Tag: Understanding Art

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”

Deification of a Soldier– A Familiar Face?

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Deification of a Soldier is one surrealist work that packs a punch. Completed by Yamashita Kikuji in 1967, Deification is a response to the U.S. occupation of Vietnam in the 1950s and 60s as well as a reaction to the global Cold War going on during the same time. Above that, it is a commentary on war as experienced by both the individual and the collective. Yamashita himself was drafted by the Imperial Japanese Army and witnessed firsthand the execution of a prisoner of war. His sensation of helplessness and regret was very personal, yet an experience many shared during the era.

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Deification of a Soldier, 1967

Looking more closely at the work, we can see that it is one central mass made up of many limbs, mouths, and eyes. What distinguishes this work as surrealist is the focus on both pleasure and destruction, or death. In this case it takes the form of the mouths, breasts, and limbs tangled together. This image is not very ‘sexy’ as a whole, but images and objects that are traditionally sexualized make it so.

Likewise, the images of death are too many to count. The barrel of a gun protrudes from the rightmost horse’s ear. The mouths here are open wide, in a soundless scream. The lower half of the work reads like a mass of either teeth or organs. The distinguishable figures here appear as apparitions, and are quite ghastly.

War plays a major role here, seen in the military helmets on both the central head of the mass and the head of a bird-like figure. We see military attire. Beyond that, we see many eyes in the work, all watching the viewer, just as the viewer looks into this mass of flesh– which brings me to the color palette of the work. While it is washed out to some degree, it appears quite fleshy, and involves both warm and cool tones. Splashes of red are the most vibrant, but the overarching colors here are beige and gray.

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Guernica, 1937

Pretty horrifying upon close inspection, but what struck me the most about this work was its likeness to a far more famous depiction of war– Guernica by Pablo Picasso. Picasso’s Guernica was created exactly thirty years before Deification, but the subject matter of both sets them together as siblings. Guernica’s grayscale palette and similar tangle of limbs does well to convey the horror and senselessness of war, and is thus regarded as one of the most influential paintings of the 20th century. It is in this same vein that Deification makes an impact on its viewer. It is unclear if Deification pays any homage to Guernica, though looking at both pieces, it is a real possibility. Either that, or the horror of war is so universal that artists decades and thousands of miles apart would produce the same sensation through their work.

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

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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.

East Cowes Castle; The Regatta Starting for their Moorings, J.M.W. Turner, 1827-1828

J. M. W. Turner — Oh My God

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When visiting the Victoria and Albert Museum to view the works of John Constable and J.M.W. Turner, there was clear favoritism that developed as I viewed the works of both artists. Don’t get me wrong– Constable’s more expressive works drew me in, as did the billowing clouds that populate so many of his revolutionary landscapes. It’s a bit difficult to look away once you’ve begun looking, to say the least!

That being said, when it came to Turner’s work, I could spend a thousand lifetimes living and dying in front of them– and that’s putting it lightly. The work which captured my attention most readily was the seascape of East Cowes Castle, a location which one can’t help but feel Turner had frequented.

However, when looking at Turner’s body of work, it quickly becomes clear that the magic and genius of it lies not in his locations, but in the lighting of his pieces. I initially attributed the brightness of Turner’s sun to his potential use of lead white, which many other artists of the era would have been fond of. (It’s said to be beyond replication in its glowing brightness, after all.) However, that alone cannot elevate a piece to inspire fixation as Turner’s does.

Rather it lies in his depiction of the sun, not as a cool, still dot, but as a collection of rays, waves, ellipses, etc. Turner understood, just as others during his time were beginning to understand, that the sun is not observed by the human eye as a particular shape, rather, as beams of light collecting and reflecting. As we can see, this realization served Turner well. While East Cowes Castle is not particularly sublime in nature, we are able to see this concept in Turner’s larger body of work. Sublimity is associated with grand awe or terror in the face of the natural world. This can be seen in Turner’s Snow Storm, which is a bit more expressive and conveys the sheer force of nature over man’s often futile endeavors. In his portrayal of this scene, he achieves the sublime to some degree.

Also tying in nature, there are two suns in the East Cowes Castle, The Regatta starting for their Moorings piece, one in the sky, and one reflected in the gentle waves of what is presumably the River Medina. The light spreads from the point that represents the sun, and reflects onto the landscape, sailboats, and the absolute swarm of people on the banks of the river. The people and boats stand out twofold in their warm beigey, browny tan-ness, and in the darkness that stands in contrast to the cool pale sky and bright sun. It invokes the feeling of a cool wind that blows in from the sea on an otherwise humidly tepid day. As a child of a city on the sea, I must say I like it.

Much of the paint was cracked upon viewing Turner’s pieces in person, which makes one wonder whether they cracked 150 years ago due to the sheer thickness of paint that Turner applied, or if the 150 years since the scene was first rendered have been unkind to Turner’s art. Regardless I pray that his art remains in the many free galleries of London, a city so often overcast, as a source of sunshine on an otherwise dreary day. His work is just as intended, and achieves what so many artists of his day yearned to be.