Shh, I'm Appreciating Art

Wow, I've done it again. Got too busy to even get around to blogging, I mean. Who knew that life could become such a distraction?


The famed Three Studies of Lucian Freud by Francis Bacon, which I mentioned in my last blog roughly a millennium ago, has arrived at the Portland Art Museum in the meanwhile and, yes, I have been too busy to go see it. Do I want to see it in order to find out what $142 million looks like? Yes. Do I want to stand in a huge thronging crowd of other people who are there for that same reason? Not really. Watching a program about the Louvre the other day I realized that if I ever visit, I will probably go and see the Mona Lisa because it's what you're supposed to do when you go to the Louvre. But it probably wouldn't be my favorite stop.


Along similar lines, I have been to the Taj Mahal which, when you see pictures of it, looks like this:



(image from Wikipedia)


And which, when you visit, looks like this:





(image from Google)

Crowded, noisy, and full of photographers offering to take your picture even when your own family members are in the process of doing just that. If you go inside the building, which is a tomb, you're supposed to  take off your shoes and be reverent and not take pictures but people are shouting to hear their own echoes and there's the constant flash of cameraphones.


The building is all beauty and wonder and poetry; not that you'll know as you're hustled through the interior by a pushing crowd and guards watching that you don't touch anything and telling you to move along (not, however, going after the people shouting and taking pictures, as they probably can't leave their stations). So I don't really remember what the inside looks like, because I didn't get the chance to appreciate it. Which means that, after visiting, the Taj Mahal doesn't mean a lot more to me than it did before. Maybe other people can gain a new perspective, appreciation, understanding, what have you, of a work of art while people are shouting and posing for pictures and trying to find their shoes on every side, but I couldn't. Going to see the Mona Lisa would probably be just as unfulfilling.


Does this mean I regret going to the Taj Mahal, or would likewise regret seeing the Mona Lisa? No, as I don't think it could be possible to regret such an experience (unless someone had stolen my shoes). It's just that the experience doesn't live up to the expectation people have (or that I had, at least) of the emotional response it will instill, or the perfect memories that will follow from its perfect composition. I just can't commune with a work of art when people on all sides are striving to do the same thing. Or, worse, just trying to take a picture of it so they can move on. It's surprising how often I see this--people taking pictures without even looking at the work in front of the lens. But that's a beef for another blog.


I suspect similar issues could arise with the Bacon at PAM, but in this case I have an upcoming opportunity to see the work in question, and will soon prove myself right or wrong. Only time will tell.

This isn't to say that I can only appreciate art alone--as a matter of fact, I find that I prefer to have someone else with me when I'm looking at art. It's more fun to have someone to talk to, to share ideas with, to offer their own thoughts and criticisms and observations in response to mine. Because even though appreciating art is, in a way, a very personal and individual undertaking best accomplished with some peace and quiet, on the other hand how much fun can it be if you don't have someone else to share it with?

I was Too Busy to Think About How Busy I was

This has been a busy term. Surprisingly, though I scheduled myself to write a blog every other week, it didn't happen once--too much working at one job or another, or having to write papers or read school books or attend meetings or go to talks. Or feed and shower myself (this, too, is necessary every week, and if it comes down to blog or shower, well ... ).

And just as life got busy, it seemed like the art history news wouldn't let up. While I was trying to keep on top of things ... 


--Banksy escaped New York.

--A Francis Bacon painting of Lucien Freud became the most costly painting ever sold at auction (at $142 mil).

--And Jeff Koons became the mostly costly living artist, with a single artwork earning $58.4 mil (at the same auction).

--And over 1500 works of art found in a Munich apartment (by artists like Picasso, Matisse, Chagall and others) were confirmed to be Nazi war booty.


All of which would have been fun to write about ... but there were also so many things going on here, locally, that were just as cool--and that I've been just as unable to blog about. So, at the risk of sounding a little late to the party, allow me to reminisce ...

At the beginning of November the Art History Students Association of Portland State University, of which I am a leader, organized a mini field trip to the home of a collector of Japanese prints. Of course it helps to have a professor who can introduce you to local art collectors, and it was a fascinating experience to explore someone else's artistic passion in this way. I've always been drawn to Japanese prints because of their bright colors and the calligraphic appearance of their lines. They always seem to me to be the more likely predecessor to modern Japanese manga than American comics. And since manga was one of my first art-related passions, well, how can I not love prints? 

But perhaps the most important thing you gain from viewing somebody's personal art collection is a certain level of access into a special part of their mind, life, and view of the world. If you, too, are interested in exploring this collection of prints, you can actually visit them online, here.

We also had a crazy, hectic, awesome time hosting a lecture on campus by art historian, feminist, and art dealer Kat Griefen of the Accola Griefen Gallery. Hectic, maybe, because I've never done the whole set up/take down thing on this sort of scale, but awesome as well because this might be the first lecture I've ever sat in where the speaker focused on giving advice and ideas on how to be a good art historian, how to get involved with art and artists, and how to blaze your own trail into the future. And, as an art dealer, she had tons of engaging and inspiring works to show us as well, and now I have some serious studying to do on feminist artists now that I'm free...

And what else? Not much, really. I've been having a wild time these last few months and now the term is over, meaning that it's time to plan the next round of AHSA events, and try to visit some museum and gallery shows in the meantime. And to do all the reading I've been wanting to!

Oh--and to get ready for next term!

Art - the Gift that Keeps on Giving

A new term has started and here I am, furiously dogpaddling to stay above the work load! It's week 2, which means that thesis topics need to be brewing in my mind, and soon (hopefully) percolating down through my fingers, into nicely written papers.

For one class I have to choose an ancient work of art that has been reused and write a paper about it. Upon thinking hard about this, I came up blank. Of course I could think of examples of reused works: the Mona Lisa, American Gothic, Michelangelo's David, the Birth of Venus--but none of these were from the right time period!

So I panicked a little.

Since then examples have been popping into my mind at the most random times. For example:
 

Venus of Samothrace, Greek



Unique Forms of Continuity in Space, Umberto Boccioni

Or this one:
 
 

Detail from mosaic of Alexander the Great



Detail from Guernica, Pablo Picasso

 All right, maybe that's just a similarity, not a reuse. But what about this one:


 


Kouros, Greek



Kouros, Isamu Noguchi

                       
 And what about this?
 

Venus of Laussel



     

Woman I, Willem de Kooning


The point is that there are plenty of examples of reused images in art--all of mine are modern, but that's just because I know modern art best. It's easy to say that modern works are indebted to their antecedents, whether directly or indirectly, because isn't this true? By studying the art of the past, modern artists have set themselves up to think about old themes, old styles, old works of art. Imitation could very well be accidental in some of the cases above, and it shouldn't be surprising that certain themes recur through art again and again even without any relation.

At the same time, it's in our nature as human beings to compare the new to the old, to hold one image up in light of those that have come before. Because new art should be new, but at the same time must be comprehensible, meaning that it must have some connection to what we already consider art. Whether artists draw visual or thematic cues from the past, they undoubtedly do draw something. Has any art ever been created in a vacuum? I don't think it's possible, as no person lives in a vacuum. We are all a product of our influences and experiences, whether in life or art.

Or in pointing out someone else's influences, I suppose





 


The Capitoline Wolf: Art? Check. History? Well ...

My first introductions to art and art history included the Renaissance and ancient Greek and Roman works. There were plenty of books on these topics in my house and, although they were pretty boring to read as a kid, the pictures were great. I could've looked at the pictures all day long. I think I did, too.
 
I don't recall when I first saw the Capitoline Wolf, but it wasn't in one of those earliest art-discovering experiences. I'd seen the Discobolos and Venus de Milo a thousand times before ever encountering it. I'd learned a handful of ancient Egyptian gods and wondered at Greek black figure and red figure pottery. I knew the story of Romulus and Remus before ever seeing the statue that celebrates their infancy.
 
I was probably 12 or so when I first did see the sculpture labeled as ancient Roman (supposedly, from around 500 BC). It struck me as odd compared to everything I'd seen before. Maybe it was the surprised look on the wolf's face, or the clunky pose, with its back completely strait from head to hindquarters. Or maybe it was the far more fleshy and lively babies below, who certainly looked like the product of a different hand. I couldn't have put any of these things into words at the time, but somehow the sculpture just didn't fit, either with itself or with any other art I knew.
 
So when I read something a few weeks ago purporting that the sculpture is really a Romanesque/Renaissance creation, I was surprised at first. Then, it made a lot more sense. Evidently science has dated the Romulus and Remus figures to the late 1400s (don't they look like chubby Renaissance cherubs?). And, though results haven't come back concerning the wolf, a study of stylistic cues suggests she belongs to the Romanesque period.
 
The original presumption that the Capitoline Wolf was an Early Roman or Etruscan work was based on visual similarities, such as the presentation of the fur, with authentic Etruscan works like the famed Chimera of Arezzo (from 400 BC).
 

The Capitoline Wolf, 480-500 BC. Or, 1200s and 1400s.
 

The Chimera of Arezzo, 400 BC. (Tail is an 18th century restoration.)
 
With just these two examples to look at, similarities do stand out. It's hard to imagine that one doesn't derive from the other in some way. But, take a look at this Romanesque lion and compare all three:


Lion, Mainz Cathedral, Germany, Romanesque

To me it's interesting that the Mainz lion's face has so much in common with the Chimera's--the lines on the snout and the jowly mouth, for instance. Although the rest of the anatomy is decidedly different--look at the paws, or the blocks of muscle on the Mainz lion that are much smoother and more contoured on the Chimera. Look at the mane, flattened down on the Mainz lion and standing out at all angles on the Chimera. And the pose: the Chimera matches up with what we expect of art in the Early Roman period in that it's dynamic and expressive, while the Mainz lion is quite Romanesque in deportment. Solid, staid, and stately.

Put between these two lions, where does the Capitoline Wolf fit? It's easy to see more visual similarities to the Mainz lion--the stiffly shaped muscles, solid pose, and flat, curly mane are all comparable. And though I don't know a lot about bronze casting technology from either of these time periods, I would have to say that not only the aesthetic preferences of the time periods are evident, but also the abilities of the medium. Clearly the creator of the Chimera had a level of bronze-working technology that didn't exist in the Romanesque period, to pick out the bristling mane and veins bulging on the body and legs. These sorts of details are often seen in Roman sculpture, and I can't think of a single Romanesque sculpture with them.

If I had all the time in the world I'd delve deeper into this topic and learn everything there is to know--as it is, I don't. And yet, it just so happens that I'm signed up for a Romanesque Art History class for Fall term, starting next week. Looks like I already have a topic for my final paper!

On Kawara is Still Alive--or, The Artist as Existential Philosopher

I haven't got around to writing a blog for a couple of weeks but don't worry, this doesn't mean I've forgotten! Similarly, my refusal to emerge from my room doesn't mean I've stopped existing--just that I haven't got around to getting out, either.

In an effort to express this to other people I live with (but who function on totally different hours), I wrote a note the other day giving all the pertinent basics: I Am Still Alive, my name, the date, and the time I woke up. Although daily usage of the coffee pot is also a pretty good indicator that I continue to function normally.

Upon explaining the inspiration for my note (a conceptual art project by On Kawara), I was met with the question, "That's art? Who pays for it?"

My off-the-cuff answer: "Probably no one." You don't necessarily make lots of money as an artist these days--especially if your art is conceptual. Or so I thought! Then I did a little additional research on Kawara and discovered that one of his paintings sold in 2007 for almost 2 million dollars! Here's the piece:



If you're not familiar with Kawara, you may be scratching your head. What's up with this? It looks like printed text, I could do that with my computer and one sheet of paper. Well, if I could figure out how to print white on black.

This painting is part of Kawara's best known project, the Today series. In 1966 he began  creating "date paintings" from start to finish, each one within the day it commemorated. He doesn't paint them every single day; however, if a date painting is not finished by the end of the day, he destroys it. He's still making them, almost 50 years into the project. This persistence is pretty impressive to me--I can't imagine being interested in any of the same things 50 years from now, much less being so dedicated to them. My husband, who's a realistic painter, appreciates Kawara's ability to paint those perfectly precise characters freehand, no stencils included.

But when I first encountered Kawara in Contemporary Art, I was most intrigued by his telegrams and postcards. For a while he sent telegrams (upon which my note was based) informing friends that "I am still alive," like this:


This one's to the famous Minimalist Sol LeWitt!

Or, he would send postcards declaring "I got up at ..." and give the time of morning.


(I picked an example that makes him look like an early riser.)

It's notable that both of these works affirm the continuing existence of the artist in a manner that is impersonal. His handwriting isn't on them so how can you be sure they're by Kawara? And if their authorship is untraceable, how can you be sure he still exists? Maybe he doesn't, and the whole premise is a sham!

Also tied into their impersonal nature, there is no sentimentality in Kawara's conception of existence. Existing is just a state of being, a scientific fact. He could just as easily send telegrams stating: Gravity Still Works. This would be concerned with the existence of the world as we know it, but I suspect that to him the fact of existing is just one more quantifiable scientific phenomena.

Obviously, as this is conceptual art, the nuance is in the idea, not the product. The telegram or postcard is a vehicle for the artist's message. Don't ask me precisely what that message is, as I am only tangentially familiar with his work, but judging from the three examples above, Kawara's main concerns are with human existence in time. Time, not space. I watched a video earlier today where the presenter said something like, "If you're not doing anything with your time, then you're just getting older." And, since I'd already been thinking about Kawara recently (and planning to write this blog! Honestly!) this statement brought me back to the realm of conceptual existentialism. Is the issue of Kawara's impersonal messages the only existential factor at play, or are there others?

For example, if Kawara doesn't send a telegram to Sol LeWitt letting him know that he's still alive, then does LeWitt even think about Kawara's existence? Only by sending these messages to others does he keep himself in their awareness. And, maybe, it's only by asserting his continuing existence to others that Kawara actually does continue to exist, or at least validate the fact. Sending a postcard concerning the time you woke up is just another way of saying a quite similar thing: I am still present in the waking world. Wherever I may have been when I was asleep, I'm back now.

And by receiving one of these messages, your own existence is affirmed, too, isn't it? If Kawara sent a message to you, and you got it, then you must be alive too. Or awake. You are both functioning on the same plane of consciousness. There is no personal interaction here--you can't even recognize an old friend's handwriting in the message--but something deeper, more profound. A two-way affirmation of continuing existence, humanity, cognizance, what have you. I don't know Kawara's philosophy of life and didn't want to study it before writing this or surely my own observations would be tempered.

But if you know me you know I have to tie this blog back around to the beginning, and where did we start? With May 1, 1987. I expressed surprise that this painting--one date among thousands that Kawara has painted--made almost 2 million dollars at auction. But keep in mind that this painting was 20 years old when it sold for that price. So, although conceptual art makes itself difficult to sell by existing in ideas and not in objects, a date painting with twenty years of history on it has, I guess, picked up a peculiar sort of sentimentality, too. At least I'd prefer to think it's this.

Because how can you put a price tag on assertions of human existence? It's not that I think Kawara's ideas have no value, but that their ultimate ideas exceed the assignation of worth. Which makes it comforting, then, to know that even if someone buys one of his telegrams or postcards, they actually aren't buying the work of art but only physical evidence of it. Because you can't buy human interaction or existential affirmation.

Or can you?

Spiral Jetta, A Book Review and Rumination

When taking Modern Art this spring term, I recall perking up when the topic shifted from something like people licking jam off a car, to landscape and earth art. We covered all the best-known works: Michael Heizer's Double Negative, Robert Smithson's Spiral Jetty, and James Turrell's Roden Crater. I was especially intrigued by the way Nancy Holt's Sun Tunnels mixed industrial, celestial, spiritual, and scientific elements, and thought I'd like to go see them someday.

So when I found Erin Hogan's book, Spiral Jetta, I immediately picked it up. All of the above artworks were created in the American Southwest, and this book chronicled the author's pilgrimage in search of them. Like me, she went into the search with high hopes of communing not only with art but with nature, and maybe even finding that the two became one in these sites.

I enjoyed the book; it was fun, arty, and fortunately not preachy or presumptuous of its readers. Someone who didn't know anything about landscape art would have understood and appreciated this book as much as I did (although it needed more pictures, and the pictures needed captions--says a newspaper editor). Especially for someone who'd been contemplating going out to see these works, it was a book that had to be read.

However, from a storytelling background, I felt that an introduction would have been key to understanding and appreciating the author's decision to make this art pilgrimage. Wanting to see them is one thing--I want to, as well--but actually making the drive through the most uninhabited regions of the US is quite another thing. Do the costs and risks outweigh the potential benefits, and how does a city-girl decide this is so? Beneath the "I want to see them," there has to be a deeper why--why want to at all? Instead of giving this background information, Hogan jumps straight into her quest, with the first chapter dedicated to Spiral Jetty (the book is called Spiral Jetta because of the type of car she drove there in) and every chapter after revolves around a different work or place she visited.

Disappointingly, although Hogan included a chapter about her quest for the Sun Tunnels, she couldn't find them. Which made me wonder if I'd fare any better driving through vast deserts in a tiny car.


The elusive Sun Tunnels. The tunnels align to the sunrise and sunset of the summer and winter solstices, while the holes in the sides of the tunnels replicate constellations when sunlight passes through them.

It also made me wonder, more than a little, about the reasoning of the artists who did this in the first place. Why make art where no one will see it? What kind of thought process goes into choosing which part of a vast empty landscape to place four cement tunnels in?

It's hard to believe that the artists wanted their works to be easily found or accessed--even Spiral Jetty, which is arguably the best known and is, for crying out loud, in one of the Salt Lakes, has been described as way off the beaten path, while Roden Crater, according to Hogan, is only open by arrangement with the artist. She couldn't get there, either. Another famous piece, Walter de Maria's Lightning Field, is only accessible by being driven to it by a guide, staying in an on-site cabin overnight, and then being driven back out. And supposedly it hardly ever gets struck by lightning.

All of these works are difficult, arduous, or impossible to get to, and didn't the artists think of that when they made them? Well, consider this quote by Nancy Holt:

"It is a very desolate area, but it is totally accessible, and it can be easily visited, making Sun Tunnels more accessible really than art in museums . . . A work like Sun Tunnels is always accessible . . . Eventually, as many people will see Sun Tunnels as would see many works in a city - in a museum anyway."

More accessible than art in museums! When I read that I stopped and thought about it. In a way, yes, and in another way, no. More accessible, perhaps, in the sense that if you were out in the wilds of New Mexico or Utah you could maybe happen to stumble across them, while it takes intent to go to a museum, pay admission, and find what you're looking for. For someone who lives in Portland, Oregon, these works are not accessible in the least and if I, like Hogan, happened to be bold enough to spend the money to drive down there and try to find them, it seems my chances would be slimmer than successfully maneuvering through the Portland Art Museum without a map.

Certainly, landscape works had to be a part of the earth. They had to be somewhere there weren't people, buses, fast food drive-thrus, if they were going to be what they aspired to be. So there is that factor to keep in mind. But after reading that quote by Holt a second time, it felt like these works were a direct commentary on museum art. Distant, inscrutable, inaccessible, remote, and exclusionary are the sorts of words used to describe contemporary museum art, and can't these words, in a different sense, describe landscape art? Even if I did make the pilgrimage, and I did find the Sun Tunnels, they are at such a far remove from the rest of the world that you can't really stay and appreciate them for that long--nor can I just drive over and see them on my day off from work.

I really do want to see these pieces someday, though. It would be an amazing opportunity, if I could afford it ... And, seeing as I'm still working on a paper about Noguchi, I feel like I could find interesting affinities between the way these different artistic approaches integrate landscape and art. Although I doubt Noguchi's work gets struck by lightning very often, either.

So if you are interested in landscape art and would like to know a bit more about it, this book is a great and helpful read. Fortunately, Hogan is honest and down to earth about her experiences, rather than waxing poetic at every moment she's not driving. It takes a lot of guts to admit you drove hundreds of miles to look at some rocks, or cement, or metal poles, and then didn't even like them as much as you wanted to, and for that, I commend and recommend this book.

Michelangelo and Isamu Noguchi

In my free time this summer, I've been reading an analysis and biography of Isamu Noguchi because I've volunteered to make myself write a paper about his art before school reconvenes. I took the book with me on a vacation to Idaho--accompanied by some people (who shall not be named but know who they are!) who think, when it comes to art, that there's nothing better under the sun than the Renaissance, and therefore Modern art is hooey.

I won't start a fight with the Renaissance but I will say this: the moment I sat down and really, truly, thought about my opinions of, say, Michelangelo's painting and sculpture, I realized I wasn't much of a fan. There's something about that kind of monumental and dramatic religiosity that doesn't really work for me. All right, so if I saw these famous works in person maybe I'd feel differently--but I doubt I'd be impressed at much more than their scale. I just don't care all that much for overdramatic nudes flailing all over the place. And when it comes to expressiveness you can't dispute that his works are ... but expressive in a theatrical, not natural, sense. They feel contrived and overly perfect though I suppose this was the point.

It may also be that Michelangelo is one of the most over-exposed artists of all time; everyone's seen his works copied, used in advertisements, and splashed across TV screens ad infinitum. Works like the Creation of Adam, or the Pieta, or the Last Judgment have become such a part of our culture that they have certainly lost a lot of their impact, meaning, and impressiveness. Maybe I'd like Michelangelo more if he wasn't so famous?

Well, maybe a little.

I didn't start this blog intending to rant about Michelangelo, but instead to reflect on Isamu Noguchi and Modernism. To bring this tangent around to my point, let me give a bit of an introduction--Noguchi was a sculptor, as well as a designer of furniture, parks, gardens, and theater sets. He was half Japanese and half American. Though he studied under the Modernist Constantin Brancusi, he also looked back to ancient Greek and Japanese traditions of sculpture. As a matter of fact, he picked stone from some of the same quarries that Michelangelo had used hundreds of years before.

I am interested in Noguchi partly thanks to an exhibition devoted to his art taking place at the Portland Japanese Garden (and ending soon--sorry!), where I'm volunteering as a gallery assistant. And also, partly, because of my interest in intersections in art--especially cultural ones.

One of the works on display references Michelangelo directly. There's a well-known story that Michelangelo claimed to be able to visualize a figure asleep inside of the block of stone he was carving; he was just waking it up by taking away the outer stone. This suggests that Michelangelo visualized exactly what he was going to do before starting.

I have walked around Noguchi's Asleep in a Rock one day a week for about three months, trying in vain (and aware of how vain it was) to make sense of this stone. Trying to see who's asleep in it, I guess. And I'm not the only one--many visitors consider the piece, shrug, and move on. Some mention that same old story about Michelangelo, then shrug and move on. The correlation is obviously there--but what is it?

Isamu Noguchi's Asleep in a Rock, at the Portland Japanese Garden

Awareness of Noguchi's interests and some of his other works help in understanding Asleep in a Rock. Considering the themes of balance--of east and west, man and nature, and new and old traditions--inherent in so much of his work, Asleep in a Rock is not divergent, but rather, representative. Unlike Michelangelo, he hasn't taken a stone and transformed it into a figure, or even the recognizable beginning of one. It seems like he's stopped just where an artist like Michelangelo would be getting started.

And I think, after all these weeks of mulling, that this is the point. Stone and figure have balanced in this work. Noguchi suggests that there is a figure to be discovered inside the stone, but the stone itself is just as important as the discovery. The qualities of the natural material--its form and intent and history--balance with the artists' contributions (or removals) in importance. Noguchi is acutely aware--attuned--to his material, to the point that it becomes a collaborator in its own content and meaning.

Rather than shaping nature, or forcing the discovery of the sleeper in the stone, Noguchi lets us contemplate the balance he's created, and decide where the incidence of nature ends and the intention of the artist begins.

Which is all summed up quite eloquently in a quote by Noguchi which also makes the title of the exhibition: "We Are the Landscape of All We Know."