Tag: Tate

That Which Lingers Long After – “Fountain”

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Marcel Duchamp’s “Fountain” is a urinal turned on its side and signed– and I can’t stop thinking about it. “Fountain” is a ‘ready-made’ piece of art, meaning that it is an ordinary object that has been selected by an artist to become art, assigning something mundane a grander meaning. The artist, in this sense, has not created a new object, but created a new idea for an object.

“Fountain” was initially submitted to the Society of Independent Artists in 1917 under the pseudonym R. Mutt, but was rejected for its alleged indecency. Duchamp, who was on the board for the society quickly resigned in protest. What Duchamp had endeavored to do was test this organization’s that claimed to accept any work of art for display, and frankly, it failed. The result of this failure, however, is the infamy of “Fountain” and the IMG_20190204_125131introduction of a wholly new idea to the art world, conceptual art.

When we look at “Fountain”, it is glistening white and generally curved. When viewed straight on, it is reminiscent of the seated Buddha, or a woman’s cloaked head. This may not be purposeful, but is relevant to the way the viewer experiences the piece. Above the aesthetic is the original purpose of the object, a urinal intended to collect waste and be observed in the private space of a bathroom, rather than in the scrutinous eyes of the public. Context is important. History is important. “Fountain” challenges the institution of the museum or gallery as a home for greatness at the discretion of an elite board. “Fountain”‘ is a house guest that scoffs at its hosts.

What is most essential to “Fountain” is the idea. This is an exemplification of the transcendental quality of art making. Even less conceptual pieces take pigments and cloth and turn them into works that we regard as masterpieces, but materials are ephemeral. Despite the best conservationist’s efforts, physical materials are only capable of lasting so long. The copy of “Fountain” that the Tate Modern has on display is but a copy of the original, which has been lost. Despite this, to see it is to experience the idea that the very first “Fountain” carried within it– that physical objects can be lost, but ideas last forever.

For more information on “Fountain”, check out this Art Assignment video “Art or prank?”

Rothko’s Seagram Murals

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The Rothko room at the Tate Modern is an underappreciated treat for gallery-goers. The room is dimly lit, and feels much like a dive into the depths of a somber maroon ocean– or at the very least, that is how I suspect the room is meant to feel. Instead, the central bench was filled with people on their phones, having lunch, or disciplining upset children. It felt like the gallery-goers were present because they assumed nothing important was in there, and thus it was an excellent place to take a break from all the art.

I suspect visitors would react in this way because Rothko’s later work is an expression of simplicity and monumentality that speaks to the human drama that Rothko became acquainted with over the course of his life. The murals of this room were designed for the Four Seasons restaurant in the Seagram Building in New York as a retort to the wealthy patrons that the Four Seasons would attract. Rothko intended for the deep blacks, reds, and maroons to make these bourgeois guests feel claustrophobic, as if the windows and doors had been sealed with brick. These swathes of color speak to a somber oppressiveness that gyrates and shifts along the blurred and uneven edges of each profound rectangle.

Ordinarily, stillness is attributed to Rothko’s later works, but the reflection of each spotlight transforming the color of Rothko’s work makes these in particular feel like they are writhing. Most of the works are simple and symmetrical, but they strike me as being an unexpected stroke of profundity in a museum that otherwise caters to movement and interaction.

I’m glad that Rothko pulled out of his deal with the Four Seasons and sent these works across the sea to London, as in New York they would have been pearls before capitalist swine (Rothko was very leftist in philosophy). However, I can’t help but think that there’s perhaps a better resting place for this set of holy ghosts. I think to the Rothko chapel in Houston, Texas as a proper place for somber contemplation, the sort that these pieces demand of the viewer. I know that this is wishful thinking.

For an excellent explanation of Rothko’s works, check out the Art Assignment’s “The Case for Mark Rothko”

Bonnard’s Baths– Transformation of Meaning

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If there’s one thing to be said about Pierre Bonnard, the man liked a good bath. Bonnard’s current exhibition at the Tate Modern provides a few of his bath scenes for the visitor to ponder, and I must say I liked them quite a lot. It’s an odd thing to paint a person taking a bath, but I find it’s one of the few situations where finding a nude person would edge more on the mundane than the erotic. Very Bonnard!

While it’s not mentioned in the text of the gallery, I know Bonnard best as an intimist, and in association with Edouard Vuillard. Both are known for their scenes of domestic life, family, friends, and the home. Marthe Bonnard, Pierre’s eventual wife is the subject of these paintings most often, which makes sense in the context of her unwellness and

bonnard bath
Nude in the Bath, 1936

tuberculosis. Hydrotherapy was a popular form of medicine at the time, and it may well account for the prevalence of baths in Bonnard’s body of work. Marthe’s baths were a part of their daily lives, particularly near the end of her life, and some of Bonnard’s scenes of her are even painted after her death. This makes me quite sad.

Bonnard’s work towards the end of his life becomes a song of color, memory, and longing. Marthe’s baths become a source of sadness, as her coming demise becomes more and more apparent. Bonnard’s color is a form of remembering, as he so often painted based on his first impression of a scene, and what he felt as a result. He called his use of color “many small lies to create a great truth”. The truth of his sadness is apparent in every color.

For example, when examining “Nude in the Bath”, the portion most shrouded in darkness is that of Marthe’s head, her face unable to be seen. The dark tones bring a melancholy that wouldn’t otherwise be apparent in a brightly colored piece. The yellows and oranges contrast the blues and purples, yet the overwhelming patterns bring about disorder for the viewer’s perspective. The patterns flatten the perspective, and this is common among both Bonnard and Vuillard as intimists. “Nude in the Bath” is captivating.

I can’t shake the feeling that Bonnard was a man who deeply enjoyed his home, and the company he kept. His book, Correspondances, is full of fictional letters to and from his family and friends, and was also on display in the gallery. Several of the letters were from family members already deceased, such as his grandfather, and this gives the work a wistful feeling of loneliness.

Bonnard was a relatively ordinary man, but the exhibition conveyed to me his similarly ordinary pain and unease. This conveyance of very common pain allows Bonnard’s work to infiltrate the viewer’s heart, which sounds quite tacky, but rang true for my own gallery experience. If we all conveyed our daily, private lives through color, they would all look quite different, but the feeling, I suspect, would often be the same.

The Best Part of Edward Burne-Jones: William Morris

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The most excellent portion of the Tate’s Burne-Jones exhibition was without a doubt the stained glass, furniture, and tapestries in the final room of the exhibition, which presented Burne-Jones as a designer, which in many ways he was. Burne-Jones was one of very few at his time to value “low arts” such as textiles and stained glass as equivalent to fine art. (Art vs. Craft is still heavily debated today.) That said, Burne-Jones has William Morris to thank for these strokes of inspiration, as Morris was a designer through and through.

Morris and Burne-Jones began as schoolmates and shared homes and studio spaces as they matured. Morris’ life is well chronicled on his gallery’s website, which details the overlapping of the two artists’ lives, and in many ways elucidates their differences. Morris was even further a proponent of craft as art, himself being a master of weaving, drawing on medieval designs for his own textiles. Similarly Burne-Jones was often inspired by Renaissance art or biblical/mythical imagery. (Source.)

Both artists saw decoration as a valid and accessible way to bring art to the public, though Morris was far more of a socialist than Burne-Jones, in that regard. Morris felt guilt for the price of his work, something no common person could enjoy, and envisioned a world in which everyone supports one another and creates art by hand. Burne-Jones, on the other hand, was comfortable retreating into fantasy for the sake of avoiding politics. Art was one thing, but social change was another. While Morris’ social views were not impressed upon Burne-Jones, luckily his interest in 3D works was.

Looking more closely at the “Graham Piano” that was part of the exhibition, it almost takes on a sculpture-like presence. The hard edges and curves provide a structured feel while the soft flesh depicted on the inside of the piano lies in contrast. A womanly figure directs the cherubs in a scene that would be considered a formidable painting if it were located on canvas, but is further enhanced by its location on the interior of a piano. A piano, as an object, carries with it the hope of music, and the promise of sound, which abstract art might later try to convey. The functional use of the object, in this sense, elevates the imagery and creates an even more heavenly atmosphere.

It is a personal opinion, of course, that art which fills space is more interesting than flat pictures, but I hope that a look at Burne-Jones’ Prioress’s Tale Wardrobe or Ladies and Animals Sideboard will convey some of my enchantment with 3D art. My mind associates these works with illumination, the art of decorating a text with visuals, that it be better understood. The furniture becomes “illuminated” and takes on a greater meaning than its functional purpose as a wardrobe, piano, etc, just as a manuscript becomes something greater than simply a text to read.

There lies the bridge between art and craft, as while “art” is created for the sake of contemplation, “crafts” have a meaning beyond their functional purpose, transforming an object into a thing to be contemplated. This isn’t a perfect delineation of the difference between art and craft, but I hope it’s a new perspective to contemplate. Likewise I hope that more artists become inspired by Burne-Jones’ work, just as he was inspired by Morris’. The world always needs more textiles, stained glass, and wacky furniture.