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Akira Kanayama’s painting machine from 1957 was a four-wheeled device that Kanayama could remote-control to create paintings approximately 180 by 280 cm. The canvas lay on the floor and the machine dripped and poured paint on the picture pane.

The painting machine is an early example of the machine/robot in the role of artist. Kanayama’s remote-controlled painting machine mimics Jackson Pollock’s drips painting –a technique he developed in the 1940’ties.

At the same time the machine follows Pollock’s ideas of automation and physical detachment between artist and painting, bringing it to a new level, but at the same time it makes fun of role of the artist – no longer an inspired and gesturing artist, but a homemade machine spilling paint. [See comments about Pollock by Dr. Prof. Machiko Kusahara below.]

Text and Pic Source: Electrifying Painting, Ming Tiampo

Kanayama began making his Machine Drawings (fig. 24) in 1957, which were a critique of automatism and the value it placed on self-expression through gestural painting. Kanayama’s Machine Drawings were made by attaching a can of quick-drying paint to an automatic toy car that created paintings whether or not the artist was even in the room…… Both Kanayama and Tanaka used technology as a markmaking instrument. By using a vocabulary of form that had technological rather than psychological origins, Kanayama and Tanaka launched a conceptual attack on the Informel and Abstract Expressionist idea that art could or should be an expression of the soul, poured out and worked on a canvas.

Kanayama hanging his painting done with a remote control mechanical car on vinyl (1957). See Note at bottom.

Source: The Avant-Garde in Exhibition, Altshuler 1994. Photograph – Sinichiro Osaki, Hyogo Prefecture Museum of Modern Art, Kobe, Kyoto Municipal Museum, 1957.

Akira Kanayama was the secretary of the Gutai group. He jokingly said that the position involved so much work that he had no time to paint and instead let a remote-controlled toy car paint for him. The resulting Work (1957) can be seen as a critique against Jackson Pollock’s drip paintings, with which they have some resemblance. In Kanayama, the male genius who expresses his feelings with paint is supplanted by a toy car that randomly zooms around the paper, leaving a trail of paint. Kanayama thus challenged the artist's personal relevance to the quality and ingenuity of the work.

Group photo: Yamazaki, Shiraga, Shimamoto, Murakami, Kanayama, Motonaga,
Tanaka, Ukita.

Pic Source: here.

Both Tanaka (1932 – 2005) and Kanayama (1924 – 2006), two of Japan’s best-known artists, were members of the Gutai Bijutsu Kyokai (Gutai Art Association), an avant-garde art group founded in 1954 in Osaka with the mission to create “an art which has never existed before.”  As members of the group, they became famous for seminal pieces with which they remain associated today: Tanaka’s Electric Dress (1956), a jumble of electric cables and lit-up colored lightbulbs which she wore like a garment; and Kanayama’s four-wheel remote control device which enabled him to create automatic Remote-Control Paintings (1957).  The artists married and left the group in the mid-1960s, and continued their artistic careers (at a steady pace in Tanaka’s case, in Kanayama’s case more intermittently) through the beginning of the 2000s.

Origins of Japanese Media Art – Artists Embracing Technology from 1950s to Early 1970s

Author: Dr. Prof. Machiko Kusahara

Painting by Machine
The Gutai artist Akira Kanayama is less known compared to his partner Atsuko Tanaka, the artist known for her “Electric Dress (1956), although the original use of technology and interest in materials that had not been traditionally used in art were shared among them. Kanayama helped Tanaka in realizing her ideas that involved technology such as her piece “Work (Bell)” (1955). Kanayama’s “Work” series produced mostly around 1957 involved a remote-controlled car with paint tanks he built himself, modifying a toy car. Kanayama tested a variety of crayons, markers, black and color ink with which the car scribbled or dripped while moving on large pieces of paper and later on white vinyl sheets, which he found the most appropriate for his purpose. While the artist operated the car on a sheet laid on the floor, its trajectory and the resulting traces of ink were never under the perfect control of the artist. Instead of directly employing one’s own body, as in case of other Gutai artists such as Kazuo Shiraga and Saburo Murakami, Kanayama used a mechanical medium and chance operation to drawn lines. His use of plastic inflatables and footsteps on vinyl sheets in other works also suggest his positive interest in new materials, and mediated representation of body. However, when Gutai was “discovered” by the French critic / art dealer Michel Tapié and internationally introduced, these features of Kanayama’s works were disregarded. It is said that his “Work” series was interpreted as alike of Jackson Pollock’s “all-over” style in the art world outside Japan, neglecting the interesting questions that arose about originality and the role of technology in art.

Eventually Gutai artists including Tanaka shifted to “paintings” rather than three-dimensional works involving unusual medium. By the time when Gutai was invited to participate the 1970 World Exposition in Osaka, Kanayama and Tanaka left the group.

Note: Some references give 1955 as the date for Kanayama's Remote-Controlled Painting Machine.  The first of the Gutai expositions were in 1955, but I've only been able to trace the machine to the 3rd expositiion held in a Museum in 1957. The 1955 exposition was an outdoor one.

The book Avant-Guard is also confused over these aspects, saying on the one hand the remote drawing machines were new for the 1957 Museum exposition, but also suggesting they were made earlier, but no proof is offered for the 1955 date. 

So claims such as ", prefiguring the Métamatic painting machines that the Swiss artist, Jean Tinguely, began to build in 1959."  are not correct from two fronts. Tinguely's MetaMatic Drawing Machine No.1 is from 1959, but two earlier drawing machines were built in 1955, the first, called "Machine à Dessiner No. 1"exhibited in the Le Movement exhibition in 1955

Pages 51 – 52 [images above]  February 1970. A "drawing" and later "painting" machine which made the graph-like drawings in which we see both the simple program and the simple resultant "drawing." Later developments added variable voltage and therewith a "how much" on or off possibility. These and other developments made a greater apparent distance or difference between the program disc input and the output or product. Nevertheless, it was not without interest that I read "Man is a Machine" by Woolridge.

DAVID JACOBS
Born 1932 in Niagara Falls, New York. Studied in California, obtaining his M.A. at Los Angeles State College. Presently Acting Chairman, Fine Arts Department, Hofstra University, New York.

[Source: Sound Sculpture, John Grayson, 1975]

See David Jacob's other Pneumatic sculpture here.

See other Pneumatic, Fluidic, and Inflatable robots here.

See other Drawing and Painting Machines here.

In the movie "What A Way To Go!", "Larry Flint" creates painting machines to produce his abstract art.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rps9NZPesh4#t=2696s

Plot
This lavishly produced, big-budget comedy (it cost $20 million in 1964 dollars) stars Shirley MacLaine as Louisa, a widow who is worth $200 million dollars. However, she's convinced that her fortune is cursed, and she wants to give all her money to the IRS. As she explains her sad tale to her psychiatrist, Dr. Stephanson (Robert Cummings), it seems that when Louisa was young she had the choice of marrying rich playboy Leonard Crawley (Dean Martin) or poor but decent Edgar Hopper (Dick Van Dyke). She chose Edgar, but soon he became obsessed with providing a fine home and fortune for her; he got rich but worked himself to death in the process. Despondent, Louisa flies to Paris, where she strikes up a romance with expatriate artist Larry Flint (Paul Newman). When Larry invents a machine that creates paintings based on sounds, he becomes wealthy and famous — and dies. Louisa returns to America, where she figures to break her streak by marrying Rod (Robert Mitchum), a business tycoon who already has lots of money. He resolves to take life easier and becomes a farmer, only to die in a strange accident with a bull. Louisa is drowning her sorrows one night at a sleazy night spot when she falls for second rate entertainer Jerry (Gene Kelly). They marry, and a now-wealthy Jerry develops a relaxed, carefree quality to his act that makes him a huge star, which leads to his being crushed by a mob of his biggest fans. What a Way to Go! boasted a screenplay by Betty Comdon and Adolph Green that featured many amusing film parodies  ~ Mark Deming. 

The manual use of a jack hammer to make loud, random noises before "Larry" discovered automation using a record player, thanks to "Louisa's" idea.

The more painting machines there were, the bigger the mural that could be painted, the more money one could make.
 

Sadly, there are no credits in the above film clip to find out who made the painting machines.

Paul Newman as "Larry Flint", an ex-patriot artist living in Paris. Shirley MacLaine as "Louisa", looking for the simple life.

"Larry" develops abstract painting machines consisting of a controllable arm with a paint-brush "hand".

He explains to "Louisa", "The sonic vibrations that go in there. And that gets transmitted to this photoelectric cell which gives those dynamic impulses to the brushes and the arms. And it's a fusion of a mechanised world and a human soul."

"Larry" uses a siren, horn, alarm bell, bongo, sledge hammer and a pneumatic jack hammer amongst other things as random sound sources for his abstract art.  "Louisa" hates the loud noise and suggests playing classical music on a record player instead. The music, in turn, is picked-up by  the "sonic palette" and "Larry" is over the moon in excitement over the wonderful results produced. However, "Louisa" says she prefers the real "Larry" produced art, and not the automated "Mendelssohn" inspired pieces.

As "Larry" gets more successful, you see multiple painting machines, mainly painting a mural together on a single, long canvas. The final scene shows the eight painting machines, now painted a gold colour and having an extended arm, plus two newer painting arms, which now have a longer boom arm, and a spine-like end-effector holding a brush, rather like an elephant's trunk. Ten machines in all.  These wrap around "Larry" during the final crescendo, then all the other painting machines encircle "Larry" holding him down, then simultaneously blow themselves up along with "Larry". So much for auto-destructive art!

In reality, the painting machines are props, manned by a person inside each base. This is evident when the bases move around by themselves, and the shape of them allows the hidden person to see what they are doing. The arm itself is fully articulated, and controlled by the person within the base.  The credits may conform this but I have not seen the credits.

Clearly a parody of the Swiss-French Kinetic Artist Jean Tinguely, who had made a name for himself making "Meta-matic" abstract drawing machines.

There is also a scene whereby we hear gunshots, only to find "Polly" shooting at paint balloons on a canvas creating a type of destructive art piece. Again clearly a parody to the late Niki de Saint Phalle who was an artist friend, later wife to Jean Tinguely who were both living in Paris at the time. Niki's early paintings of this period (1961) included her "Shooting Paintings."

Note: 2012. I first saw this movie on TV in black and white. I must have been about 12 years old at the time. The painting machines certainly inspired me.  It's taken me over 40 years, thanks to the internet, to locate this film. Wonderful to see again after all this time.

You can see a sliding door rail and rollers providing the horizontal guidance.

 

from a comment made on the Scienceworks site re Robbie
 
19/10/2009 09:03 PM
Daniel
Bernard Smith was my uncle and when we used to visit his house he would often fire up Robbie and make his arm go up and down, much to our excitement. He also built a painting machine which randomly selected colours and painted lines. He called one of these paintings "Primeval Forest II" and entered it into the Herald Sun Art Show. It didn't win any prizes but apparently someone purchased it. He also made a noughts and crosses machine using valve technology and programmed it by getting my father to play endless games of noughts and crosses whilst he recorded the results.

[Robert was "Robert aka Robbie the Robot" - see below for link]

Extract from a press article

The past's vision of the future is today's museum piece
Author: JOHN LAHEY
Date: 01/02/1994
Publication: The Age [Melbourne, Australia]    Page: 2

He is a remarkable robot, made from bits and pieces by a clever school teacher called Bernard Smith, who lived in Camberwell and died in 1993, aged 68. Mr Holden said: “This was backyard tinkering, but Bernard Smith solved a lot of little technical problems along the way."

One of the great problems for modern inventors, apparently, is that all the old disposal shops, stocked with surplus goods from the Second World War, have gone out of business, and so nobody gets the chance to tinker and make things. Mr Smith built Robert during the heyday of disposal shops, using aeroplane parts, lengths of metal shelving, lumps of wood, bits of radios and all sorts of things.

Bernard Smith was an interesting inventor. He once devised a “painting machine", which drew random lines on paper, and he entered one of its productions in the Herald Outdoor Art Show under the title `Primeval Forest'. Someone bought it. 

[picture of Primeval Forest II here].

See Bernard Smith's "Robert the Robot" here.

(Source: MI or SM March 1962)

Keeping busy between paintings…

(Source: Village Newspaper (NY) 23 Aug 1962.)

(Source: Modesto Bee Aug 10,1962.)

Off Washington Square by Jane Kramer 1963

THE GROANING GEARS THAT MAKE AN ARTIST
RAYMOND AUGER HAS PACKED UP HIS PAINTING machine and left the Village [Greenwich Village, N.Y.]. The young engineer who teamed up with a shy and gangly robot and for two newsworthy weeks turned out abstract paintings in a perfume shop on MacDougal Street feels that the world is not quite ready for automatic art. He is going back to making automatic brains. The world, he says, is ready for them.
When he talked to me last week, Auger was already on his way. He looked wistfully down at his robot, which was groaning in an attempt to locate the yellow paint pot. "Humidity's got it down. Its axis is sluggish," he said. He looked sadly up at the more recent paintings on the wall—slash-school abstracts in red, yellow, blue, and black. "Not its best work at all. Besides, it frightens Frenchy. We're going home."
Frenchy, a plainly hip gentleman in blue jeans who represented the landlady in guarding the perfume from the robot, came out of the back room, where he had been hopefully playing taps on the harmonica. He glared at the robot, which swung its one arm around at him.
"This thing, this monster! It gives me nightmares. They're always the same.. .. I'm reaching for the J & B when all of a sudden this arm shoots out and grabs the bottle. . . . Then I wake up."
"Philistine," Auger said.
The machine, meanwhile, having given up on yellow, was cranking out a study in red, black, and blue. "I didn't mean to make this thing," Auger apologized. "I was actually working on an industrial control system when it happened. I had programmed the manipulator to form letters, and the damn thing began to paint instead.
"Of course I don't take it seriously. How could I? It would be like taking the Village seriously." Auger had just been to his first Village party. There had been Benzedrine in the punch. "It would be like taking that seriously," he said.
The people who crowd the store to see the robot are the ones who do. Auger insists that one customer stormed out when another asked that the machine stop using so much black. "I can't stay here and watch anyone dictate to an artist," the man had said.
"What a comment on the times," Auger said. "A machine designed to be a staid executive instrument turns, as a diversion, to painting—like a Churchill or a Gauguin—and I, an engineer, turn to art criticism to keep up with it."
By the time Auger finished philosophizing, the machine had managed to crank the moisture out of its controls. Its wheels began to chug without squeaking, and its long arm of coils and clamps and wires writhed around and dipped into the black paint pot. Auger peered over the slowly rotating electronic tape on which its "principles" are punched in the manner of a Time subscription blank. "There it goes," he shouted as the arm lifted a brush to the easel and ejected a black triangle from a clamp that opened and shut like a yawning dinosaur.
"My God!" said Auger, jumping up as the robot planted a dripping red arc on the paper. "There's nothing in the program for a red arc." For a moment it looked as though his robot had come to more creative life than either of them had planned. But eventually Auger admitted to a source of error in the tape. He donned a white laboratory coat over his black corduroy jacket for the investigation. The perfume shop took on, with Auger's coat, some of the more lugubrious aspects of the old lab set for Late Late Shows.
In the middle of the room stood the machine, its clamp-hand suspended over the red paint pot. A small, nervous Auger was poring over the tape, stroking his long red beard. Frenchy was glowering in the background; Gothic sounds issued from Frenchy's harmonica. A stranger who had stopped at the door was staring in, his mouth hanging open. And the dishwasher from the Cafe Bizarre was pacing the floor. "I want to be a waiter, I want to be a waiter," he kept saying to himself.
Auger sat down and tried to explain the whole thing.
From its main taped memory, it seems, the machine actually makes the decisions as to how to move its brushes on the paper. "It shows that element of unpredictability common to all creative processes and in one way proves the relation between artistic style and causal factors," Auger said. The machine is deliberately invested with independence. Programmed toward three capacities—to choose its colors at random, to choose its own symbols from its main memory, and to vary the probability of its artistic choices—it can paint any number of variations on any one given set of data. Its taped memory is roughly equivalent to the causal factor in human skills. "Frightening, isn't it?" Auger said.
Given the time and money, Auger is convinced that he can turn out Rembrandts, too. He is Columbia-trained and, at thirty-two, the author of a technical book, the editor of a scientific journal, and the president of two corporations. He appears sane.
He was about to turn off the painting—"You had better take it the way it is now, or there's no telling how messy it will get"—when his secretary, a big blonde in a burlap tunic, wriggled in. "She needed a home," Auger explained. "I always let my secretaries live in. I take them in with the best instincts. This one's new."
He turned to the blonde. "Why the hell did you buy jelly doughnuts with all the grocery money?"
"You geniuses are so touchy," was all that the blonde said.
"Make sure you don't call it a robot—it's a program manipulator," Auger called out as he turned off the artist, grabbed his housekeeper, and left for home.