sense of atmosphere in his best work with an eye geared towards his technical gifts. It is a facet which is central to his brilliance as a creator.

Over the course of sixty years, David Pugh Evans (1942-2020) proved himself to be one of the most gifted visual artists working in Scotland. Evans’ diverse output was underpinned by his lifelong fascination with mood and atmosphere: from his earliest works, depicting disorienting interior views haunted by amoebic figures, to his later paintings of curiously silent, quietly surreal urban scenes and shop fronts, his central preoccupations remained constant. These concerns are most abundantly clear in his most ambitious figural works, painted during the 1970s and 1980s: paintings which depict motionless figures idling in bare domestic settings, isolated in long stretches of road and peculiarly lit by neon advertising hoardings. Charged with a pervasive, often unsettling sense of atmosphere, they remain some of Evans’ most memorable, distinctive and impressive works. They are marked by an exceptionally high level of technical skill; evident, not least, in Evans’ articulation of the effects of light, which obsessed him throughout his working life. Evans’ commitment to his craft is borne out in his rather stark comment that he was a painter, nothing more: he was reluctant to describe himself as an “artist” because of his indifference to the “art world”, with all of its fashionable connotations, and he remained committed to demonstrating and honing his technique above all else (Note 1). The text which follows digs deeper into that assertion, exploring how Evans’ interest in the craft of painting directly affected the creation of atmosphere in his work; how his study of the techniques of picture-making, its bare bones, led to the creation of magnificent works of art.

An eagerness to master the art of picture-making on a technical level was the driving force of David Evans’ practice and the most significant marker of his artistic personality. But there is clear self-effacement in his comment that he was not in fact an “artist”: Evans’ position as a long-standing teacher at Edinburgh College of Art (he was appointed in 1965 and retired in 1998) and an Academician (he was elected to the Royal Scottish Academy in 1989) indicates his position as an establishment figure. Nevertheless, his cultivation of a painstakingly precise technique – one which was so accomplished as to prompt Cordelia Oliver to call him “an almost classical painter” – might align him more closely with a “craft” tradition than with the sort of work which his contemporaries were producing at the Royal College of Art in the 1960s (Note 2). Evans’ time at the Royal College was foundational because the pressure to paint in a certain experimental mode, which seemed unnatural to the young artist, served only to encourage his enthusiasm in the opposite direction; it divorced him from the mainstream.

September Sunday, 1973, Oil On Canvas, 122 x 112cm, private collection

While his early work from around this time shows Evans using an increasingly sophisticated painterly technique to feed a sense of atmosphere in his pictures, his arrival in Edinburgh coincides with a much greater emphasis on technical concerns: so much so, in fact, that from the early 1970s, the enticement of a new technical challenge often informed what Evans painted. A series of works from 1974, for example, show Evans adopting and adapting a technique almost akin to Seurat’s in order to depict the sea at Arbroath: short, distinct strokes and gently undulating lines describe the effects of light and the movement of currents with surprising faithfulness. In this instance, the subject became a vehicle for the development of technique: the image of the sea presented an opportunity to develop the quality of his handling in a new direction. Other, more formally inventive compositions from around this time also reflect Evans’ keen desire to hone his technique by stretching the known bounds of his skills. In September Sunday, Evans is concerned with pulling off a difficult technical feat in an image which is quite unlike anything that went before: he sets out to treat each element in the picture as totally distinct, within a composition which concentrates and highlights the radical differences of form and texture in each. He convincingly realises the subtle variation in tone and texture across each folded section of the tablecloth, as the light creeps from left to right; the alien form of the woman’s back, with all of the pleasing detail on the surface of the skin, strikes a totally different note without compromising the integrity of the composition. For Evans, it seems, the temptation of undertaking a challenge such as this was too strong to resist. While his later work from the 1990s onwards, say, might arguably seem rather more domestic or less ambitious by comparison, the solid technical grounding which developed rapidly in sophistication throughout the 1970s and a continuing commitment to further enhancing his technique thereafter through close observation and enthusiastic experimentation with media lends his succeeding works a striking sense of refinement and completeness. The sense of atmosphere which seems to radiate from his best paintings has its roots in these technical building blocks.

Evans’ remarkable painterly control, abundantly clear in his works of the 1970s and 1980s, has an enormous impact on the creation of atmosphere in his work: the impressive verisimilitude of his best pictures has a powerful effect on our reaction to them. The sight of a figure staring fixedly at a point outside the canvas, beyond our comprehension; the suggestion of a hushed dialogue between two figures, standing in uncomfortably close proximity; the inclusion, even, of a lone blue bucket in the corridor of a seedy hotel, perhaps for some unsavoury purpose; all of these formal elements conspire to stir up the sense of enigma, unease and even menace which is readily associated with Evans’ work. But the creation of atmosphere relies on more than subject matter, compositional devices or relationships built within a picture; Evans’ technique is central. His treatment of the subject makes these unsettling scenes appear troublingly true-to-life.

New Light, c.1980, Oil On Canvas, 153 x 185cm, private collection

Evans’ control of the brush or the pencil breathes an unnerving sense of reality into his works. If the spectre of a man lingering in the corner of an empty room appears to have been lifted from a dream, or indeed a nightmare, Evans’ persuasive treatment of the image seems to make it a reality. He deploys his skills to this effect on a grand scale in New Light, a very large, immersive oil from around 1980. The image of a young man seemingly captivated by a sight glimpsed through the window in a door is fraught with ambiguity, even menace: is the figure paralysed with voyeuristic delight, or with horror at what he sees? Is he antagonist or protagonist? The tensions which are evident on the surface of the picture undoubtedly account for much of the fascination and unease we might feel on viewing the work, but Evans’ great technical gifts are also at play. His ability to realise the deep folds in the man’s vinyl jacket, for example, creates an effect which is at once highly convincing and also sculptural, serving to create the illusion of reality on the canvas - to draw the viewer into that world - and to make the subject appear as though it could leap out of the picture plane into our own space. Moreover, New Light shows Evans fully exploiting his astonishingly accurate sense of tone and colour to articulate the atmospheric potential of light, particularly in the wall on the right of the painting. Evans, who commented that the challenge of painting an empty wall correctly is more difficult than painting any complicated still life arrangement, dabbed single brushstrokes of closely-toned shades on top of a dark ground (probably purple or blue), ensuring his marks remained wet while he worked, in order to overcome a difficult technical challenge (Note 3). The highly realistic effect of an even, continuous transition in tone spread across an empty space brings an unnerving, rather nightmarish scene – one lifted from some 1970s psychological horror movie, perhaps? – closer to our own reality. But it is interesting to note that the effects of light, always rendered in a manner faithful to the real world, are anything but natural or normal in Evans’ work. His light is artificial and carefully-controlled; the result of his practice of working in a shuttered studio and using a lightbox to control how light struck his subject (certain spaces are exposed, certain forms are clarified)(Note 4). In ensuring that light affects a scene in an unusual way, Evans subtly heightens the lingering sense of otherworldliness in a given picture – Second Light is a particularly striking example of this effect – while his skilful handling nevertheless evokes an immediate sense of familiarity in the viewer. It is a device which, like the convincing realisation of a ghostly figure which we are less than keen to imagine existing in reality, helps to create an uncanny quality: it conspires to disturb our sense of reality.

In his treatment of works such as New Light, Evans seems to have taken cues from the example of Rene Magritte, one of his artistic heroes. Magritte’s cool, traditional, objective style allowed even the weirdest scenes and relationships to assume a sense of credibility in the picture frame; his “deadpan” style aimed to seduce the viewer into believing that these scenes could somehow take root in the real world, that everyday reality is not quite what it seems. The degree of refinement in Evans’ work heightens this effect: in the way that he despatches with the illustrative tendency of Magritte’s style in favour of a more true-to-life approach, fantasy becomes an uncanny version of reality. His technical command does something to disturb our understanding of the real world; if only for a moment, it sends a shiver down the spine.

Evans’ technical abilities do more than express the eerie, troubling implication that the unsettling scenes depicted in his paintings might have some bearing on reality: his incredibly meticulous handling can also, in fact, have virtually the opposite effect. Evans’ hand creates a heightened version of reality. His paintings go beyond appearing “real”: they come to seem hyper-real, charged with an otherworldly atmosphere.

Reception, 1981, Oil On Canvas, 107 x135 cm, private collection

Digging deep into Evans’ work, it is fascinating to note that the version of reality he appears to construct can negate itself upon interrogation. His 1981 oil Reception, for example, appears to be a consummate, persuasive image on the surface: precise draughtsmanship, accurate (if unusual) lighting effects and a convincing sense of tone and colour immediately suggest a scene which simulates reality faithfully. Yet on closer inspection, it becomes clear that the work exists in its own dimension: the experience of looking reveals that the work is not rooted in our reality. It is an impossible task for any figurative painter to construct a work which mimics reality accurately because of the obvious tension between the three-dimensional subject and the two-dimensional medium of expression. On the surface, at least, Evans appears to join the legion of artists who have attempted to resolve this problem by creating great illusionistic depth: two of the most highly realistic passages in the painting, the stacking chairs and the creases in the figure’s jacket, bring this scene closer to our world. But crucially, in other ways, his exceptionally meticulous handling and obsessive use of detail – Evans would work slowly and with great care, sticking to a methodical approach which could appear to border on meditation, and was sometimes only able to produce in a painting after a period of several months (Note 5) - draws his work further away from our reality. Each element in Reception is described as lucidly as the next; we find that foreground, midground and background are presented with consistent sharpness, as if suggesting that, in Evans’ world, the beholder will fix their gaze on all of these dimensions simultaneously; this is an impossibility. He shuns the time-honoured devices used to subtly indicate proper spatial recession in favour of a sharpness of touch which affects a change in our response to the scene. His insistence on such a high level of detail across the picture – from the minute details on the plasterwork on the right-hand wall, to the figure’s carefully-polished shoes – does not allow our eye to explore the picture with ease; such detail and sharpness send our eye darting out across the canvas. The way that Evans plays with the act of looking, by tempting us to drink in all of the intoxicating detail immediately, has an overwhelming effect. It transforms the sense of atmosphere; a seemingly placid, empty, even mundane scene comes to appear charged with a certain energy which ignites the senses. In Evans’ hands, an image which should slow the pulse instead stirs something in the viewer. The commonplace comes to appear otherworldly.

David Evans’ insistence that he was a painter, not an artist, might be true inasmuch as the act of painting was undoubtedly at the very core of his practice; he spent his working life consciously developing and honing his technique, which he valued above all else. It is helpful to bear the title of “painter” in mind when considering his work. But his ability to use technique to brilliant artistic effect in his work, most notably in his creation of atmosphere, is enough to make anybody doubt the veracity of his statement. For Evans, as for virtually any picture-maker, mark-making gave voice to his artistic spirit. But in contrast to many other practitioners, the relationship between technique and atmosphere in his work – between cause and effect, so to speak – is so incredibly close; these two elements are inextricably linked across his body of work. With his paintings of the 1970s and 1980s in mind, the titles of “painter” and “artist” come to seem almost irrelevant: so closely are they related in his work, so successful is that fusion, and so distinctive is his world.

I’m grateful to Martha, Pete and Alan – the artist’s partner and step-sons – for their generosity in helping me to learn more about Evans personal and professional life. I’m also grateful to Carly Shearer of Lyon and Turnbull for allowing me to reproduce New Light. 

Douglas Erskine

1. – Conversation with Martha Mason and Alan Mason, Edinburgh, 13/09/22. 

2. – Cordelia Oliver, “David Evans Exhibition”, The Guardian, July 1966. Cutting in collection of the Mason family. 

3. – Paul Stirton, David Evans, Edinburgh, 1982, p. 50. 

4. – Ibid., p.49. 

5. - Conversation with Martha Mason and Alan Mason, Edinburgh, 13/09/22.