The holidays frighten me with the potential for things going awry. This year, however, I have someone in my life who is just too marvelous for words. I finally begin to understand Breton's tenet of "le merveilleux" and how on earth it relates to beauty or love.
To introduce a surrealist ethos without discussing the marvelous is impossible, and yet because Breton develops the idea across his essays and reveals the experience of it in his fictions, a simple summary seems particularly shallow. This may be said of many surrealist conceits but the marvelous is particularly prone to being confused with the fantastic or to sounding like over-intellectualized sentimentality.
There is a history of literature of the fantastic that is different from Breton’s expression the marvelous. The fantastic is usually associated with science fiction and attempts to incorporate the alien into the rational world. The marvelous on the other hand is, as Hal Foster puts it in his work Compulsive Beauty, disruptive. Louis Aragon perhaps explains it best in Paris Peasant by stating "the marvelous is the eruption of contradiction within the real."
“Le merveilleux est toujours beau, n’importe quel merveilleux est beau, il n’y a même que le merveilleux qui soit beau”. This memorable line from the first Manifesto is repeated often and everywhere. The statement is expressive only in the context in which it is presented, otherwise the statement seems like sophomoric over-glorification of either the marvelous or the beautiful. Breton explains in the manifesto how alive the marvelous is. It imbues works with energy and gives them life. Works are marvelous that sustain the moment of surprise and this experience is what is truly beautiful.
The marvelous lives and grows in some Hegelian unfurling. “Le merveilleux n’est pas le même à toutes les époques ; il participe obscurément d’une sorte de révèlation générale dont le détail seul nous parvient: ce sont les ruines romantiques, le mannequin moderne ou tout autre symbole propre à remuer la sensibilité humaine durant un temps” (The marvelous is not the same in all ages; it participates obscurely in a sort of general revelation, in which the details only remain: they are the romantic's ruins, the modern mannequin and all other symbols adequate to shaking human sensibility during a particular time). The marvelous performs in different manners at different times but continues to reveal even if only a few details are captured in the imagination of a culture. Artists present the marvelous through their works and this alters their viewers, rattling the nervous system of one person at a time with the goal of altering the society. The marvelous is progressive both in time and effect on society.
The marvelous in my case is changing the way I think about the holidays, changing the way I think about myself in love, all of which really is just too marvelous for words.
Love in Surrealism
In his 1939 writing on Masson, in Le Surrealisme et la peinture, Breton reiterates his strong sense of the significance of love by believing “que l’art, avant tout, doit être amour plutôt que colère ou pitié”. Art must be love, not in the sense of adoration, but rather as a path towards collectivity. In L’Amour fou, Breton explains how when a man loves, he cannot help but engage with “la sensibilité de tous les hommes” and that in order to do them justice, he must delve into the very depths of their way of being. Love brings man into contact with another and creates an interest in partaking of another worldview.
In the Surrealist Dictionary, the definition for “amour” includes the quote from L’Immaculée Conception that reciprocal love is that which “met en jeu l’inhabitude dans la pratique, l’imagination dans le poncif, la foi dans la doute, la perception de l’objet intérieure dans l’objet extérieure”. Love then creates this charged space where contraries can co-exist. Neither the imagination nor thinking is dominant.
In the Surrealist Dictionary, the definition for “amour” includes the quote from L’Immaculée Conception that reciprocal love is that which “met en jeu l’inhabitude dans la pratique, l’imagination dans le poncif, la foi dans la doute, la perception de l’objet intérieure dans l’objet extérieure”. Love then creates this charged space where contraries can co-exist. Neither the imagination nor thinking is dominant.
Revolutionary Independent Artist-some thoughts on the Manifesto
Breton alienated the communists and revoked the surreality of many artists because of their ties to communism, but believed in the revolution sufficiently to produce the Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art in 1938. This document signed by Breton and Diego Rivera, was in fact a collaboration between Breton and Trotsky. In the document they are trying to address how artists can participate in the communist revolution without losing the independence necessary to being artists. Though Breton had alluded to the need for artists to express their own personal, inner vision, this document affirms that freedom while also stating the role artists play in society.
True art–art that does not merely produce variations on ready-made models but strives to express the inner needs of man and of mankind as they are today–cannot be anything other than revolutionary: it must aspire to a complete and radical reconstruction of society, if only to free intellectual creation from the chains that bind it and to allow all mankind to climb those heights that only isolated geniuses have reached in the past.
The freedom of intellectual creation that they advocate aligns itself with Breton’s stated aims for Surrealism. The artist must produce images that are not bound by the previous language of art but rather uncover, in those image or others, new visions. In order to alter the established landscape, each artist must be free to present an inner truth. The individual artist by expressing a truly personal vision touches on a more general human experience. In 1947, Breton would explain the rapport between the individual and general history in his remarks on Matta by suggesting that there is a connecting light “entre la causalité universelle et la finalité humaine”. The Hegelian influence of the world on the individual is clear but the individual artist remains central to the success of this endeavor to change the global.
Permitting art to be influenced by a political viewpoint or any aesthetic demands limits the possibilities of creation. Breton and Trotsky state that “art cannot, therefore, without demeaning itself, willingly submit to any outside directive and ensconce itself obediently within the limits that some people, with extremely shortsighted pragmatic ends in view, think they can set on its activities”. Despite their own revolutionary hopes, they recognize that art must be permitted to discuss issues beyond the desires of political or cultural ideologues. Art is a means of discovering knowledge and it can not be subsumed to the needs of those in power without being reduced to pre-conceived, formulaic aphorisms.
The revolution, they claimed, must "from the very beginning, when it comes to intellectual creativity, establish an anarchist system based on individual freedom". Of course Breton with Diego Rivera and Trotsky acknowledge that their ideas about the role of art at the moment, to help prepare and advocate for the revolution, must center on ensuring the revolution. The joy in the manifesto is its attempt to maintain an open door on behalf of art, in the belief that “fairly divergent aesthetic, philosophical, and political orientation [can] meet on this ground”. In order for the artist to present a unique vision, the artist must be permitted and recognized as truly independent. Or so they hoped...
Trotsky was murdered. The revolution wound up becoming an ideological dictatorship. Artists, whose freedom was curtailed under the communist regime of Eastern Europse, provided the dissension that helped destroy the communist tyranny. It is the artists today in Eastern Europe who seem to be producing a link between those who did not suffer the economic destruction of communism and those who did.
The artist should be able to respond to the political or social situation from any point of view, not only that which supports it, or that which acknowledges it. Is that independence? The best we can offer because the only one available.
True art–art that does not merely produce variations on ready-made models but strives to express the inner needs of man and of mankind as they are today–cannot be anything other than revolutionary: it must aspire to a complete and radical reconstruction of society, if only to free intellectual creation from the chains that bind it and to allow all mankind to climb those heights that only isolated geniuses have reached in the past.
The freedom of intellectual creation that they advocate aligns itself with Breton’s stated aims for Surrealism. The artist must produce images that are not bound by the previous language of art but rather uncover, in those image or others, new visions. In order to alter the established landscape, each artist must be free to present an inner truth. The individual artist by expressing a truly personal vision touches on a more general human experience. In 1947, Breton would explain the rapport between the individual and general history in his remarks on Matta by suggesting that there is a connecting light “entre la causalité universelle et la finalité humaine”. The Hegelian influence of the world on the individual is clear but the individual artist remains central to the success of this endeavor to change the global.
Permitting art to be influenced by a political viewpoint or any aesthetic demands limits the possibilities of creation. Breton and Trotsky state that “art cannot, therefore, without demeaning itself, willingly submit to any outside directive and ensconce itself obediently within the limits that some people, with extremely shortsighted pragmatic ends in view, think they can set on its activities”. Despite their own revolutionary hopes, they recognize that art must be permitted to discuss issues beyond the desires of political or cultural ideologues. Art is a means of discovering knowledge and it can not be subsumed to the needs of those in power without being reduced to pre-conceived, formulaic aphorisms.
The revolution, they claimed, must "from the very beginning, when it comes to intellectual creativity, establish an anarchist system based on individual freedom". Of course Breton with Diego Rivera and Trotsky acknowledge that their ideas about the role of art at the moment, to help prepare and advocate for the revolution, must center on ensuring the revolution. The joy in the manifesto is its attempt to maintain an open door on behalf of art, in the belief that “fairly divergent aesthetic, philosophical, and political orientation [can] meet on this ground”. In order for the artist to present a unique vision, the artist must be permitted and recognized as truly independent. Or so they hoped...
Trotsky was murdered. The revolution wound up becoming an ideological dictatorship. Artists, whose freedom was curtailed under the communist regime of Eastern Europse, provided the dissension that helped destroy the communist tyranny. It is the artists today in Eastern Europe who seem to be producing a link between those who did not suffer the economic destruction of communism and those who did.
The artist should be able to respond to the political or social situation from any point of view, not only that which supports it, or that which acknowledges it. Is that independence? The best we can offer because the only one available.
Art in Surrealism
The role of the visual arts in surrealism came under discussion with the publication of La Revolution Surréaliste. Max Morise in the first issue of La Revolution Surréaliste attempted an explanation of the surrealist method in the field of visual art. He recognizes how Breton, in Les Champs Magnetiques, has established automatic writing that through its practice as well as its final product presents a surreal method. Dismissing a stream of thought, or dreams, as insufficiently particular to Surrealism, he compares the surrealist painter’s brush to a cheetah leaping after its prey and lands on the idea of “certain meetings, apparently fortuitous” which is so clearly tied to the ideas of surrealist writing.
His essay, however, inspired a response by Pierre Naville in the third issue of La Revolution Surrealiste which would declare that there is no such thing as surrealist painting. Breton responds with a series of articles over the next five issues (no. 4, July 15, 1925; no. 6, March 1, 1926; no. 7, June 15, 1926; no. 9-10, October 1, 1927) in which he considered how to discuss Surrealism and painting. These essays become the single long essay “Surréalisme et la peinture” which is now published under that title along with many of his other writings on art and artists.
Early in his essay “Surréalisme et la peinture” Breton discusses why he becomes interested in the language of art. Visual images constitute a language that is no less artificial and whose origins are no less problematic than verbal language. Nonetheless, he intends to consider the state of this language as it is currently, just as he has done with poetry.
“Le besoin de fixer les images visuelles, ces images préexistant ou non à leur fixation, s’est extériorisé de tout temps et a abouti à la formation d’un veritable langage qui ne me paraît pas plus artificiel que l’autre et sur l’origine duquel il serait vain que je m’attarde. Tout au plus me dois-je de considérer l’état actuel de ce langage, de même que l’état actuel du langage poétique, et de rappeler s’il est nécessaire à sa raison d’être”.
The goal in this particular case, however, is to address the stagnant language of art and question the established symbols that have been used in painting. The essay presents modern painters who are seeking new images from their own imagination by which to break with convention, thereby permitting the disrupting effect of the marvelous.
His essay, however, inspired a response by Pierre Naville in the third issue of La Revolution Surrealiste which would declare that there is no such thing as surrealist painting. Breton responds with a series of articles over the next five issues (no. 4, July 15, 1925; no. 6, March 1, 1926; no. 7, June 15, 1926; no. 9-10, October 1, 1927) in which he considered how to discuss Surrealism and painting. These essays become the single long essay “Surréalisme et la peinture” which is now published under that title along with many of his other writings on art and artists.
Early in his essay “Surréalisme et la peinture” Breton discusses why he becomes interested in the language of art. Visual images constitute a language that is no less artificial and whose origins are no less problematic than verbal language. Nonetheless, he intends to consider the state of this language as it is currently, just as he has done with poetry.
“Le besoin de fixer les images visuelles, ces images préexistant ou non à leur fixation, s’est extériorisé de tout temps et a abouti à la formation d’un veritable langage qui ne me paraît pas plus artificiel que l’autre et sur l’origine duquel il serait vain que je m’attarde. Tout au plus me dois-je de considérer l’état actuel de ce langage, de même que l’état actuel du langage poétique, et de rappeler s’il est nécessaire à sa raison d’être”.
The goal in this particular case, however, is to address the stagnant language of art and question the established symbols that have been used in painting. The essay presents modern painters who are seeking new images from their own imagination by which to break with convention, thereby permitting the disrupting effect of the marvelous.
Chaos and Classicism
I think the conceit of the show at The Guggenheim is quite interesting but that it was not executed in such a way as to emphasize the tragedy in the conflict these artist's were experiencing in trying to produce work after WWI and cubism. It might have been clearer if the Otto Dix drawings at the beginning were highlighted, or somehow made more poignant, but they were literally put to the side. Some of the works are beautiful but many of them lack a certain spark (a certain sublime element?) precisely it seems to me because of the confusion of the period. The pieces feel muddled and sometimes simply boring. I think this might have been avoided by offering them with a more sympathetic context. The lack of the Chaos (which was odd given its presence in the title) kept the works from having something they were addressing, leaving them too often to seem like merely pretty pictures.
I was additionally surprised by the decision to ignore and make no mention of the chaotic works being produced. In June of 1936, right before the Berlin Olympics, London showed the International Surrealist Exhibit and the Abstract & Concrete show. These were presenting significant and astonishing works to a new audience–most had been being produced on the Continent, although some English artists were rightly incorporated. So why not at least recognize these art movements in the text of the show? Not mentioning it seems wrong to me specifically because it reduces the context of the works and the significance in the rise of classicism.
Chaos can not be organized and so is forever spinning confusion. Classicism embraces the order and discipline of the Ancient Greek world and is a kind of stasis of its own. What is interesting about this compounded idea as a show is the way in which both provide a dead end for art. If Dada is the typical expression of Chaos, we see clearly how it fizzled of its own boredom with the constantly spontaneous. Nothing can be created, generated to last. Classicism envelops everything in so much regulation and history that the work can become a dull, too utile et dulce to provoke the senses. It is the magnetic pull of these two poles, and artists' shifting (sometimes tortured) relationship to them that produces works that make you stop as you pass by to observe, reflect, enjoy, dismiss their presentation.
Kenneth Silver is the curator of the show and known for producing wonderful shows. I understand the talk that he gave offered the show an additional slant and I wish I might have heard him speak. In part, his reputation lead me to expect more of the show but I also wonder if The Guggenheim was not an awkward place to present this show. The idea as I saw it does not allow for such continuous movement, as France, Italy, Germany, each struggled with particular issues. This is one occasion where distinct rooms might have provided the show some structure that the placards at the beginning of each section did not sufficiently offer. By nature of The Guggenheim's design, the cycling pathway, upwards or downwards, keeps you moving, but it would have been nice to want to stop more frequently.
I was additionally surprised by the decision to ignore and make no mention of the chaotic works being produced. In June of 1936, right before the Berlin Olympics, London showed the International Surrealist Exhibit and the Abstract & Concrete show. These were presenting significant and astonishing works to a new audience–most had been being produced on the Continent, although some English artists were rightly incorporated. So why not at least recognize these art movements in the text of the show? Not mentioning it seems wrong to me specifically because it reduces the context of the works and the significance in the rise of classicism.
Chaos can not be organized and so is forever spinning confusion. Classicism embraces the order and discipline of the Ancient Greek world and is a kind of stasis of its own. What is interesting about this compounded idea as a show is the way in which both provide a dead end for art. If Dada is the typical expression of Chaos, we see clearly how it fizzled of its own boredom with the constantly spontaneous. Nothing can be created, generated to last. Classicism envelops everything in so much regulation and history that the work can become a dull, too utile et dulce to provoke the senses. It is the magnetic pull of these two poles, and artists' shifting (sometimes tortured) relationship to them that produces works that make you stop as you pass by to observe, reflect, enjoy, dismiss their presentation.
Kenneth Silver is the curator of the show and known for producing wonderful shows. I understand the talk that he gave offered the show an additional slant and I wish I might have heard him speak. In part, his reputation lead me to expect more of the show but I also wonder if The Guggenheim was not an awkward place to present this show. The idea as I saw it does not allow for such continuous movement, as France, Italy, Germany, each struggled with particular issues. This is one occasion where distinct rooms might have provided the show some structure that the placards at the beginning of each section did not sufficiently offer. By nature of The Guggenheim's design, the cycling pathway, upwards or downwards, keeps you moving, but it would have been nice to want to stop more frequently.
The Academy
One of my closest friends and currently ABD in her Art History PhD program sent me the following blurb about a book. What a miserable reminder of the ludicrous lengths to which academics will go. This is not why either she or I began our respective studies and how horrifying to consider that this is the well-worn way ahead of us. Undoubtedly I should look forward to something similar on Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Grey.
A Touch of Blossom: John Singer Sargent and the Queer Flora of Fin-de-siecle Art
by Alison Syme
A Touch of Blossom considers John Singer Sargent in the context of nineteenth-century botany, gynecology, literature, and visual culture and argues that the artist mobilized ideas of cross-fertilization and the hermaphroditic sexuality of flowers in his work to "naturalize" sexual inversion. In conceiving of his painting as an act of hand-pollination, Sargent was elaborating both a period poetics of homosexuality and a new sense of subjectivity, anticipating certain aspects of artistic modernism. Assembling evidence from diverse realms-visual culture (cartoons, greeting cards, costume design), medicine and botany (treatises and their illustrations), literature, letters, lexicography, and the visual arts-this book situates the metaphors that structure Sargent's paintings in a broad cultural context. It offers in-depth readings of particular paintings and analyzes related projects undertaken by Sargent's friends in the field of painting and in other disciplines, such as gynecology and literature.
A Touch of Blossom: John Singer Sargent and the Queer Flora of Fin-de-siecle Art
by Alison Syme
A Touch of Blossom considers John Singer Sargent in the context of nineteenth-century botany, gynecology, literature, and visual culture and argues that the artist mobilized ideas of cross-fertilization and the hermaphroditic sexuality of flowers in his work to "naturalize" sexual inversion. In conceiving of his painting as an act of hand-pollination, Sargent was elaborating both a period poetics of homosexuality and a new sense of subjectivity, anticipating certain aspects of artistic modernism. Assembling evidence from diverse realms-visual culture (cartoons, greeting cards, costume design), medicine and botany (treatises and their illustrations), literature, letters, lexicography, and the visual arts-this book situates the metaphors that structure Sargent's paintings in a broad cultural context. It offers in-depth readings of particular paintings and analyzes related projects undertaken by Sargent's friends in the field of painting and in other disciplines, such as gynecology and literature.
Generations at Work
Many artists have to fight their families to dedicate themselves to their work. The family watches aghast as their child rejects a life of comfort for the difficult task of producing art in a competitive market with very little reward.
This can be the case even when the family is full of artists.
When I recently got an invitation to a show of work by three generations of artists in the same family, I could not help but think about how complicated that must be. Read Lockhart and his father produced work to display alongside the work of Read's deceased grandfather. Not only is it three generations, it is three generations of sons. Each produces different work than the others, each deeply related to the other two through the work, even when nothing else connects them.
I admire the strength that it takes to work alongside your family, not only for those who share the turmoil of a family business, but also in such contexts–where the work is to be in a gallery together. There is competition, even as there is support and communion. I do not actually believe that the Lockharts were competing against each other for sales, but rather am looking at the competition stemming from wanting to outdo one another in technique, design, style and flourish. To use that energy positively, to produce the excellent show that they did is true success, and I congratulate them for it.
This can be the case even when the family is full of artists.
When I recently got an invitation to a show of work by three generations of artists in the same family, I could not help but think about how complicated that must be. Read Lockhart and his father produced work to display alongside the work of Read's deceased grandfather. Not only is it three generations, it is three generations of sons. Each produces different work than the others, each deeply related to the other two through the work, even when nothing else connects them.
I admire the strength that it takes to work alongside your family, not only for those who share the turmoil of a family business, but also in such contexts–where the work is to be in a gallery together. There is competition, even as there is support and communion. I do not actually believe that the Lockharts were competing against each other for sales, but rather am looking at the competition stemming from wanting to outdo one another in technique, design, style and flourish. To use that energy positively, to produce the excellent show that they did is true success, and I congratulate them for it.
Theory and Reality in Art
In theory, you could look at art and like it or not. Actually in theory you do nothing of the sort. Theory posits all sorts of conceptual pathways and constraints to how we engage with art. Sometimes, I go to an exhibit and the theory postulated behind the work seems utterly ridiculous. Sometimes, theory seems to be all the work has going for it. And sometimes, some very rare and gifted artists manage to produce work that is totally wonderful and has a theoretical conceit–I am thinking here of Cy Twombly, whose work I am currently particularly engaged.
One of the recurring issues is the degree to which art relates to reality. Is it an analysis, presentation, insight into the current state of things? Should it be? I could start with Plato, discuss Hegel, mention Ruskin, all of which I may do as I continue to circle around this issue but for now, as I am reading Breton this fall, I will talk about his take on Tanguy.
Despite Breton’s approach to art as being engaged in a meaning full dialogue, in a 1942 essay on Tanguy, Breton distances theory from the creative production process. Tanguy's works are excellent and are entirely intuitive. Their relationship to theory can only be identified a posteriori, he claims. Theory and creative works may be swimming the same channel but they are coming from two different sources. Theory, in particular psychoanalysis and Gestalt theory for Breton, posits the same quest to recognize the Mother, that is the darkness of the origin, the womb, the cosmos and the conscious that Surrealist art attempts to present through their own efforts (think here of Goethe on the Mother).
Dali famously wore a diving suit, at the 1936 International Surrealist Exhibit in London, to represent the way that he plumbs the depths of the unconscious. Though the images that the artists offer may not be those of ‘reality’ they are at the very heart of the real. What is particularly real-ly funny was his inability to take off the mask, so that without the aid of the delightful Edward James (a surrealist patron and poet) he would have suffocated.
Reality sometimes intrudes on art, without a theoretical basis for doing so.
One of the recurring issues is the degree to which art relates to reality. Is it an analysis, presentation, insight into the current state of things? Should it be? I could start with Plato, discuss Hegel, mention Ruskin, all of which I may do as I continue to circle around this issue but for now, as I am reading Breton this fall, I will talk about his take on Tanguy.
Despite Breton’s approach to art as being engaged in a meaning full dialogue, in a 1942 essay on Tanguy, Breton distances theory from the creative production process. Tanguy's works are excellent and are entirely intuitive. Their relationship to theory can only be identified a posteriori, he claims. Theory and creative works may be swimming the same channel but they are coming from two different sources. Theory, in particular psychoanalysis and Gestalt theory for Breton, posits the same quest to recognize the Mother, that is the darkness of the origin, the womb, the cosmos and the conscious that Surrealist art attempts to present through their own efforts (think here of Goethe on the Mother).
Dali famously wore a diving suit, at the 1936 International Surrealist Exhibit in London, to represent the way that he plumbs the depths of the unconscious. Though the images that the artists offer may not be those of ‘reality’ they are at the very heart of the real. What is particularly real-ly funny was his inability to take off the mask, so that without the aid of the delightful Edward James (a surrealist patron and poet) he would have suffocated.
Reality sometimes intrudes on art, without a theoretical basis for doing so.
The Model
An artist's model is a different thing from a fashion model.
A different thing! Have you objected to my objectifying the poor creature, naked in front of one person or a classroom of people? Not always naked, of course. Sometimes in full regalia of costume and jewelry and divinely resting on a settee. Notoriously, however, the model is known for being naked.
I used to sit for an artist who had long since married a very religious woman. She had decided that he could no longer draw or paint from the nude female form. His portraits were perfect depictions of statuesque elegance. The painstaking detail with which he painted kept everything visible, the shades in each strand of hair, the shadows as the clothing rippled attire, everything but personality was presented. We all wondered what she must fear since we took for granted that the model's nudity was impersonal.
In a figure drawing group, the model is a living object. At least in my experience. I may pose from every angle but when the timer announces the break, I put on my robe. I do not wear it because I am cold; there are usually heaters in the cooler months. In the summer I wear a lighter robe, but nonetheless wear one. The reason being that as I chat over a cup of tea with the artists, I suddenly appear as a person and I am disinclined to have a conversation about Milton, even Milton, in the nude. Once I am posing again, the conversation may continue, but my mind, expressing assorted opinions, is separate from the naked body that is being drawn or painted.
This separation of the mind and body is one of the reasons I enjoyed modeling when I was in college. Deeply engaged in my philosophy studies, busy running various school activities, the moments of quiet as pencils scratched across the drawing boards allowed me to still myself. Later, when I became interested in meditation, I never found the stillness sitting that I uncovered during those poses. I understood even better why more advanced meditative techniques would require certain postures to achieve particular states of mind.
In a one minute pose there is not time to capture the "spirit" of the person. Nor is that the intention. Rather the shape of the arm, the leg, the angle of the head must be quickly sketched as a brief warm-up. Building to a fifteen minute pose, the body of the model offers a view of a human anatomy. If he is grimacing, it is not his pain that is being portrayed, but rather the form of a figure grimacing that is being presented. If I thought it was me, I might be a little upset at the ugly renditions I see as I walk through the room later. Even when I sit for a portrait that takes months, as a model, I am rarely what is being painted. I am an actress, in a sense, pretending to be a fine lady in an elegant green hat or a mythic character fallen from the moon.
A different thing! Have you objected to my objectifying the poor creature, naked in front of one person or a classroom of people? Not always naked, of course. Sometimes in full regalia of costume and jewelry and divinely resting on a settee. Notoriously, however, the model is known for being naked.
I used to sit for an artist who had long since married a very religious woman. She had decided that he could no longer draw or paint from the nude female form. His portraits were perfect depictions of statuesque elegance. The painstaking detail with which he painted kept everything visible, the shades in each strand of hair, the shadows as the clothing rippled attire, everything but personality was presented. We all wondered what she must fear since we took for granted that the model's nudity was impersonal.
In a figure drawing group, the model is a living object. At least in my experience. I may pose from every angle but when the timer announces the break, I put on my robe. I do not wear it because I am cold; there are usually heaters in the cooler months. In the summer I wear a lighter robe, but nonetheless wear one. The reason being that as I chat over a cup of tea with the artists, I suddenly appear as a person and I am disinclined to have a conversation about Milton, even Milton, in the nude. Once I am posing again, the conversation may continue, but my mind, expressing assorted opinions, is separate from the naked body that is being drawn or painted.
This separation of the mind and body is one of the reasons I enjoyed modeling when I was in college. Deeply engaged in my philosophy studies, busy running various school activities, the moments of quiet as pencils scratched across the drawing boards allowed me to still myself. Later, when I became interested in meditation, I never found the stillness sitting that I uncovered during those poses. I understood even better why more advanced meditative techniques would require certain postures to achieve particular states of mind.
In a one minute pose there is not time to capture the "spirit" of the person. Nor is that the intention. Rather the shape of the arm, the leg, the angle of the head must be quickly sketched as a brief warm-up. Building to a fifteen minute pose, the body of the model offers a view of a human anatomy. If he is grimacing, it is not his pain that is being portrayed, but rather the form of a figure grimacing that is being presented. If I thought it was me, I might be a little upset at the ugly renditions I see as I walk through the room later. Even when I sit for a portrait that takes months, as a model, I am rarely what is being painted. I am an actress, in a sense, pretending to be a fine lady in an elegant green hat or a mythic character fallen from the moon.
Hang the Show- The Guest List
Opening night. Who to invite?
Perhaps there should be a pre-show event? Who to select?
Ought the artist's questionable friends be allowed to mix with the best buyers? Perhaps not...
The artist does not want a stuffy event with moneyed ties and died hair walking hand in hand wondering if the work will match their sofa. The artist wants to remain edgy, represented by the diverse group of friends who live in seemingly Bohemian neighborhoods–even if they are married, go to sleep with the baby, or own a business of their own. It is their attire that suggests a willingness to flaunt the rules.
Precisely responds the gallerist, who wants to ensure that her clients are comfortable and will spend money. Alternatively, the gallerist wants edgy chic, more fashion world than downtown music scene. Or, would prefer all the art lovers who haven't a dime to please stay away and not drink the chardonnay.
If you get invited, enjoy it because no one will enjoy you unless you buy a painting, and if you can buy a painting then you can bring your own guest list.
Perhaps there should be a pre-show event? Who to select?
Ought the artist's questionable friends be allowed to mix with the best buyers? Perhaps not...
The artist does not want a stuffy event with moneyed ties and died hair walking hand in hand wondering if the work will match their sofa. The artist wants to remain edgy, represented by the diverse group of friends who live in seemingly Bohemian neighborhoods–even if they are married, go to sleep with the baby, or own a business of their own. It is their attire that suggests a willingness to flaunt the rules.
Precisely responds the gallerist, who wants to ensure that her clients are comfortable and will spend money. Alternatively, the gallerist wants edgy chic, more fashion world than downtown music scene. Or, would prefer all the art lovers who haven't a dime to please stay away and not drink the chardonnay.
If you get invited, enjoy it because no one will enjoy you unless you buy a painting, and if you can buy a painting then you can bring your own guest list.
Walking A New Museum
On a rainy day, I entered a new museum with all the excitement of being sheltered as well as the thrill of seeing works that I had heretofore only seen in books. I might have planned somewhat better so that I would know what was on display, where the assorted works were located, and the layout of the museum but I had done none of this. I have a propensity for appreciating the increasingly rare, child-like, experience of getting lost. So I entered the museum and wandered to the left.
Not knowing what to expect I was unprepared to dive into the first exhibit. About halfway through, I realized how much I was enjoying it and, pulling out my notebook, went back to the beginning in order to jot some notes. I often take notes in a museum because I can not remember most of what I see and like to refer to photographs, postcards and my thoughts to jog my fading memory. Sometimes, I even use it later for my own work and then I am especially glad that I have the help.
After that first exhibit, I started to get into the groove of my time in a museum and nearly sauntered into the next section. I wandered through it and into another room, up a flight of stairs through that little exhibit on color and line and found myself walking down some stairs towards an auditorium that was not in use, a set of empty restrooms and a guard by a glass door that said Do Not Exit. I was lost.
This happens. I retraced my steps, seeing everything again, and went into a different room. At the end, again I found myself at a wall having to retrace my steps. Then I wanted to see something again, but could not find it. I was now deeply in the labyrinthine quality that a great museum of art can offer. I saw works I had no interest in seeing. There were other works that I had never heard of but could now claim to have witnessed in all their curated glory.
After many hours of this, I stumbled across the entrance and discovered the outside which led me to the next museum, where I did this all over again. I got a cup of tea on my way to fortify my journey.
Not knowing what to expect I was unprepared to dive into the first exhibit. About halfway through, I realized how much I was enjoying it and, pulling out my notebook, went back to the beginning in order to jot some notes. I often take notes in a museum because I can not remember most of what I see and like to refer to photographs, postcards and my thoughts to jog my fading memory. Sometimes, I even use it later for my own work and then I am especially glad that I have the help.
After that first exhibit, I started to get into the groove of my time in a museum and nearly sauntered into the next section. I wandered through it and into another room, up a flight of stairs through that little exhibit on color and line and found myself walking down some stairs towards an auditorium that was not in use, a set of empty restrooms and a guard by a glass door that said Do Not Exit. I was lost.
This happens. I retraced my steps, seeing everything again, and went into a different room. At the end, again I found myself at a wall having to retrace my steps. Then I wanted to see something again, but could not find it. I was now deeply in the labyrinthine quality that a great museum of art can offer. I saw works I had no interest in seeing. There were other works that I had never heard of but could now claim to have witnessed in all their curated glory.
After many hours of this, I stumbled across the entrance and discovered the outside which led me to the next museum, where I did this all over again. I got a cup of tea on my way to fortify my journey.
Hang the Show- The Gallerist
The gallerist, or art agent if you prefer, is a salesperson. Their job is to sell art. This requires the cooperation of the artist who, leading up to the show, can be rather difficult. Nonetheless, the publicity must be posted, the guests must be invited. Faith must be maintained that the work will be produced, that it will be excellent, that buyers will buy it.
Of course, buyers will not buy it, if the gallerist does not push it. In this current global economy that is not as easy as it once was.
Nothing sells itself...even if once it seemed as if it did. I used to work in sales and learned a great deal from my difficult boss who was a wonderful friend. A common duality in sales managers. When the economy collapsed in the autumn of 2008, when we all thought that nothing could be sold as companies and families slashed their budgets, she proclaimed that there was still money. The trick was simply to convince them to spend what money they were spending with you, rather than the other person. Whereas before, money could be sent in both directions, now everyone would have to choose between you and your competitor. She was right and we all worked harder to maintain, develop and enhance new and old relationships.
Likewise, it seems with me that the art market is still in action. Art is still selling. But a certain amount of effort is required. The promotional materials can be developed, albeit creatively if the work is still in progress. Clients can be cultivated even if the artist is still trapped in the studio, too neurotic to be allowed to speak to potential buyers. Hype can be established through the absence of the artist as easily as with their presence. It is all a matter of angle.
As with anything, a good agent continues to sell work. My boss put so much effort during that horrendous fall and winter that she has built a base of too much work and had to request additional hires. She was exhausted by the work but is now proud of the capacity to keep going that she did not know she had. Perhaps more caffeine was consumed...
Needless to say, I encourage my artist friends to plan as best they can with their representation for that trying time before a show. Work can be sold. Or rather, good work can be sold with a good try.
Of course, buyers will not buy it, if the gallerist does not push it. In this current global economy that is not as easy as it once was.
Nothing sells itself...even if once it seemed as if it did. I used to work in sales and learned a great deal from my difficult boss who was a wonderful friend. A common duality in sales managers. When the economy collapsed in the autumn of 2008, when we all thought that nothing could be sold as companies and families slashed their budgets, she proclaimed that there was still money. The trick was simply to convince them to spend what money they were spending with you, rather than the other person. Whereas before, money could be sent in both directions, now everyone would have to choose between you and your competitor. She was right and we all worked harder to maintain, develop and enhance new and old relationships.
Likewise, it seems with me that the art market is still in action. Art is still selling. But a certain amount of effort is required. The promotional materials can be developed, albeit creatively if the work is still in progress. Clients can be cultivated even if the artist is still trapped in the studio, too neurotic to be allowed to speak to potential buyers. Hype can be established through the absence of the artist as easily as with their presence. It is all a matter of angle.
As with anything, a good agent continues to sell work. My boss put so much effort during that horrendous fall and winter that she has built a base of too much work and had to request additional hires. She was exhausted by the work but is now proud of the capacity to keep going that she did not know she had. Perhaps more caffeine was consumed...
Needless to say, I encourage my artist friends to plan as best they can with their representation for that trying time before a show. Work can be sold. Or rather, good work can be sold with a good try.
Hang the Show- Sleeping
The artist hasn't slept in weeks. Potentially, the artist has not slept in up to and including 53 hours.
The gallerist is not sleeping well. Even melatonin doesn't help.
The artist's family isn't sleeping because the artist, in a sleep-deprived fury, said horrible things about them, the past, some random other person, and now the family is wondering what to do.
If the artist has a partner, then he/she hopefully has reconciled themselves to cooking and running errands for someone who will return to them, when the show is complete, a depressed shadow of the ego-driven artist currently barging around. The partner sleeps only a little bit more than the artist.
The artist's friends have disappeared and are presumably having a good time, sleeping in or around–depending on the person. They are looking forward to the opening when their friend will hang out all night and, after the show, enjoy much drunken revelry.
Sleep is portioned to the work. It is necessary but disdained, until the eyes droop despite caffeine, the brush shakes in the stiff hand, and the electric bill suggests that some time off might not be such a bad thing.
The gallerist is not sleeping well. Even melatonin doesn't help.
The artist's family isn't sleeping because the artist, in a sleep-deprived fury, said horrible things about them, the past, some random other person, and now the family is wondering what to do.
If the artist has a partner, then he/she hopefully has reconciled themselves to cooking and running errands for someone who will return to them, when the show is complete, a depressed shadow of the ego-driven artist currently barging around. The partner sleeps only a little bit more than the artist.
The artist's friends have disappeared and are presumably having a good time, sleeping in or around–depending on the person. They are looking forward to the opening when their friend will hang out all night and, after the show, enjoy much drunken revelry.
Sleep is portioned to the work. It is necessary but disdained, until the eyes droop despite caffeine, the brush shakes in the stiff hand, and the electric bill suggests that some time off might not be such a bad thing.
Hang the Show-Selecting
For several years, or several months, the artist has been producing work. Some is hidden before anyone sees it. It does not even get considered for the final selection. The rest are placed throughout the studio to be studied.
What naturally goes together?
Which ones will someone want to buy because of x, y, z?
Which ones have already been sold and so need others to offer like work?
Which ones are reminiscent of previous work?
Which ones are suggestive of work to come?
How do they go together again?
And if it is done once by the artist, it will be done again by the gallerist, possibly by the gallery, and likely when the show is hung for good measure. The process edits cruelly because each painting was produced at some point with care, and then it gets dismissed, rejected possibly simply for its suitability.
Unless you are one of the required selectors-avoid this time assiduously.
What naturally goes together?
Which ones will someone want to buy because of x, y, z?
Which ones have already been sold and so need others to offer like work?
Which ones are reminiscent of previous work?
Which ones are suggestive of work to come?
How do they go together again?
And if it is done once by the artist, it will be done again by the gallerist, possibly by the gallery, and likely when the show is hung for good measure. The process edits cruelly because each painting was produced at some point with care, and then it gets dismissed, rejected possibly simply for its suitability.
Unless you are one of the required selectors-avoid this time assiduously.
Hang the Show- Studio Time
I have a friend who has been working in the studio continuously trying to complete the work for his upcoming show. Everyone has been banned except for a few, and his temperament has slowly deteriorated as he becomes sleep deprived and blind to his own progress.
He was also earning a living by teaching so he would occasionally leave the enclave to supervise the budding skill of others. He picked up some commission pieces and quickly lost his mind juggling all the work. The bubble of the studio became the only safe place in which to operate because the rest of the world was such an extreme distraction from the mental space necessary to be continuously producing creative work.
Friends forgot how often he used to enjoy going for a drink.
Family wondered why he never answered the phone.
Food came from a delivery man rather than a market.
And eventually...he went 52 hours without sleep, refused to see anyone for a week and completed the show miserably disoriented but at least a little satisfied.
Had I listened to anything said about the work in the weeks leading to the opening, I would have feared for his sanity and the success of the show. Instead, I took it as a bit of melodrama. In other words, ignore artists before a show.
You will hear the artist say something like: “Hang the show. I quit. I want to be a car mechanic.” Ignore it. He is unlikely to quit it all to become a mechanic, plumber, hairdresser, or join the family business–ideas that I have heard from various artists at different times. If one decides to move to Nepal, do not look into plane tickets.
All of this is so concerning of course, because stuck in the studio, you never do hear any news. When what you hear is that the work is terrible and Abu Dhabi is their next destination, it can be a trifle concerning.
Leave them to the studio and it will work itself out. If you are ignored, do not take it personally. The studio becomes a sacred space and only those involved in the sacrifice may be permitted to enter. It isn't pretty and the cost of entry is your blood and brains.
Wait for the show opening, where the work can glow without your sweat, where the artist can rhapsodize about an experience mostly forgotten in the swell of speed that heightened the last effort. Some memories are best left to the silent walls of the studio.
He was also earning a living by teaching so he would occasionally leave the enclave to supervise the budding skill of others. He picked up some commission pieces and quickly lost his mind juggling all the work. The bubble of the studio became the only safe place in which to operate because the rest of the world was such an extreme distraction from the mental space necessary to be continuously producing creative work.
Friends forgot how often he used to enjoy going for a drink.
Family wondered why he never answered the phone.
Food came from a delivery man rather than a market.
And eventually...he went 52 hours without sleep, refused to see anyone for a week and completed the show miserably disoriented but at least a little satisfied.
Had I listened to anything said about the work in the weeks leading to the opening, I would have feared for his sanity and the success of the show. Instead, I took it as a bit of melodrama. In other words, ignore artists before a show.
You will hear the artist say something like: “Hang the show. I quit. I want to be a car mechanic.” Ignore it. He is unlikely to quit it all to become a mechanic, plumber, hairdresser, or join the family business–ideas that I have heard from various artists at different times. If one decides to move to Nepal, do not look into plane tickets.
All of this is so concerning of course, because stuck in the studio, you never do hear any news. When what you hear is that the work is terrible and Abu Dhabi is their next destination, it can be a trifle concerning.
Leave them to the studio and it will work itself out. If you are ignored, do not take it personally. The studio becomes a sacred space and only those involved in the sacrifice may be permitted to enter. It isn't pretty and the cost of entry is your blood and brains.
Wait for the show opening, where the work can glow without your sweat, where the artist can rhapsodize about an experience mostly forgotten in the swell of speed that heightened the last effort. Some memories are best left to the silent walls of the studio.
A Penny or Two
When I was modeling in Santa Fe, I had the great joy of working with Lyndall Bass. I was recently in contact with her and discovered that she won the design contest for the new penny! That is right. Look in your wallets and pockets and her design is there. The prize is a two-sided joy. On one hand, she worried, she might forever be known as the penny lady. On the other hand, it provided her with the ease to work on her own pictures.
Lyndall is mostly known for her flowers and still-life pieces, but when I was working with her she was working on a series of mythic women. We used to call me the moon-faced girl because any photographs she took to use when I was not sitting made me look so flat, like some chubby lady squashed in the moon. She would take them nonetheless. Sometimes there was something she could work from. Sometimes, I returned later that week or the following week to find out she hadn't been able to do anything and we could not converse because she had to keep working on my chin.
I really enjoyed working with Lyndall because though we were sometimes silent, we also talked about our families, mythology, the steps to figuring out life. One of the joys in working with someone over several sittings is the relationship that develops. I am glad that Lyndall won the penny contest, but mostly because now she can do her own work without worrying about scrounging for pennies.
Lyndall is mostly known for her flowers and still-life pieces, but when I was working with her she was working on a series of mythic women. We used to call me the moon-faced girl because any photographs she took to use when I was not sitting made me look so flat, like some chubby lady squashed in the moon. She would take them nonetheless. Sometimes there was something she could work from. Sometimes, I returned later that week or the following week to find out she hadn't been able to do anything and we could not converse because she had to keep working on my chin.
I really enjoyed working with Lyndall because though we were sometimes silent, we also talked about our families, mythology, the steps to figuring out life. One of the joys in working with someone over several sittings is the relationship that develops. I am glad that Lyndall won the penny contest, but mostly because now she can do her own work without worrying about scrounging for pennies.
Sticking to Art
The Stuckists, with their traditional techniques, appear to produce precisely that work that the Dadaists might have rejected. But they are appealing, as Dada did, to be heard over the meaningless expositions of the powers that be. The Stuckists dismiss the hierarchy of museum, curators, and free-wheeling theorizing. This situation requires a regrounding, they claim, insisting that a work of art can be valued for reasons other than its idea. And thus, they fly in the face of the art establishment, particularly as it is represented financially in the United Kingdom.
Post Modernism, in its adolescent attempt to ape the clever and witty in modern art, has shown itself to be lost in a cul–de–sac of idiocy. What was once a searching and provocative process (as Dadaism) has given way to trite cleverness for commercial exploitation. The Stuckist calls for an art that is alive with all aspects of human experience; dares to communicate its ideas in primeval pigment; and possibly experiences itself as not at all clever!
-from The Stuckists, 1999
The making of art informs much of its meaning. Art that isn't made or paid for by experience has no meaning. In 1915 the Dadaist joke was urgent and outrageous: as a statement of Post Modern irony it is dull beyond belief.
-from An Open Letter to Sir Nicholas Serota, 2000
The Stuckists refer to Dada in two of their initial manifestos suggesting a connection. Since many Stuckists do not like each other’s work, the alliance among them as a group is loose at best, and not dissimilar to the Dada, or others in these historical avant-garde groups. That the founders refer to Dada in the manifestos strongly suggests their understanding of a relationship, but this does not extend to other Stuckists. Nonetheless, it would be an interesting project to trace the relationship between Dada and Stuckism.
Post Modernism, in its adolescent attempt to ape the clever and witty in modern art, has shown itself to be lost in a cul–de–sac of idiocy. What was once a searching and provocative process (as Dadaism) has given way to trite cleverness for commercial exploitation. The Stuckist calls for an art that is alive with all aspects of human experience; dares to communicate its ideas in primeval pigment; and possibly experiences itself as not at all clever!
-from The Stuckists, 1999
The making of art informs much of its meaning. Art that isn't made or paid for by experience has no meaning. In 1915 the Dadaist joke was urgent and outrageous: as a statement of Post Modern irony it is dull beyond belief.
-from An Open Letter to Sir Nicholas Serota, 2000
The Stuckists refer to Dada in two of their initial manifestos suggesting a connection. Since many Stuckists do not like each other’s work, the alliance among them as a group is loose at best, and not dissimilar to the Dada, or others in these historical avant-garde groups. That the founders refer to Dada in the manifestos strongly suggests their understanding of a relationship, but this does not extend to other Stuckists. Nonetheless, it would be an interesting project to trace the relationship between Dada and Stuckism.
Dada art in day to day
Dada art was an intentional disruption of the status of art. According to Peter Burger, in Theory of the Avant-Garde, they are responding against the distribution system of art and the status of art.
The salons, the critics, the galleries had already become important to the success of an artist's work. Dada revoked their rule by producing shows in unexpected places, by undermining traditional means (hence the collage or use of daily material) to which critic's might knowingly respond, and not producing work that was for sale but could only be experienced in the spontaneous production (Dada shows). This flaunts l'art pour l'art by taking it to its conceptual extreme. It also ridicules the philosophy's tenet of purety by showing its actual meaninglessness in actual life.
This relation to life is not insignificant since Dada's use of everyday materials is intentional. By introducing the mundane into the, so-deemed, heightened sphere of art, it actually questions whether art is necessarily so removed or whether art may not have a concordance to, what Burger calls, the praxis of life.
Dada art could not maintain this constant rupture, and hence the slow development of surrealism, which nonetheless continued to put in question form and content (that is another discussion altogether). But in questioning the institution of art, it (and, in Burger's argument, the other historical avant-garde movements) establishes two things about the development of art in bourgeois society:
1- the progressive detachment of art from life
2- the distinct sphere of existence that becomes the realm of art
Given that brief overview, I am even more intrigued to consider the incorporation of Dada art into museums. That Dada art saw itself as subversive art expands the definition of art clearly but then inherently undermines itself as subversive. Thus, Dada art becomes a part of the aesthetic tradition and so belongs in museums.
It seems as if it ushers in ideology (of an aesthetic, political, social, philosophical, etc) over artistic means. This is something also to be addressed (and Burger does) but I can't help but think that other artists had done this before in style or content (eg, Hieronymous Bosch, Manet, Seurat). I guess the difference is that they stayed on the canvas, whereas Dada questioned the canvas too–though surrealism would not. The artistic means then become the central point of contention, and by changing the means the content too changes. For now though, I still think that these others were provocative as well and became part of the establishment against which Dada would revolt, making Damien Hirst's "Flies" not so very exciting but a mere extension of the historical avant-garde. Hirst then becomes a part of art history, and the Stuckists' revolt against him and the museums becomes the revolt against the revolting.
The salons, the critics, the galleries had already become important to the success of an artist's work. Dada revoked their rule by producing shows in unexpected places, by undermining traditional means (hence the collage or use of daily material) to which critic's might knowingly respond, and not producing work that was for sale but could only be experienced in the spontaneous production (Dada shows). This flaunts l'art pour l'art by taking it to its conceptual extreme. It also ridicules the philosophy's tenet of purety by showing its actual meaninglessness in actual life.
This relation to life is not insignificant since Dada's use of everyday materials is intentional. By introducing the mundane into the, so-deemed, heightened sphere of art, it actually questions whether art is necessarily so removed or whether art may not have a concordance to, what Burger calls, the praxis of life.
Dada art could not maintain this constant rupture, and hence the slow development of surrealism, which nonetheless continued to put in question form and content (that is another discussion altogether). But in questioning the institution of art, it (and, in Burger's argument, the other historical avant-garde movements) establishes two things about the development of art in bourgeois society:
1- the progressive detachment of art from life
2- the distinct sphere of existence that becomes the realm of art
Given that brief overview, I am even more intrigued to consider the incorporation of Dada art into museums. That Dada art saw itself as subversive art expands the definition of art clearly but then inherently undermines itself as subversive. Thus, Dada art becomes a part of the aesthetic tradition and so belongs in museums.
It seems as if it ushers in ideology (of an aesthetic, political, social, philosophical, etc) over artistic means. This is something also to be addressed (and Burger does) but I can't help but think that other artists had done this before in style or content (eg, Hieronymous Bosch, Manet, Seurat). I guess the difference is that they stayed on the canvas, whereas Dada questioned the canvas too–though surrealism would not. The artistic means then become the central point of contention, and by changing the means the content too changes. For now though, I still think that these others were provocative as well and became part of the establishment against which Dada would revolt, making Damien Hirst's "Flies" not so very exciting but a mere extension of the historical avant-garde. Hirst then becomes a part of art history, and the Stuckists' revolt against him and the museums becomes the revolt against the revolting.
Picturing Proust
Proust uses so many artists in his grand work that there was recently published a book, Paintings in Proust by Eric Karpeles, providing the images Proust directly mentions, or offering possibilities for the ones to which Proust only alludes. Swann loves Odette through Botticelli. The pregnant kitchen maid is Giotto's Charity. Bloch is seen as Mahummet II. Charlus likens his young friend Morel as a Bronzino. The list continues so that all characters are eventually attributed a pictorial relation. Even his perfect mother.
There are even wonderful academic articles on Proust's mention of art...and that is astounding and a joy because scholarly journals are not known for their prose style.
Proust translated Ruskin into French (with the help of his mother) and wrote articles in the Gazette des Beaux Arts on artists and shows, in Paris or abroad. He wrote poems as a young man based on paintings. He was always passionate about art, going to see his favorite Vermeer when it was being shown in Paris despite his current illness. He transformed his museum visit into the scene in In Search of Lost Time where Bergotte (the novel's author character) must see Vermeer’s View of Delft because of a critic’s having written about a little patch of yellow. The color is indeed perfect and Bergotte dies in the gallery, wishing he had written with a few more layers of color, like this little patch of yellow. Proust would die shortly thereafter, having already been ill and having gotten worse from the trip to see the painting.
Proust is largely depicted as a homosexual with an Oedipal complex, compulsively writing alone at night, after years of being a social climber. But there is a Proust who can not appear in any photographs because he is only visible in his writing on the arts. There he is glorious, strong and secure in his own passion. For this reason, among others, I prefer to avoid psychological readings of his work, dismayed at how easy it is to debase the heights he climbs with language.
There are even wonderful academic articles on Proust's mention of art...and that is astounding and a joy because scholarly journals are not known for their prose style.
Proust translated Ruskin into French (with the help of his mother) and wrote articles in the Gazette des Beaux Arts on artists and shows, in Paris or abroad. He wrote poems as a young man based on paintings. He was always passionate about art, going to see his favorite Vermeer when it was being shown in Paris despite his current illness. He transformed his museum visit into the scene in In Search of Lost Time where Bergotte (the novel's author character) must see Vermeer’s View of Delft because of a critic’s having written about a little patch of yellow. The color is indeed perfect and Bergotte dies in the gallery, wishing he had written with a few more layers of color, like this little patch of yellow. Proust would die shortly thereafter, having already been ill and having gotten worse from the trip to see the painting.
Proust is largely depicted as a homosexual with an Oedipal complex, compulsively writing alone at night, after years of being a social climber. But there is a Proust who can not appear in any photographs because he is only visible in his writing on the arts. There he is glorious, strong and secure in his own passion. For this reason, among others, I prefer to avoid psychological readings of his work, dismayed at how easy it is to debase the heights he climbs with language.
The Letters of Dora Carrington
Dora Carrington was a painter, affiliated a bit with the Bloomsbury group. Though their eloquence sometimes made her uncomfortable, Virginia Woolf is known to have rushed to hug her upon learning that Dora's long time companion, Lytton Strachey, had died. Woolf was not prone to enthusiastic physical embrace so it speaks to Carrington's gentle nature that she would do so.
Through her paintings, I became interested in her and so started reading her letters. She included drawings in so many of them. Some humorous, some to replace words, others to illustrate the text. This first drawing shows how Carrington's drawings could tackle a topic painful to her and her friend.
Given that she was first an artist, a successful student of the Slade School of Art, I wonder that her letters are not more often seen as an extension of her artistic oeuvre. They are relegated to biographical and historical relevance rather than being seen as participating in her relationship to art.
There are many more that I could have posted but this last
one best shows how the nature of printing her letters loses the artistic quality of her letters. Though the text presents her first line in black and white, the words danced around her drawing before continuing through the letter.
As such we lost much in the collected edition of her letters, chosen by David Garnett, because the letters are printed and not reproduced. At any rate, I am grateful that he managed to include some of the visuals to give us a flavor of her work. I hope one day to go to Austin where they are held.
Through her paintings, I became interested in her and so started reading her letters. She included drawings in so many of them. Some humorous, some to replace words, others to illustrate the text. This first drawing shows how Carrington's drawings could tackle a topic painful to her and her friend.
Given that she was first an artist, a successful student of the Slade School of Art, I wonder that her letters are not more often seen as an extension of her artistic oeuvre. They are relegated to biographical and historical relevance rather than being seen as participating in her relationship to art.
There are many more that I could have posted but this last
one best shows how the nature of printing her letters loses the artistic quality of her letters. Though the text presents her first line in black and white, the words danced around her drawing before continuing through the letter.
As such we lost much in the collected edition of her letters, chosen by David Garnett, because the letters are printed and not reproduced. At any rate, I am grateful that he managed to include some of the visuals to give us a flavor of her work. I hope one day to go to Austin where they are held.
Over Thinking It
Over the course of the latter part of the 20th Century, an attitude of belittlement, destruction, and dismissal produced by extensive philosophizing became the focus of art marketing and art itself. When Marcel Duchamp said that every work of art is finished by the audience, among the things his statement implied, he actually permitted the viewer to have their own experience of the work of art, favorable or not, as opposed to the current belief that art must always be explained by an idealogue, the curator or critic. The dominant voice in art today is no longer the formal bourgeoisie but the pedantic art academics who dictate the terms of the discussion in language that often makes Dada poetry appear the height of clarity.
That a contrast has been made between figurative and conceptual art is dismissive of the amount of conceit involved in producing a figurative work of any quality. Figurative art is not inherently better than conceptual as can be seen by the endless pages of academic painters and their boring still lives. But figurative art has been dismissed entirely to the perplexity of all but the curators and gallerists, who appeal to some secret knowledge and vocabulary in expounding the virtues of the mess they are selling for thousands, if not millions...and always with a large percentage rate for themselves.
That a contrast has been made between figurative and conceptual art is dismissive of the amount of conceit involved in producing a figurative work of any quality. Figurative art is not inherently better than conceptual as can be seen by the endless pages of academic painters and their boring still lives. But figurative art has been dismissed entirely to the perplexity of all but the curators and gallerists, who appeal to some secret knowledge and vocabulary in expounding the virtues of the mess they are selling for thousands, if not millions...and always with a large percentage rate for themselves.
Whistler's gems
As much as I admire Roger Fry, I wish that I might never disagree with him. His aesthetic theory offers a balance between the appreciation of pure beauty and moral value that I embrace as well. His writing presents a man who kept learning ever year, and so inevitably altered his opinion as he reconsidered works of art in new contexts, only then to revisit them again later and change his opinion once more. I admire the flexibility of his mind and his wit.
Have I sufficiently prove to myself how tentative I am to disagree with him? Yet, here I am heart broken that he did not appreciate the later works of Whistler, which are to me precious jewels, each and every one. They are not sharp crystals in the spotlight glory of a Tiffany window. They are instead the rough cut gems that remind us that such value comes from deep within the earth, mined with diligence to uncover from the rock and the dirt something ancient and precious.
The last paintings are vague and shadowy...even more so than his well known larger nocturnes. They are covered in fog, morning mist and mood. They are small teardrops from an authentic spirit who could no longer paint fireworks but had still the tenacity to show us a vision of melancholy that asks no pity, inspiring this art lover to return many times to the room of his miniature works in the Freer Gallery of the Smithsonian. They are always there to comfort me, affirming that my existential loneliness, my poverty of means need not slip into a poverty of endurance.
Have I sufficiently prove to myself how tentative I am to disagree with him? Yet, here I am heart broken that he did not appreciate the later works of Whistler, which are to me precious jewels, each and every one. They are not sharp crystals in the spotlight glory of a Tiffany window. They are instead the rough cut gems that remind us that such value comes from deep within the earth, mined with diligence to uncover from the rock and the dirt something ancient and precious.
The last paintings are vague and shadowy...even more so than his well known larger nocturnes. They are covered in fog, morning mist and mood. They are small teardrops from an authentic spirit who could no longer paint fireworks but had still the tenacity to show us a vision of melancholy that asks no pity, inspiring this art lover to return many times to the room of his miniature works in the Freer Gallery of the Smithsonian. They are always there to comfort me, affirming that my existential loneliness, my poverty of means need not slip into a poverty of endurance.
What if?
What if art has no utilitarian value? It serves no purpose. We pretend it educates; we pretend it imitates and represents. We gain nothing of survival value in art.
But...
What if art in its utter uselessness reflects the irrelevance of our own life as made important by each of us, the artist of our own life. We tell stories about our life, the narrator of our own creation myth. But our story is irrelevant. Every life is irrelevant in that nothing matters in the great scheme of things. Where the survival of the planet, let along life on the planet, means nothing. Our mundane concerns...
What if all art is the tragic immaterial? What if it is inconsequential? Then, all we have is the instantaneous delight of our sensory perceptions, even if we don't like it. In that sense it is the most immediate thing, and worth nothing but for the moment.
But...
What if art in its utter uselessness reflects the irrelevance of our own life as made important by each of us, the artist of our own life. We tell stories about our life, the narrator of our own creation myth. But our story is irrelevant. Every life is irrelevant in that nothing matters in the great scheme of things. Where the survival of the planet, let along life on the planet, means nothing. Our mundane concerns...
What if all art is the tragic immaterial? What if it is inconsequential? Then, all we have is the instantaneous delight of our sensory perceptions, even if we don't like it. In that sense it is the most immediate thing, and worth nothing but for the moment.
Some thoughts on the colors in Mallarme's La Pipe
The prose poem, La Pipe, by Mallarme minimizes color. The world described is foggy, dusty, and darkened. The two exceptions “les feuilles bleues” and “les bras rouges” are notable in contrast. I do not understand “les feuilles bleues du soleil” but can see the red and weathered arms of a hardworking woman who brings him coal. The undetermined shades between black and white, in brows and grays, set a tone for the poem. A tone that can perhaps best be seen in the paintings of Whistler, with whom Mallarmé was friendly.
Whistler studied painting in Paris and then based himself in London. In his prints of the river Thames, Whistler presents subtle tonal variations that seem interested in the qualities of water and air over matter and substance.
There is no research provided here that confirms a connection between “La Pipe” and Whistler’s paintings. This reader, however, of Mallarmé’s poem could not help but offer a visual simulacrum of the poem as a means of enhancing the reading experience. The poem evokes a time and place, and does so intentionally. These paintings likewise offer an ephemeral experience of a time and place and may perhaps bring another reader to a heightened appreciation of Mallarmé’s poem.
This picture, Nocturne The Thames, Battersea (1878)
evokes the winter that Mallarme describes, “mouillé de bruine et noirci de fume” with the shades of shadows. It is also set on the water as Mallarme describes himself “grellotant sur le pont du steamer” and then the “riches dames…/sont dechiquetes par l’air de la mer.”
The drawing, By the Balcony (1896), is how I imagine Mallarme wrapped in blankets during this cold winter when he “revu par la fenêtre ces/arbres malades” even though the view from the window here is at an elevation. The smudged pencil marks at the bottom of the drawing are suggestive of “la poussière du charbon.” There is not enough of the room to tie it absolutely to “une chambre/sombre aux meubles de cuir saupoudres” but the intention is just to offer a visual hint of the poem.
Whistler and Mallarmé were ruthless in pushing the boundaries of their respective arts and establishing the importance of form over content. Neither Whistler nor Mallarmé were interested in developing a story that the reader or viewer could narrate as an understanding of the picture or poem. Neither were they interested in producing art that did not challenge the recipient. Whistler’s paintings are not intended to be views of a bridge or waterfront but rather to produce a visual effect that is possible only through fine art. Mallarmé was not attempting to describe an event or experience but enliven and renew words. In “La Pipe” the words are descriptive but describe nothing. Nothing happens but a memory. The words have produced no action; in fact, the reader has gone backwards in time to “Hier” and arrived at the nowhere that is the infinite eternal.
Between the first word, “hier” and the last word, “toujours”, we are always saying goodbye to the past, capturing the present only through senses that send us into memories. A pipe that can extend the smoking experience, stretching the present into the future, is also liable to the past. Even we, the reader, are not permitted the present of reading the poem since we are asked to journey into the past with the poet. Time is the gray between the black and white of then and later. The fog and the dust of the London scene are like our own experience of time, fading and unclear.
Whistler studied painting in Paris and then based himself in London. In his prints of the river Thames, Whistler presents subtle tonal variations that seem interested in the qualities of water and air over matter and substance.
There is no research provided here that confirms a connection between “La Pipe” and Whistler’s paintings. This reader, however, of Mallarmé’s poem could not help but offer a visual simulacrum of the poem as a means of enhancing the reading experience. The poem evokes a time and place, and does so intentionally. These paintings likewise offer an ephemeral experience of a time and place and may perhaps bring another reader to a heightened appreciation of Mallarmé’s poem.
This picture, Nocturne The Thames, Battersea (1878)
evokes the winter that Mallarme describes, “mouillé de bruine et noirci de fume” with the shades of shadows. It is also set on the water as Mallarme describes himself “grellotant sur le pont du steamer” and then the “riches dames…/sont dechiquetes par l’air de la mer.” 
The drawing, By the Balcony (1896), is how I imagine Mallarme wrapped in blankets during this cold winter when he “revu par la fenêtre ces/arbres malades” even though the view from the window here is at an elevation. The smudged pencil marks at the bottom of the drawing are suggestive of “la poussière du charbon.” There is not enough of the room to tie it absolutely to “une chambre/sombre aux meubles de cuir saupoudres” but the intention is just to offer a visual hint of the poem.Whistler and Mallarmé were ruthless in pushing the boundaries of their respective arts and establishing the importance of form over content. Neither Whistler nor Mallarmé were interested in developing a story that the reader or viewer could narrate as an understanding of the picture or poem. Neither were they interested in producing art that did not challenge the recipient. Whistler’s paintings are not intended to be views of a bridge or waterfront but rather to produce a visual effect that is possible only through fine art. Mallarmé was not attempting to describe an event or experience but enliven and renew words. In “La Pipe” the words are descriptive but describe nothing. Nothing happens but a memory. The words have produced no action; in fact, the reader has gone backwards in time to “Hier” and arrived at the nowhere that is the infinite eternal.
Between the first word, “hier” and the last word, “toujours”, we are always saying goodbye to the past, capturing the present only through senses that send us into memories. A pipe that can extend the smoking experience, stretching the present into the future, is also liable to the past. Even we, the reader, are not permitted the present of reading the poem since we are asked to journey into the past with the poet. Time is the gray between the black and white of then and later. The fog and the dust of the London scene are like our own experience of time, fading and unclear.
Hard Work
I just began a summer of two intensive language training programs and was feeling rather sorry for myself and the amount of work that I need to produce. The thought occurred to me, however, that hard work is the hallmark of most great art. Picasso may have been able to draw remarkably well from an early age, and kudos to him for it, but he was also obsessed with his own work and production time. His work came before much else in his life and though we may decry his less than stellar relationship history, we must also recognize the quality of the work produced. And this is true for many of the artists that are generally appreciated. We all, in fact, might learn something from this degree of effort.
Ach, it's true. Selfishness is not largely appreciated in our culture and certainly never before someone's work is recognized. We may all be tempted at times to put our work aside in order to make phone calls for the alumni association, or listen to a whining friend on a problem that will never change, or make supper because a good dinner is civilized, but if you care more about your pesto than your paintbrushes don't bother calling yourself a painter. If that television show is enticing you away from the play you started eight months ago then don't call yourself a writer. A friend attended an open studio along with several others in which the "artist" proudly announced that the three drawings on the wall had been produced in fifteen minutes each. I was as appalled hearing the story as he had been insulted. I could hardly imagine how the artists who had put effort into their work and their presentation felt to be associated with such a jester.
Don't waste my time with your second rate efforts. If it was that easy to draw the picture then you owe it to yourself to try something harder. I have many verbs to memorize for a quiz on Friday and the only way to do it well is to sit and repeat the conjugations over and over and over again. Likewise, from what I can tell, the only way to excel at painting is by drawing the figure over and over and over again. We learn through repetition to recognize our flaws, errors that hide subtly under our complicated constructions. That is why artists continue to sit in front of figure models and sketch five, ten and twenty minute poses even after many years of large scale paintings, whether they be portrait or landscape or abstract artists.
Hard work means not seeing friends, missing the opening of a new play, upsetting a lover, eating yogurt because you don't have time to go to the store. Not always, of course, but sometimes. To expect an artist to be sociable is patently absurd. How on earth would they produce such work if not for the fact that their work takes precedence to something else. That is what a work of passion is!
Now I may not claim to be passionate about the first six principle parts of Ancient Greek verb forms, or the forty odd irregular verbs required for my Italian quiz, but I can at least take a deep breath and do it without complaining. This attitude may not always produce art, but it is a basic foundation to the art of living.
Ach, it's true. Selfishness is not largely appreciated in our culture and certainly never before someone's work is recognized. We may all be tempted at times to put our work aside in order to make phone calls for the alumni association, or listen to a whining friend on a problem that will never change, or make supper because a good dinner is civilized, but if you care more about your pesto than your paintbrushes don't bother calling yourself a painter. If that television show is enticing you away from the play you started eight months ago then don't call yourself a writer. A friend attended an open studio along with several others in which the "artist" proudly announced that the three drawings on the wall had been produced in fifteen minutes each. I was as appalled hearing the story as he had been insulted. I could hardly imagine how the artists who had put effort into their work and their presentation felt to be associated with such a jester.
Don't waste my time with your second rate efforts. If it was that easy to draw the picture then you owe it to yourself to try something harder. I have many verbs to memorize for a quiz on Friday and the only way to do it well is to sit and repeat the conjugations over and over and over again. Likewise, from what I can tell, the only way to excel at painting is by drawing the figure over and over and over again. We learn through repetition to recognize our flaws, errors that hide subtly under our complicated constructions. That is why artists continue to sit in front of figure models and sketch five, ten and twenty minute poses even after many years of large scale paintings, whether they be portrait or landscape or abstract artists.
Hard work means not seeing friends, missing the opening of a new play, upsetting a lover, eating yogurt because you don't have time to go to the store. Not always, of course, but sometimes. To expect an artist to be sociable is patently absurd. How on earth would they produce such work if not for the fact that their work takes precedence to something else. That is what a work of passion is!
Now I may not claim to be passionate about the first six principle parts of Ancient Greek verb forms, or the forty odd irregular verbs required for my Italian quiz, but I can at least take a deep breath and do it without complaining. This attitude may not always produce art, but it is a basic foundation to the art of living.
Missing Art
Sometimes I find myself in a location where I know there is a great deal of art to be seen and possibly enjoyed, but do not get to see it. This was the case with my recent trip to Washington DC where there are the wonderfully rich Smithsonian Museums, besides the many other galleries. It has happened before, travelling for work in San Francisco, Chicago and yet not attending their famous museums.
There are always excuses. Usually the excuse is time. This time, I was on the road between different family members' homes and on my way to an alumni meeting for my college. The small gallery at my college was closed and I thought to ask the Alumni Relations Director to open it and allow us to see the current exhibit but did not want to be a bother. In the past, I have decided there were too many business meetings and the museum trip was not possible to add. I have argued that the museum was too far away and so would take too much time in to-ing and fro-ing. Sometimes, the excuse is that I am tired. Other times it has been the weather. Excuses are easy to find.
The truth is that I regret these lost opportunities. This time, for example, I wish that I had made time to go to the National Gallery of Art simply because it offers the comfort of the familiar and would have calmed me amidst the family bustle. Seeing the art at the college would have revived me during the dull patter of gossiping divisions after brainstorming sessions and powerpoint presentations. I would have better enjoyed my many travels for work had I taken advantage of the locations to which I was required to fly. The weather would have been irrelevant once inside the cosy sanctuary of a desolate museum on a stormy day.
I live in a city with so many galleries and museums that it is inevitable I would miss some shows. But I miss so many more simply out of laziness. After a long week of work, I do not spend Friday evening at one of the free entries to world class museums. On a frigid or muggy day, I do not wander into the temperate climate of a gallery. If I did, I might find that I was less concerned with a friend's rebuff, with a less than stellar evaluation, with the nonsense agitation of life in the Big City. I convince myself that I am too tired, overwhelmed, distraught to look at another's work of passion when in fact that would relieve the headache far better.
Looking at art fills me with new thoughts. Even if the thoughts reflect my dislike of the art I see, the occasion wipes my mind of the minutiae that confound me, presenting instead alternative neuronal pathways. Or so it seems. Sometimes, I discover that I am filled not with thought but with visions and am grateful that art somehow managed to silence the language of my mind- even if only briefly.
It should be possible to make time for art. It is possible. It is merely a choice. Otherwise I miss it. The less we attend these art events, the fewer of them there will be to enjoy. And that I would really miss.
There are always excuses. Usually the excuse is time. This time, I was on the road between different family members' homes and on my way to an alumni meeting for my college. The small gallery at my college was closed and I thought to ask the Alumni Relations Director to open it and allow us to see the current exhibit but did not want to be a bother. In the past, I have decided there were too many business meetings and the museum trip was not possible to add. I have argued that the museum was too far away and so would take too much time in to-ing and fro-ing. Sometimes, the excuse is that I am tired. Other times it has been the weather. Excuses are easy to find.
The truth is that I regret these lost opportunities. This time, for example, I wish that I had made time to go to the National Gallery of Art simply because it offers the comfort of the familiar and would have calmed me amidst the family bustle. Seeing the art at the college would have revived me during the dull patter of gossiping divisions after brainstorming sessions and powerpoint presentations. I would have better enjoyed my many travels for work had I taken advantage of the locations to which I was required to fly. The weather would have been irrelevant once inside the cosy sanctuary of a desolate museum on a stormy day.
I live in a city with so many galleries and museums that it is inevitable I would miss some shows. But I miss so many more simply out of laziness. After a long week of work, I do not spend Friday evening at one of the free entries to world class museums. On a frigid or muggy day, I do not wander into the temperate climate of a gallery. If I did, I might find that I was less concerned with a friend's rebuff, with a less than stellar evaluation, with the nonsense agitation of life in the Big City. I convince myself that I am too tired, overwhelmed, distraught to look at another's work of passion when in fact that would relieve the headache far better.
Looking at art fills me with new thoughts. Even if the thoughts reflect my dislike of the art I see, the occasion wipes my mind of the minutiae that confound me, presenting instead alternative neuronal pathways. Or so it seems. Sometimes, I discover that I am filled not with thought but with visions and am grateful that art somehow managed to silence the language of my mind- even if only briefly.
It should be possible to make time for art. It is possible. It is merely a choice. Otherwise I miss it. The less we attend these art events, the fewer of them there will be to enjoy. And that I would really miss.
Photo Journalism
Among the topics about which I am still determining what I think is the role of photojournalism as art. I have been thinking about it for a while but the two series of photographs in the Whitney Biennial made it a topic of conversation over the last week. Additionally there are a number of photo shows in NYC galleries that seem to qualify as photojournalism.
Why should a documentation be art?
Or rather, how does documentation become art?
It can't just be the way the photograph is taken. Because there is no particular style that makes it more art-like than another. And when a picture enters the cultural dialogue it is no longer just a photograph, nor a work of art, but according to Barthes, it becomes mythic.
This is beyond my scope to consider. Clearly I will need to come back to this at some much, much later date.
Why should a documentation be art?
Or rather, how does documentation become art?
It can't just be the way the photograph is taken. Because there is no particular style that makes it more art-like than another. And when a picture enters the cultural dialogue it is no longer just a photograph, nor a work of art, but according to Barthes, it becomes mythic.
This is beyond my scope to consider. Clearly I will need to come back to this at some much, much later date.
Too Much of a Whisper
I could hardly believe it when a friend told me about a new reality show in which artists compete to be the Next Great Artist...Work of Art: Next Great Artist. I was even more surprised that I had arrived in her home on the day that the first episode was airing, that is today.
I have not owned a television since 1995. I know there are good shows being produced but they are few and not sufficiently enticing to require my paying for a television, cable. My experiences of reality television have been brief, mostly due to a horror at the requirement to produce such superficial representations of people's passions, the desire for a spouse, perfect soufle or sensible suit.
The first episode of Work of Art introduced the Executive Producer of the show, Sarah Jessica Parker. Her words of encouragement were offered as the Surprise of the episode, "Be brave. Be competitive. Be yourself." Words of wisdom. Truly. The dry summary of one of the judges: "See, she loves art and that is why we are all here." I could describe in detail other Great Moments or the competitors, the judges, but why bother?
Instead I want to express the confusion as to how to respond to art in a reality tv context. Am I glad that art is being offered as a form of entertainment? Shouldn't people become interested in art and if this is the way, then perhaps that is a good thing? But...NOOOOO! This is appalling. Watching the opening made my skin crawl. This has nothing to do with art. This is a bunch of people producing photographs, silkscreens, drawings, oil painting, watercolor painting, and more without ever discussing the mediums. The focus of the show is not art but the competition. The artists competition with each other is the basis for excitement on the show, not the work production. The biggest snafu on this episode was when the silkscreening balloon burst. Artists may be competitive, but the competition is largely internal and lonely in a studio far from other artists. The show is making little effort to introduce art. To be honest, I do not know what the show is attempting.
The judges mostly discussed the concept of the work the artists produced and little of the quality of production. Is that because they had to produce a portrait in thirteen hours so we should not consider the nature of the mediums? Or is it because the pieces reviewed could only be afforded 30 seconds of time? Paintings are "sexy" or "have a historical context" or present "good moves." One judge said that a portrait is a representation of a person, but the editing did not offer whether she elaborated on that remark. As one artist said to a judge in response to a criticism of her abstract painting, "It's too much of a whisper." Unfortunately, this show whispers nothing about art, indeed screams about nothing at all.
I have not owned a television since 1995. I know there are good shows being produced but they are few and not sufficiently enticing to require my paying for a television, cable. My experiences of reality television have been brief, mostly due to a horror at the requirement to produce such superficial representations of people's passions, the desire for a spouse, perfect soufle or sensible suit.
The first episode of Work of Art introduced the Executive Producer of the show, Sarah Jessica Parker. Her words of encouragement were offered as the Surprise of the episode, "Be brave. Be competitive. Be yourself." Words of wisdom. Truly. The dry summary of one of the judges: "See, she loves art and that is why we are all here." I could describe in detail other Great Moments or the competitors, the judges, but why bother?
Instead I want to express the confusion as to how to respond to art in a reality tv context. Am I glad that art is being offered as a form of entertainment? Shouldn't people become interested in art and if this is the way, then perhaps that is a good thing? But...NOOOOO! This is appalling. Watching the opening made my skin crawl. This has nothing to do with art. This is a bunch of people producing photographs, silkscreens, drawings, oil painting, watercolor painting, and more without ever discussing the mediums. The focus of the show is not art but the competition. The artists competition with each other is the basis for excitement on the show, not the work production. The biggest snafu on this episode was when the silkscreening balloon burst. Artists may be competitive, but the competition is largely internal and lonely in a studio far from other artists. The show is making little effort to introduce art. To be honest, I do not know what the show is attempting.
The judges mostly discussed the concept of the work the artists produced and little of the quality of production. Is that because they had to produce a portrait in thirteen hours so we should not consider the nature of the mediums? Or is it because the pieces reviewed could only be afforded 30 seconds of time? Paintings are "sexy" or "have a historical context" or present "good moves." One judge said that a portrait is a representation of a person, but the editing did not offer whether she elaborated on that remark. As one artist said to a judge in response to a criticism of her abstract painting, "It's too much of a whisper." Unfortunately, this show whispers nothing about art, indeed screams about nothing at all.
Friend's Art
Last night over a glass of wine, a friend announced that she was not sure whether she actually knew what friendship was. A philosopher by training, she was inclined to determine what it was that others professed as friendship. A philosopher by inclination, I willingly embarked on my own attempt to describe what I think friendship is and discovered that her Socratic move left me perplexed as well.
One glass of wine became two and I decided that friends for me are people I trust, who challenge me and my views but on whom I can depend in an emergency. This, however, gets tricky when I think of the numerous friends I have had whose creative work I would reluctantly discuss. Virginia Woolf, for example, hesitated to review Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians and was relieved from the obligation by an editor who thought she might be perceived as showing bias. On one hand, bias seems inevitable. But anyone who has creative friends, actors, directors, painters, musicians, writers, composers and so on, also knows that one's feeling of intimacy with them does not necessarily blind you to the faults of their work. It just makes it harder to express them. On the other hand, a relationship with the artist can allow a friend to better understand the impetus and direction of the work. If a review partly exists to explain the effort to a wider audience than perhaps few besides friends could do so well.
Friendships are sometimes used as a trope for an exhibit but it is done successfully in the case of the Calder and Tanguy show I recently saw. Peggy Guggenheim famously wore one earring by Calder and one by Tanguy to show her bi-partisan appreciation of surrealism and abstract art. Tanguy and Calder were friendly, and she was a friendly collector of both. In this instance and perhaps in all instances, there is no Platonic ideal of friendship but truly something that is created between people each and every time, being redefined with the nature of the people involved. The art of some of my friends I have never liked but am thrilled that others do, on their behalf. Other friend's work is truly wonderful but I can never express it or convince them of my sincerity since I am merely a friend.
One glass of wine became two and I decided that friends for me are people I trust, who challenge me and my views but on whom I can depend in an emergency. This, however, gets tricky when I think of the numerous friends I have had whose creative work I would reluctantly discuss. Virginia Woolf, for example, hesitated to review Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians and was relieved from the obligation by an editor who thought she might be perceived as showing bias. On one hand, bias seems inevitable. But anyone who has creative friends, actors, directors, painters, musicians, writers, composers and so on, also knows that one's feeling of intimacy with them does not necessarily blind you to the faults of their work. It just makes it harder to express them. On the other hand, a relationship with the artist can allow a friend to better understand the impetus and direction of the work. If a review partly exists to explain the effort to a wider audience than perhaps few besides friends could do so well.
Friendships are sometimes used as a trope for an exhibit but it is done successfully in the case of the Calder and Tanguy show I recently saw. Peggy Guggenheim famously wore one earring by Calder and one by Tanguy to show her bi-partisan appreciation of surrealism and abstract art. Tanguy and Calder were friendly, and she was a friendly collector of both. In this instance and perhaps in all instances, there is no Platonic ideal of friendship but truly something that is created between people each and every time, being redefined with the nature of the people involved. The art of some of my friends I have never liked but am thrilled that others do, on their behalf. Other friend's work is truly wonderful but I can never express it or convince them of my sincerity since I am merely a friend.
Art and Friends
Looking at art with friends can be a revealing and difficult test of the relationship. Making a museum date with a friend can be a great way to catch up with him/her or see an exhibit, but rarely can you accomplish both. A first visit to a show with a friend can reveal that you have very different taste or worse, that you interact with the art in different rhythms. Meeting at an art gallery opening is a guarantee that you will neither see the art nor each other for the crowds standing in front of you no matter where you stand.
Friends go well for a casual art visit. If I kind of want to see the art, or maybe want to know if I am interested in it, then I have a few friends who are good company for a chatty visit.I can see the art briefly and share various relationship and work failures. Successes are always good news and as such they require celebration, which means toasting with a glass of bubbly and listening to all the details- not walking through a room of pictures that are good or bad and demanding my attention. Friends can be great for simple viewing. I once watched two eight year old boys walking through a room of Renaissance oil painting without ever slowing. They sauntered past a very somber painting by an unknown artist of Christ being taken in the night with the statement, "Whoa, that's deep." Two paintings along, still cruising by, they see the Velazquez Infanta Marie Theresa and the other one says, "Her dress is too poofy."
I find that I need to be alone if I want to look at the art, think about it, create a memory that I can retrieve and discuss. One of the best days I had this Spring was a trip up to Boston where I spent a day at the MFA. I got there in the morning and spent the day looking at whatever I wanted to see for as long as I wanted to see it. Some pictures led me to pull out my notebook. Others I walked past. Some made me go back and look at them again several rooms later. I went in no particular order through the museum, entering new rooms where hallways or interest led. At the end of the day, my head was full of ideas and thoughts and I walked back to the hotel seeing everything in a new light.
A more stressful moment was a recent visit to a museum with my new and wonderful beau. We had many long conversations about art, literature, life, love and all the rest of it in the many months preceding this excursion. But how would we do walking through a museum together? In fact, would we have to walk together the whole time? How pressured! As it turned out, we were both inclined to wander and return to the other one, freeing us to linger over one thing, and skip another. Neither of us really studied the exhibit but then neither of us felt that the exhibit called for it. We liked some of the same pieces and discovered that we both enjoy being cruel and cynical critics in confidence. If I were to say much about the pieces, I would have needed to return but overall I think we both determined that we could attend a show together again. At any rate, neither of us revealed such despicable judgment that we ran screaming from each other.
Art and friends, in my opinion, are a delicate balance. Largely, one loses my attention. That being said, I am off to meet a new friend to see a small gallery show that I want to see. Pity that I don't listen to my own advice.
Friends go well for a casual art visit. If I kind of want to see the art, or maybe want to know if I am interested in it, then I have a few friends who are good company for a chatty visit.I can see the art briefly and share various relationship and work failures. Successes are always good news and as such they require celebration, which means toasting with a glass of bubbly and listening to all the details- not walking through a room of pictures that are good or bad and demanding my attention. Friends can be great for simple viewing. I once watched two eight year old boys walking through a room of Renaissance oil painting without ever slowing. They sauntered past a very somber painting by an unknown artist of Christ being taken in the night with the statement, "Whoa, that's deep." Two paintings along, still cruising by, they see the Velazquez Infanta Marie Theresa and the other one says, "Her dress is too poofy."
I find that I need to be alone if I want to look at the art, think about it, create a memory that I can retrieve and discuss. One of the best days I had this Spring was a trip up to Boston where I spent a day at the MFA. I got there in the morning and spent the day looking at whatever I wanted to see for as long as I wanted to see it. Some pictures led me to pull out my notebook. Others I walked past. Some made me go back and look at them again several rooms later. I went in no particular order through the museum, entering new rooms where hallways or interest led. At the end of the day, my head was full of ideas and thoughts and I walked back to the hotel seeing everything in a new light.
A more stressful moment was a recent visit to a museum with my new and wonderful beau. We had many long conversations about art, literature, life, love and all the rest of it in the many months preceding this excursion. But how would we do walking through a museum together? In fact, would we have to walk together the whole time? How pressured! As it turned out, we were both inclined to wander and return to the other one, freeing us to linger over one thing, and skip another. Neither of us really studied the exhibit but then neither of us felt that the exhibit called for it. We liked some of the same pieces and discovered that we both enjoy being cruel and cynical critics in confidence. If I were to say much about the pieces, I would have needed to return but overall I think we both determined that we could attend a show together again. At any rate, neither of us revealed such despicable judgment that we ran screaming from each other.
Art and friends, in my opinion, are a delicate balance. Largely, one loses my attention. That being said, I am off to meet a new friend to see a small gallery show that I want to see. Pity that I don't listen to my own advice.
Looking for a Man
Thirty-one, actually. We went looking for thirty-one men from 34th Street and 5th Avenue down to Union Square. Pleased to say, we were successful.
A remarkable woman I know had suggested that we go find every single Gormley statue and like a treasure hunt we did. We had great fun, persisted when one proved difficult to spot, and over a few warm afternoon hours made our way with a map in hand to identify them.
They are all bronze cast statues of him which made us vaguely familiar with the shape of his body. A little girl, hardly more than four, seemed particularly enthralled by his behind much to her father's embarrassment. He had circular stumps which my companion wished Gormley had found a way to remove and I, apparently mistakenly, believed were a part of the casting process.
No one else seemed interested in doing this which made us wonder if the installation is being appreciated. In truth, I can understand that searching for them on my own might have been much less amusing. My companion was as compulsive as I am and we both agreed that nothing would deter us from seeing each and every one. We wound through the park, across to Lexington, over to Broadway, stopped for water at the Shake Shack. There were moments when our persistence was difficult to maintain. We tried to convince each other that a window ledge was the corner of a head, or that a small water tower was one of the statues with a cape. Fortunately, we continued and proudly checked off each one on our map. The friend we met for one which naturally became two margaritas was pleased to have missed this excursion. Deep into the second sweet, lime tequila beverage, he admitted that he would not have wished to walk through the afternoon heat in order to see every single one.
The proper companion for this sort of activity is important. At a recent studio tour, I saw several unwilling companions walking through the art merely on behalf of their partner. They clearly had neither the interest nor desire to be looking at the works on display. They were merely there in order to be with their partner and even that seemed reluctant. I have to ask whether finding a man (or a woman) is really worth feigning interest in an activity? Why do people feel that they must become tied at the hip and never separated? If they are going to spend a lifetime together will it not eventually be revealed that they do not favor the same activities or pastimes? I find it more interesting to learn later what someone did and how much they enjoyed it, knowing full well that it sounds wonderful only because I did not do it because it would have irritated, bored, frustrated me endlessly. It seems to me like finding a (wo)man should not involve pretending to enjoy an art tour. But I see full well that occasionally there is nothing but pretending to be someone you are not to convince someone who may be doing the same that you want to spend your lives together.
Nothing, not even art, not even a fun quest for 31 naked bronze statues is worth a lifetime with the wrong person.
A remarkable woman I know had suggested that we go find every single Gormley statue and like a treasure hunt we did. We had great fun, persisted when one proved difficult to spot, and over a few warm afternoon hours made our way with a map in hand to identify them.
They are all bronze cast statues of him which made us vaguely familiar with the shape of his body. A little girl, hardly more than four, seemed particularly enthralled by his behind much to her father's embarrassment. He had circular stumps which my companion wished Gormley had found a way to remove and I, apparently mistakenly, believed were a part of the casting process.
No one else seemed interested in doing this which made us wonder if the installation is being appreciated. In truth, I can understand that searching for them on my own might have been much less amusing. My companion was as compulsive as I am and we both agreed that nothing would deter us from seeing each and every one. We wound through the park, across to Lexington, over to Broadway, stopped for water at the Shake Shack. There were moments when our persistence was difficult to maintain. We tried to convince each other that a window ledge was the corner of a head, or that a small water tower was one of the statues with a cape. Fortunately, we continued and proudly checked off each one on our map. The friend we met for one which naturally became two margaritas was pleased to have missed this excursion. Deep into the second sweet, lime tequila beverage, he admitted that he would not have wished to walk through the afternoon heat in order to see every single one.
The proper companion for this sort of activity is important. At a recent studio tour, I saw several unwilling companions walking through the art merely on behalf of their partner. They clearly had neither the interest nor desire to be looking at the works on display. They were merely there in order to be with their partner and even that seemed reluctant. I have to ask whether finding a man (or a woman) is really worth feigning interest in an activity? Why do people feel that they must become tied at the hip and never separated? If they are going to spend a lifetime together will it not eventually be revealed that they do not favor the same activities or pastimes? I find it more interesting to learn later what someone did and how much they enjoyed it, knowing full well that it sounds wonderful only because I did not do it because it would have irritated, bored, frustrated me endlessly. It seems to me like finding a (wo)man should not involve pretending to enjoy an art tour. But I see full well that occasionally there is nothing but pretending to be someone you are not to convince someone who may be doing the same that you want to spend your lives together.
Nothing, not even art, not even a fun quest for 31 naked bronze statues is worth a lifetime with the wrong person.
Not an Art Critic
I am not an art critic. I am, instead, one of those irritating lay people who by virtue of upbringing, education and now preference occasionally impose myself on the art world by observing its current offerings.
I enjoy doing so now but that was not always the case. As a child, I accompanied my parents and their friends to museums, galleries, festivals and street fairs where they looked at art. I was not encouraged to attend but expected to quietly enjoy whatever I did appreciate, though my opinion was largely irrelevant because I was after all just a child. The mysteries of that adult world mingled with their elusive conversations on art and so I find myself some years later having been lured into this obscure world. I have become one of those adults who attends art events, sometimes out of obligation to my continued edification, but usually out of curiosity.
I have not studied art. When I had the option of taking an art history class in high school, I did not because it interfered with a psychology class that I chose to take instead. Despite assorted attempts to teach me how to draw an egg, my drawing still looks like an oblong. In college, I studied philosophy and the history of math. I studied Kant, but now read Ruskin, Whistler, Fry, and others that are suggested or seem fun to read. I note the captions in museum shows I attend and peruse any articles that appear in my favored magazines or newspapers. I occasionally pick up a book at the library or online on this artist, that period or some theory. My interest in art is unformed and seemingly whimsical.
I do, however, care about art. Sometime in my twenties, I discovered that I really enjoy art. I like being able to look at pretty pictures but I also like the experience that perhaps Kant did describe best as the free play of the imagination and understanding. Most of the walls of my humble home may require floor to ceiling book cases but there is always at least one wall that displays the pieces I favor at the moment from my very modest collection of affordable art. I was an artist model for six years and over the many hours of sitting (or standing) in studios listened to all manner of problems various artists encountered in creating art. Mostly I heard them damn the poverty of the art world, including in their monologues: poorly made brushes, the degradation of current art education, and the nihilism that suffuses the ironic tendencies of most modern curators.
I live in one of the art capitols of the world and am regularly insulted by the offerings of this metropolis. After attending the recent Whitney Biennial, I wondered if anyone actually considered what is being displayed. I am not the only person who attends an art museum and questions why I am watching a video made by someone who never studied film. I can't believe that I am the only person who attends a gallery to witness a performance by someone who has never exercised their mind in the history of movement or theater and wonders why. And as someone who studies words and literature, I particularly fail to comprehend why artists think they should present words whose use and history they have never bothered to study and therefore rarely use with the significance possible.
This is not to say that I am incapable of admiring idiot-savant work. I own a piece of outsider art, in fact. I also own other works and one of the worst is a figure drawing (that was given to me) so I am not unconditionally partial to "pretty pictures" or "art you can understand/describe/show my Mormon grandmother." I am not a Luddite but I can suggest that the manufacturing of art has mostly proffered problems. I will declare that it doesn't require an art critic, dealer or curator to tell you what to appreciate, although sometimes they can offer insights that are quite valuable. I can be wrong, misinformed and learn, but I can also argue against inanity.
So this blog is about a young woman- a mere audience member to the art world- who can opine on what she sees (perhaps even reasonably intelligently but certainly for the amusement of her judgment) and, as of today, is rather inclined to do so.
I enjoy doing so now but that was not always the case. As a child, I accompanied my parents and their friends to museums, galleries, festivals and street fairs where they looked at art. I was not encouraged to attend but expected to quietly enjoy whatever I did appreciate, though my opinion was largely irrelevant because I was after all just a child. The mysteries of that adult world mingled with their elusive conversations on art and so I find myself some years later having been lured into this obscure world. I have become one of those adults who attends art events, sometimes out of obligation to my continued edification, but usually out of curiosity.
I have not studied art. When I had the option of taking an art history class in high school, I did not because it interfered with a psychology class that I chose to take instead. Despite assorted attempts to teach me how to draw an egg, my drawing still looks like an oblong. In college, I studied philosophy and the history of math. I studied Kant, but now read Ruskin, Whistler, Fry, and others that are suggested or seem fun to read. I note the captions in museum shows I attend and peruse any articles that appear in my favored magazines or newspapers. I occasionally pick up a book at the library or online on this artist, that period or some theory. My interest in art is unformed and seemingly whimsical.
I do, however, care about art. Sometime in my twenties, I discovered that I really enjoy art. I like being able to look at pretty pictures but I also like the experience that perhaps Kant did describe best as the free play of the imagination and understanding. Most of the walls of my humble home may require floor to ceiling book cases but there is always at least one wall that displays the pieces I favor at the moment from my very modest collection of affordable art. I was an artist model for six years and over the many hours of sitting (or standing) in studios listened to all manner of problems various artists encountered in creating art. Mostly I heard them damn the poverty of the art world, including in their monologues: poorly made brushes, the degradation of current art education, and the nihilism that suffuses the ironic tendencies of most modern curators.
I live in one of the art capitols of the world and am regularly insulted by the offerings of this metropolis. After attending the recent Whitney Biennial, I wondered if anyone actually considered what is being displayed. I am not the only person who attends an art museum and questions why I am watching a video made by someone who never studied film. I can't believe that I am the only person who attends a gallery to witness a performance by someone who has never exercised their mind in the history of movement or theater and wonders why. And as someone who studies words and literature, I particularly fail to comprehend why artists think they should present words whose use and history they have never bothered to study and therefore rarely use with the significance possible.
This is not to say that I am incapable of admiring idiot-savant work. I own a piece of outsider art, in fact. I also own other works and one of the worst is a figure drawing (that was given to me) so I am not unconditionally partial to "pretty pictures" or "art you can understand/describe/show my Mormon grandmother." I am not a Luddite but I can suggest that the manufacturing of art has mostly proffered problems. I will declare that it doesn't require an art critic, dealer or curator to tell you what to appreciate, although sometimes they can offer insights that are quite valuable. I can be wrong, misinformed and learn, but I can also argue against inanity.
So this blog is about a young woman- a mere audience member to the art world- who can opine on what she sees (perhaps even reasonably intelligently but certainly for the amusement of her judgment) and, as of today, is rather inclined to do so.
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