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.
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.
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