Troilo, Unknown

Paolo Troilo, Unknown
Acrylic on canvas

A modern artist. Not often I get exposed to them funnily enough. Apart from the local art gallery, I don't find myself seeing a lot of new works, but browsing the internet does become useful sometimes. I stumbled across Paolo Troilo, an artist based in Milan, in a forum one day. After checking out his website, well frankly, I'm in love with his works.

He works almost exclusively with black and ivory paint, which creates a dramatic effect. Also remarkably, he uses just his hands to create the twisted forms on his canvas. There's something just a bit intimate about this, like he's betraying more about himself than the artist who uses tools on the canvas. When he's done creating his writhing bodies, he'll splatter and smudge paint to create the most beautiful wispy effect.

I use the painting above as an example, but it was really hard to pick out just one I wanted to talk about among the many others that I mulled over. I also couldn't find a title, date or size for the piece, so I'll have to stick with unknown until I find the time to research more.

But I mean, just look at him. The anatomy in which you can almost reach out and feel the contours, the smooth cool skin like sculpted marble. The man who once sat in the dark being illuminated by a heavenly light, a spiritual glow.

But this is where I absolutely love the way Troilo has stayed away from this idea of calmness and peacefulness. The man is being torn from his skin. There's not this gentle ascension out from the shadows, it's torture. It's strange, because we can't see the face so clearly, it's very obscured. However I can feel the grimace of pain, the clenching of the jaw, the furrowing of the brow, the valiant attempt to simply endure the pain. Every cell is starting to protest, to scream in pain and resist the transition... it's killing him.

It's like Troilo has taken every calm and peaceful religious ascension that we see in classical paintings and twisted it into something tangible. He's turned the saint-like apparition to someone more human, more empathetic. I also don't get the immediate feeling that this is a religious painting, but there is definitely something metaphysical or otherworldly about it.
The ominous blackness around him just adds to this contrast of light and dark, this duality. Maybe it's a reflection of the man himself, his own inner split.

I'll be keeping tabs on Troilo in the future, I can't wait to see if he continues to produce such beautiful works.

McCall, You and I, Horizontal (2005)

Can I claim a year and a half hiatus? Really no excuse, just haven't been writing about the pieces I've been seeing. Hoping to fix that in the upcoming weeks!

So yesterday I managed to go see The Light Show that was being held at the Auckland Art Gallery, and it was absolutely worth the trip. As the name suggests, it was a collection of artworks based around light, however what was great about it was how the works spanned over so many years but seemed to flow together so seamlessly with this common thread. It was also great being in an exhibition that was so simple yet interactive, many pieces really invited (or even forced) the viewer into them.

I must say, I wasn't too sure about it at first, I wasn't too taken by the first few artworks. The first piece that struck me was Chromosaturation (1965) by Carlos Cruz-Diez. Simply put, it was three white-walled chambers with different dominating lights: blue, green and red. There was something really unsettling about it, we're never really exposed to just a pure hue before, I felt a bit unsteady walking through it. But it was also quite relaxing, it's not often that you have such a minimalist space with all outside distractions taken out, almost meditative, and any artwork that has this quality usually wins me over quite quickly.

However the piece I'd really like to talk about is McCall's You and I, Horizontal (2005), which I went back to a few times in between other pieces because of how much I fell in love with it. In essence it's pretty simple, but that's just another reason why I love it so much. It's an installation with a projector that has a simple pattern of shapes projected on a wall that are very slowly moving, with a haze machine that causes these beams to be illuminated within the space. I recommend going to YouTube and having a quick look at it in action, my explanation may not really convey it that well and probably doesn't do the piece much justice.

Anthony McCall, You and I, Horizontal, 2005
Installation; computer, computer script, video projector, and haze machine, 50 min. 
cycle in six parts, dimensions variable.
Collection SFMOMA

It's such a simple idea that isn't completely foreign or 'out there', beams of light that are unveiled using a haze machine. A common theme in many night clubs with strobes and lasers. But there's just something so mesmerising about them, especially in such a calm and simple setting. At first I stood out of the light as others were playing around in them, which in itself was great to watch, both in how they disrupted the light in their movements and left silhouettes. But as they left, leaving me and my mum in the dark room by ourselves, it was fascinating just to see the untouched light. So sharp, cutting through space in sweeping arcs and intersections, slowly moving and changing at an almost discernible pace.

However the moment that I was truly in love with the installation was the moment when I entered the pure beams. The rest of the room is partially obscured by just the strong and overpowering light hitting you. But you stop paying attention to that, and just focus on these almost ethereal beams around you. The fog isn't a uniform haze, it's almost like an artificial water that faintly flows over the light. This adds to the illusion that these beams aren't just a ghostly apparition, but solid arcs and planes. What makes this so eerie is your presence in them, interrupting and altering them while also changing the sinuous fog that allows them to present themselves.

It's a strange feeling trying to reach out and grab or interact with these solid surfaces, only to have your hand fall through them. I was alternating between moving my body to interrupt and watch the fog change its flow, and trying to reach out and touch the beams. It causes this almost inferior or humble feeling, being unable to slightly change but not touch what's in front of you. But then there's this contrast when you notice how your very presence, your whole body, is disrupting and changing these beams too. It all depends on which direction you're looking at, towards the light you feel inferior and transient, looking away from it you feel large and powerful. It's a really contrasting and oscillating feeling. Humorous but also meditative, a new experience for me.

I wish I had more time with this installation, but we moved on as people started to pour into the room. It's really an experience you should have in small numbers or by yourself. Maybe another trip before it finishes in early February is in order?

Munch, Love and Pain (1893-4)

So I just fell in love with Edvard Munch. Well, I say that like I had just discovered him, and I guess in a way I have. I've always known about The Scream, who hasn't? But it was always a piece I thought was personally overrated. Not saying it isn't a good piece, but just didn't really speak to me. That was that for me, just another overrated artwork from an artist I hadn't even explored.

 

You think I'd know better by now than to just disregard an artist.

I just spent the last couple of hours looking through his works. I am blown away. I love these moments, almost revelations, where your whole perspective on something will shift in such a short time frame. I'd based my entire idea about Munch on a single artwork, his most famous piece. I didn't even consider his other works, even though some of my favourite pieces from artists are their lesser known ones. How naive of me.

I know I'll write on Munch in the future, because even now I'm still trying to decide about which artwork to talk about, so many of them are beautiful.



Edvard Munch, Love and Pain (1893-4)
Oil on canvas
91cm x 109cm

Vampire, originally called Love and Pain. It's beautiful. Just take a moment to look at it... don't worry, I'll do the same.

The red. The orange. The clashing colours. That's what first stands out to me, the intense contrast of the woman's trailing hair to the dark colours of the work, it's so stark. That's when the scene starts to sink in and for me it's an intimate oscillation between tender and sinister.

It was sinister on first impression, but I think the title of Vampire really sold that more than the actual painting itself. But there is this ominous undertone, the man with an almost deathly pale complexion next to the fiery woman. She's emerging from the darkness while he clamours into her arms, desperately resting onto her bosom. The incorrect Vampire title really gives that idea of bloodsucking, life-stealing, harlot. So I think there is that seed that is planted.

However there's also this tenderness. He's desperately clinging to her, her arms slowly enveloping him, hair trailing. There's a sort of anguish to the man, like she's the last solid thing on earth, his anchor to the world. There's this sort of protective bubble around the two of them, but I can't for the life of me figure out if it's a bubble to keep harm away, or to make sure no help can reach the man.

I think that's why there's this switching between that tenderness to sinister, when he gives himself to fully and willingly, can we trust her? Is this complete faith in her by the man given in right mind, or is there something else at work? Some sinister allure that traps him while she slowly sucks the life out of him? In a way, the truth is in the title, Love and Pain. There is love and tenderness, this trust that the viewer probably finds hard to understand. But under that, a whisper of danger, a flicker of pain.

I think it's very telling of reality, not knowing the dynamics about two people. Maybe even the man and woman don't know how they fit, but it's interesting trying to dissect what's happening. It's a very tender scene, but dangerous or comforting? Is he a willing participant no matter what the situation? For me it's this resonance between the two, one moment I want to fall into her arms too, the next I want to distangle and run away screaming.

I'll be looking at Munch for sure more in the future, this work is living proof of how naive I can be in making quick judgements. There's something so intimate in his works, so raw, it's going to be hard to ignore.

 

Serrano, Piss Christ (1987)

Andres Serrano, Piss Christ (1987)
Photograph
1.52 m x 1.02 m

Another piece I studied back in high school when we were investigating controversial art. Modern religious works are always open to a lot of controversy I find, just because often the modern ways of portrayal can be found degrading in various ways to various people. But I find that often it's just another way of conveying some religious themes or thoughts, or sometimes even reverence.

The picture is aesthetically quite beautiful, it has warm, soft red, orange and yellow hues. The crucifix is central and looks quite balanced, and the scratchy texture of the picture conveys a feeling of age and weathering, of history. All in all, it's not an unpleasant to look at or uncommon subject matter. So why did Serrano receive hate mail, death threats, and have his work defaced (multiple times)?

Well, the controversy is not in the aesthetics of the image itself, but in the process of creating the subject. Andres put a small plastic crucifix in a jar, urinated in it, and then took the photo. Even after over 20 years, the piece attracts controversy as recent as 2012 (and not just on a single occasion). But Serrano still identifies himself as a Christian, does not identify himself as a provocative artist and claims that shock value is "absolutely not" something he aimed to achieve in his work.

If you look at some of Serrano's other works, there are many that carry the theme of bodily fluids (even having a series called Body Fluids), with the inclusion of urine, blood and sometimes semen. There is also a series called Shit (self-explanatory, pictures of feces) and The Church (which focuses on religious imagery). So the combination of some of these elements is not surprising as Serrano continues his artistic experimentation.

So obviously there's the side of the debate that calls this work degrading and blasphemous, and I don't blame them. Urinating on something has, and I assume always will be, held intentional malice or spite. So I can understand this side of the debate, but there are also those who disagree with this, even some that are religious.

One interpretation is that modern society is doing this to Jesus Christ every day with our sinful lifestyles, essentially 'pissing' on him. In this way, the photo is a reflection of our own lives and perhaps inquires for a certain kind of repentance. Following this line of thought, it can be theorized that this is a reverse baptism, instead of a spiritual cleansing, a sinful corruption is occurring. Again, this is a comment on modern society and the life Jesus wanted us to have.

I feel like a creative interpretation or an open mind should be held when presented something that immediately provokes you. It's not that you're immediate retaliation is wrong, but if you immediately reject a piece of art based on a purely primary reaction, you might miss important aspects to the work, even if this just solidifies your rejection of the work.

I really think that Andres Serrano himself sums up the interpretation of his works quite well:

 

"People have strong reactions to my work. They can either love it or hate it. I think the work has the power to both please or displease, but sometimes the reactions it gets says more about the people who are reacting than about the work itself."

 

Duchamp, Fountain (1917)

Marcel Duchamp, Fountain (1917)
Porcelain
 360 mm  x 480 mm x 610 mm
 

Dada. One of the most controversial art movements out there to date, yet probably a personal favourite of mine. It produced all sorts of art, but this is probably one of the most well known, even to those who aren't art history buffs. But what is it?

 

To the observant, it looks like a men's porcelain urinal, and you'd be exactly right. It's been signed by Duchamp as R. Mutt 1917, and besides from being placed on it's back, that's the only modification to the piece. I know, not much to talk about in terms of composition or colour. I can sense your agitation already, a men's urinal? Really? How is this art? It's the same argument that's raged for years since Duchamp first created it. But let me pose a question back, how is it not art? Does art need a motive, a reason, to be aesthetically beautiful to be called art? Does it need emotion behind it? And this is why I love Dada, it inspires such debate and thought which I feel anyone can contribute to, you don't need to be a scholar or educated in the subject to have an opinion. I've been sitting here for the past couple minutes deciding where to start, and struggling to find a point in which to dive into the fray.

 

Dada was born out of war and conflict, with roots being in World War I. I feel like the movement is culturally outrageous but disillusioned, a sort of jaded perspective on art. The artists were questioning everything around them, especially materialist and political ideas that could have contributed to the suffering of the war. Art is just one way in which this was vented, another cry of frustration.

 

"Dada hurts. Dada does not jest, for the reason that it was experienced by revolutionary men and not by philistines who demand that art be a decoration for the mendacity of their own emotions."

                                - Richard Huelsenbeck



 

I love that quote, because it really sums up the heart of why Dada became popular. It was a cynical look at the art world of the time, of the pompous artists and entangled emotions, and instead looking at the physical aspect and saying, why not?

It's also interesting that Dada isn't a movement of paintings, or sculptures. It's a movement of anything and everything. Because they were asking what art really was, they were putting everything forward as a certain art form. Everyday objects to paper collages were presented, and I cannot think of a reason as to why they aren't art.

 

What is art? It's such a difficult question, and I've spent countless hours arguing with people about it, and I have to say I have Dada to thank. I also thank Dada for making me think so hard about it, and finally convincing me to be quite firmly in the camp that everything is art. I've heard a huge range of arguments. Art should be appealing aesthetically (do I have to be drawn to it by the way it looks?), should have to have meaning (can I not just like it because it looks nice with no deeper meaning?), is a personal decision (but therefore if I say it's art, you must accept it is too?), has to be man-made (so a mountain cannot be art, but a picture of a mountain can be?). I'm not saying you have to be one way or the other, I've had to stop and think when an argument was put forward. It's a vague grey area, not one of black and white, and you have to be prepared to change your position.
Just a side note, when asking what art is, we're not arguing about what you like. There are plenty of pieces or artists that I just cannot stand, but I'm not saying that they're art because I like them. You have to stand back, say 'I don't like this piece. But I accept that it has standing as art.' Otherwise I'll just be sitting here trying to force you to agree with my favourite artists, and it's about the definition of art, or lack thereof, that's being questioned.

Of course I attach emotions to this movement simply because it gets such a strong reaction from me. Is this against what those from the Dada movement wanted? I really don't know. All I know is that this simple photo of a porcelain urinal invokes so much more than was perhaps intended.

What is art? Or because art is everything, does it lack a definition?

 

Bernini, Rape of Proserpina (1621-2)

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, a sculptor that's received so much acclaim, and rightly so. Honestly, I didn't and still don't know much about him, there was much reading to be had after I decided that this would be my next piece. I didn't even really know the name of this piece, but it's been burned in my mind ever since I first saw it.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Rape of Proserpina (1621-2)
Marble
295cm in height

Let's start with the story behind the sculpture. This is the tale of the Roman goddess Proserpina (daughter of Ceres, who is the goddess of grain and harvest) and her abduction by Pluto, the god of the underworld. The Greek equivalent is Persephone (daughter of Demeter) and Hades, although the tale is pretty much the same. In short, Pluto fell in love with Proserpina, and consequently abducted her to rule the underworld with him. The world became desolate, as Ceres (her mother) refused to let anything grow and starvation set in for the people. Finally a deal was made where she would stay with Pluto for three or six months (it differs from the sources I'm looking at) which corresponds with the seasons of the year.
We can see Pluto wearing a crown, symbolizing his reign in the underworld. Behind the couple is what appears to be a dog, but a clearer view shows that it's Cerberus, the guardian of the gates of the underworld. While Proserpina looks surprised and horrified, notice that the expression on Pluto's face has a slight smile to it, almost like it's a game. This plays into the power games of myths from this era, with things such as rape not being an uncommon theme.
Proserpina is the focus of this painting, she's thrusting forward while blocking Pluto, in addition to being raised. We follow the lines of her arms and body to Pluto's arms, making Pluto the second thing you see.
I love the fact that it's so abrupt, sudden, a moment that's been swiftly caught. Proserpina's twisting body and flailing arms, her flowing hair, Pluto's tension and balance as he struggles to hold onto his prey. I often feel this way with sculptures, the fact that sculptors can make such movement from such a still form.
But what makes this such a memorable sculpture? I'd like to say it's a combination of things, and I'm not playing down any of the other attributes of the sculpture, but there is definitely one sure thing that captures me. The marble turned flesh. It's the grip that Pluto has on Proserpina that just blows me away every time I look at it. The way Bernini has caused this cold, smooth marble to turn into warm and tangible flesh. The perfection in the imprints that Pluto's hands leave on Proserpina's body show a skill I can't even comprehend. It's so beautifully realistic, not anatomical technicality realistic, but emotionally grappling. It's a twisting and fleeing body, yet the realism in the figures blow me away.

It's a feature I see focused again and again in different reviews and blogs, it's a certain favourite of this piece. I love Bernini's work, and this is definitely held in my head as one of his top masterpieces.

Giotto, Kiss of Judas (1304-06)



It's been a while, my apologies. Been distracted with work and partying up now that exams have been over. Christmas and New Years has been a very busy period!

 Also, I was very tempted to write a blog post weeks ago (very early morning), but I had to fight the urge off. I had just come back from the Coldplay concert in Auckland and I didn't trust myself to fully write about art without letting these amazing feelings take over. And in order to talk fully about the concert and the emotions that were tumbling through me, it'd have to take a hell of a lot more delving into personal issues than I'm willing to deal with at the moment. I mean, just being there, having the music moving through me... Wow. It's like being on a high, and man did they play a show. How they do it, I have no idea, absolutely amazing and worth it. Smiling just thinking about it, music begins where words end. It's like a sense of unity and togetherness with everyone and a sense of individuality, personal emotions and moments. And no matter what anyone says, Coldplay has got to be one of the best bands I've ever come across, both in music, and in attitude and energy. I hope I get to see them play again some day. Amazing. 


Anyways, enough with that (even though I just want to keep going on about it, goddamn...) and onto Giotto. An Italian artist, often referred to as the Grandfather of the Renaissance, a part of the proto-Renaissance. Everyone gets wrapped up in Da Vinci and Botticelli and Raphael, and with good reason, but it's also important to look at what led up to them, and to me Giotto is a master in his own right.



Giotto, Kiss of Judas, 1304-06
Fresco
200 cm x 185 cm

This piece is part of the Scrovegni Chapel, as artists were often commissioned to paint entire cycles for personal family chapels. The cycles that Giotti painted in this chapel is the life of Christ and the life of the Virgin Mary. I remember when studying this chapel that we talked about a couple of the scenes, but I have to say that this one stood out particularly for me.


We have the scene where Judas is deceiving Jesus, pointing out for the guard which of them is Jesus in a seemingly subtle way, through a kiss.

 

"Judas, are you betraying the son of man with a kiss?" 

                                                          (Luke 22:47–48)

 

We see that Judas has lost the iconic halo, no longer to be considered divine. He's also interestingly wearing yellow robes, a colour most associated with cowardice. In the left of the painting is Peter in blue and red robes, attacking Malthus (a servant of the high priest) in a splash of violence. We have the defense on the left, with an imposing offense in the right. The central part, of course, is the kiss between Judas and Jesus which are emphasized by the lines created by the torches above their heads, and the lines of the drapery leading up to their faces.

Very much in class we were focused on the composition and arrangement Giotto undertook, as it created a more three dimensional space. The use of people halfway in the frame, or the man being pulled on the left shows that there is a world outside of the border. Layers of people that are being blocked by the ones in front (as opposed to tilting the space, as we were easily told to compare to Duccio di Buoninsegna who was considered more Byzantine), meaning there is space not only in the lateral plane, but giving depth into the painting.

The other thing that was always pointed out to us was the bulkiness of his figures. There's more of a sense of weight and life to the figures, easier to believe that they live in a world like our own instead of a ethereal one. The drapery folds around the curves of a body, not wisping around a delicate frame.

However incredible and innovative these things are, this is not what I love most about this painting. What first captured me, and still does to this day, is the contrast between calm and anarchy. We can hear the chaos and abruptness of the guards arrival in the scene. There's distinct splashes of fire, violence and confusion in the scene, not sure who's friendly or foe at first glance. It's a scene destined to be ruled by conflict. But then we have Jesus and Judas in the center. Amid all this chaos, this commotion, is this moment of stillness, quiet, intimacy. Not intimacy in sense of a romantic moment, but in the emotional betrayal between two men bound by something deeper than friendship. The way that Judas' cloak drapes around Jesus creates this barrier between them and the confusion around them, creates a special space for them. It's just this perfect bubble in the middle of chaos, and it's one of the most beautifully subtle spatial boundaries I've seen. This emotional pain and betrayal amid all the physical chaos, it's so perfectly done.

This is one of the pieces that sold me on Giotto, not only did he get the technical innovations right, there's this emotional connection to it too. It's like we can relate to the fact of a moment where a bombshell is dropped on you, and the entire world just fades away until it's just you in a quiet space of realization.

I feel a sort of awe looking at it, it's a 700 year old piece by a proto-renaissance painter with a completely religious subject, yet it's still in some way relatable. You just need to stop and actually look, instead of glossing over the subject, to really see what the painting means to you.

Rothko, Rothko Chapel (1971)

How have I gone this many blog posts and not talked about Rothko? An artist that was probably the first to really create a piece that completely astounded me in it's simplicity yet profoundness. But alas, that work is for another post.

This post is about the Rothko Chapel in Houston Texas, and although I listed the date as 1971 it should be noted that Rothko committed suicide in 1970, so actually wasn't alive to see his work come to fruition. 

Mark Rothko, Rothko Chapel (completed 1971)
Oil on canvas

So what is this supposed 'chapel'? It was initially planned to be a Roman Catholic chapel in the first three years of development, and we can see that in both Rothko's works and in the design of the building itself. Rothko created some of the paintings in the form of triptychs, which are works that are divided into three, either in sections or by panels that are hinged together (which is often seen in classical religious works). The octagonal room is also a common architectural choice in Byzantine Churches. However, although it may have started out in a Roman Catholic way, it's now described as 'non-denominational', which basically means it's not affiliated with any religious groups or faiths. In that way, it's an open ground for all and any religions, an equal footing for all who wish to make journey out there.

I think the choice of Houston, Texas, as a place for a chapel is extremely interesting. I mean at this time, New York was the happening place to be in terms of culture and art. Why choose a place so far away from this audience? What would drive Rothko to seek an audience so unlike that which he had previously encountered? I've done some reading into it, and I'm still not too convinced on many of the arguments offered. Some say it's like a 'pilgrimage' for those who wanted to see his art, but I don't know. Maybe Rothko wanted to separate his work geographically from the booming art in New York and create something separate, away from any sort of artist or commercial competitiveness. I'm really not sure.

Rothko made 14 canvases in total for the chapel, with many being made by his assisstants under his supervision. Does this take away from the art? That it was not his hand that created it? Again, I'm not sure. It's something I'm torn about, is it the hand or the mind that makes the art? So many implications with either argument.

I haven't visited the chapel, but it's on my bucket list. Just look at those looming pieces, I can never figure out if they're comforting or terrifying. They make me want to smile and they make me want to start weeping. Not really crying, weeping is the closest I can come to it, almost a mourning.

On one hand they they're this place of silence, a place of meditation. A place to thoughts and inner peace, to find contentment and happiness within yourself. I feel a sense of satisfaction with this, almost like it's a warm blanket I can wrap around myself and just lose myself in. Somewhere to unravel lifes complexities, the deepest thoughts and emotions. It this description sounds emotionally intense, it's because it's meant to be. It's where you can be by yourself and meditate, find peace and happiness.

But then I can also see another side. Those looming hues are a void, the absolute lack of anything. Emptiness. Nothing. Bare. Hopelessness. It's devoid of any hope, like the inevitability of an end and everything that an end brings with it. Maybe it's the realization that ignorance is not bliss, that we must accept an end, or the possibility of everything being meaningless.

Are they really separate concepts? Happiness and hopelessness? Or are they just two sides of the same coin? I love Rothko because of this very reason, using such simplicity to bring out such intense emotions and thoughts. It's a place of equal footing for every religion maybe because we all need to tackle the same issues, regardless of background.

My brain hurts. Is ignorance bliss in regards of such deep thoughts? Ignore it and maybe it'll go away? I'm going to take my hot water bottle and curl up in bed. See if it works for the night.

McCahon, Scared (1976)

Exam period, a perfect time to get my art musings going instead of cramming my head full of chemical equations. I love them both, but in different ways.

On another note, I'm probably not going to be writing any more music or album posts anymore. I've just been thinking about it over the past couple weeks, and I just find it so much harder to describe music than I do art. Not that I feel less or more, but it's simple different and harder to do so on a written blog. I think I'll keep to the visual arts, which I'm fine with. I mean unless there's a huge uproar among the few people that follow this blog, that's the road I'll travel down.




Colin McCahon, Scared (1976)
Acrylic on paper
730 mm x 1095 mm

 

Colin McCahon. A name that's probably familiar to anyone who knows about the New Zealand art scene, but you're forgiven if you aren't aware of his work. I didn't until I really began studying New Zealand art, or maybe I'd just been blind to the art scene before I really started looking. Regardless, McCahon has produced some of the most raw pieces I've ever come across.

Scared. A piece I haven't had the pleasure of seeing in person, but it moved me the moment I set my eyes upon it. Even now I find myself wistfully looking at it, feeling all these emotions well up, not sure how many of them are McCahon's and how many are mine. McCahon was an alcoholic and struggled with depression, and it's apparent in this painting, it translates so rawly to me.

 

I am scared. I STAND UP.

 

The words of someone struggling, been beaten into submission and is trying to find their footing. Like a man being swept out to sea, drowning beneath the waves, trying to keep his head above the water. This painting has 6 simple words in it. But they speak immeasurable volumes.

This man is admitting he's scared, quite a feat in itself. The word scared is also in this sketchy writing, almost like there's some attempt to obscure the fact, some hesitance at admitting it. I don't think it's a fear of admittance to the audience, I don't think such a personal piece was written with an audience in mind, I think it's fear of admitting it to himself, almost as if doing so would make the fear more real.

Then there's this aggressive line right underneath it. Almost no wavering, no pauses to get more paint, like he couldn't let the fear just hang there. He had to give it an ending, a point at which he wouldn't let it continue.

Then in capital letters, I STAND UP. This defiant statement in full capitals, a vocal claim of enough's enough. He's not letting this fear take over him, he's finally taking a stand against it. It's a rebellion against this primal emotion, he won't let it conquer him.

Then looking at this white border that starts in the bottom half of the painting, this light in the darkness, it invades his statement of fear. Just the acknowledgment of fear and the rebellion against it has somehow dispelled some of it. A streak of hope in the former darkness of anxiety, doubt, worry, uncertainty and internal panic. Then some specks here and there. Is it the light slowly showing the first signs of piercing through the darkness, or is it the sign of a man in haste, who has hands that work slower than his mind is racing.

When I look at this painting, I feel an upwelling of tears. Emotional, I know, but I damn well can't help it. And I still can't figure out if they're tears of shared fear or triumph, it's these fluctuating emotions I can't pin down. One moment I'll feel this shared feeling of rejection and being downtrodden, and then it'll morph into this angry defiance. Or maybe it's my sympathy of this man who's suffering so much, so damn much, and who's finally come to this moment of clarity, of acknowledgment. He should be rewarded for his courage, yet he still cannot find refuge from this internal struggle.

It's such a poignant piece to me, something that I find is so relatable. Some people may just see six words scrawled on a page. I know I do. But I also see all this emotion, angst, fear, uncertainty and defiance in it too. What it is to one person will not be the same to another, and that's the beauty of so many of McCahon's works. I encourage you to look his website, his collections are just captivating. I found myself getting lost in them, an hour flew by like a minute while I was trying to find one to write about. I know that his work will come up again here, he's just too important and beautiful of an artist to ignore or only acknowledge once.

Six words. But more. So much damn more.

Michelangelo, Pietà (1498-9)



Long time no see. University, social life, work, all that jazz has kept me away. Anyways apologies, and on with the show.

My first sculpture post, and one about from a very famous artist. Michelangelo, a name that is most famously tied to the Sistine Chapel, although he would have wanted to be known more as a sculptor than a painter. I don't blame him. Don't get me wrong, I love the Sistine Chapel, especially the contrasts in style with the ceiling and the back wall (hopefully that can be another post, file that away in my head), but Michelangelo's sculptures are pieces that truly move me and leave me in awe.



Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni, Pietà (1498-9)
Marble
174 cm × 195 cm

Pietà (Italian for pity) is the perfect example of this, pure beauty in marble form. It shows the moment when Jesus is taken down from the cross and is laying in the Virgin Mary, his mother's, arms. In this depiction he is almost tumbling out of her lap, splayed forward so we can see his curved marble form. This is emphasized by the Virgin's left hand, which seems to be presenting Jesus to the audience. This isn't an uncommon motif, the presentation of Jesus after his crucifixion. It's an important foundation to the church, blame for the death of Jesus on us, the viewers, the mortals that spilled his blood. Look at this perfect form, look at how you tainted it, she seems to say. It gives a sense of obligation on the viewer, guilt that we can relieve through attending church, among other things.
At the same time, look at how flawless Jesus is portrayed. After a brutal torture and a crucifixion, his body seems almost untouched, hardly a scar to show the ordeal that he has been through. It seems that Michelangelo has decided not to emphasize the harshness of his death and mutilation, but on the sense of the spiritual side of Jesus' ascension. It's not a chaotic piece with emotions overwhelming the subject, instead it's calm and almost relaxing despite the context of the subject matter. We can see this reflected in the composition of the sculpture, with Mary's body creating a stable triangle on which everything is laid out for us, a stable form to handle the body of Jesus.
Not only is Jesus portrayed flawlessly, but so is Mary. She does not look like the mother of a 30 year old man, but a young woman. She is not in the realm of petty aging, she too is ethereal to us, look at her beauty. She is the embodiment of purity. She's also proportionally huge in comparison to Jesus, imagine if her large form stood up and how small his body would seem. It all seems to add into this otherwordly feel of ascension, not of mutilation and torture.
Although these things are beautiful to me, it's not personally the winning point to this sculpture. To me, I cannot get enough of the sweeping drapery. With those solid marble yet soft folds, it's like I could easily get lost in them all day, my eyes blissfully wandering. I don't know what it is about marble folds that just get me, but Michelangelo just gets me with it. The only other artist that I can name off the top of my head that evokes this fascination in folds is Bernini. It's such a perfect effect to me.
This sculpture is not one of death, but of heavenly ascension. It's a stunning piece, and to me, Michelangelo nailed it.
 

Imagine Dragons, Continued Silenced EP (2012)






I've been focusing a lot on paintings, I think it's because it's only very rarely I find an album or an artist that I really want to share and write about. And I don't really research much about bands before I write about them (then again, neither about paintings, but I think I have a bit more background knowledge on them), so I can only write about how I feel about their songs more than anything else. Then again, I always love listening to the artist while I write about them, so much easier to convey my thoughts (although it still may not be very well explained). Have to love my unnecessary rambling.



Continued Silence EP, Imagine Dragons (2012)

Imagine Dragons are a band I stumbled across through a movie trailer, something with Bradley Cooper being a writer or something... Anyways, there was this enthusiastic song in the background, a feel good track, and as soon as I stumbled across Imagine Dragons I was sold. The song selection is a bit limited, they are a fairly new band, but they are very quickly gaining attention. I mean for their EP they've been featured in a lot of trailers yet (The Perks of being a Wallflower included).

Radioactive, the first track, had a beat that's so addictive it'll stick in your head all day. It's like a perfect mix between a catchy beat, collective chorus and vocals, among the perfect instrumentals. There's a quiet start before the beat just the beat just rocks in, stealing the show.  I just absolutely love it. There's a revolutionary and camaraderie sense to the song, "this is it, the apocalypse" and "welcome to the new age," almost like being part of an underground movement. It just manages to burrow into your head and reappear at the strangest moments during the day.

The only other song I'll talk about is On Top of the World, which is probably in my top 3 songs that make me happy no matter how crappy I'm feeling. It just absolutely bursts with a upbeat tune,  optimistic lyrics and a cute little clapping beat in the background. "I'm on the top world, been dreaming of this since a child". I'm always swaying and bopping along to it in an almost idiotic fashion on own and I don't give a damn, it's impossible to stay sad when listening to this. That's a challenge right there! The vocalist is just perfect, it's like being in a private sanctuary by yourself but also knowing that thousands around the world probably have the same brother-in-arms feeling that you're having right now. That sounds way too much like the military for me, but I can't really explain it anymore without sounding like an old school hippie.

I'm not going to describe each song, they just evoke all these optimistic feelings in me, I always feel humbled to the world when coming away from their tracks. Imagine Dragons come with the highest recommendation from me, a band I'll be following very closely at in the future.

Feininger, Gelmeroda III (1913)

Oh wow, it's been a while. To be honest, doing night shifts have really destroyed me and my energy levels to do anything else. Well that and my general laziness. I'll try to do a lot more of these the next couple days, an attempt to make up for all the posts I kept reminding myself to make but never actually did. I've actually had this post in my drafts for about a month, I just didn't get around to actually properly writing it.

Lyonel Feininger, Gelmeroda III (1913)
Oil on canvas
100.50 x 80.00 cm

Another Degas to Dali discovery, and I had no knowledge of this work before I laid eyes on it. To be honest, the subject was not immediately clear to me and it still isn't the first thing I see when I look at it, this is a prime example to me of seeing something completely different to what I think the artist intended.
What I see is a dystopia, a run down and drizzly place, crowded by looming buildings. The cubism style that Feininger has adopted is harsh, with sharp contrasts between light and dark to define the lines. This harshness adds to this bleak atmosphere I get. It's oppressive, like a giant hand pressing on my chest when I look at it.
What's interesting to me is that it was painted as a quiet church scene in a cubism style. It's like this quiet image and the desolate society that I created around it in my head. It's really cool though, because my vision and that of Feininger seem to shift when I stare at the work. One moment it's this rainy, gloomy statement about oppressive governments, the next it's a quiant church.
It's not that I have to choose between my view of the subject or the painters intentions while painting it, both are different but right. There's this oscillation when I look at it, it's always morphing and shifting. To me, this is the perfect example of the differences in the artist and audience view of the work. It differs from person to person... Or is it I just take an abstract view to paintings? I don't care, I like the work either way.

Dali, Tête Raphaëlesque éclatée (1951)

I promised myself to try write everyday... Great idea, a lot harder to implement in reality than it sounds in theory, especially so close to my semester 1 exams. So now I'm not trying for everyday, but hopefully a couple times a week. On the bright side, I went to the Degas to Dali exhibition at the Auckland Art Gallery again, a great mix of modern art with Matisse, van Gogh and even a Warhol, an artist I'd actually never seen before. But one Dali was absolutely beautiful, and I knew I had to write about it.



Salvador Dali, Tête Raphaëlesque éclatée (1951)
Oil on canvas
43.20 x 33.10 cm

Known as Tête Raphaëlesque éclatée, but for those of us can't speak so exotically, she's known as Exploding Raphaelesque Head. Quite descriptive and quite accurate if you ask me. The influence I could immediately pick up was the famous Italian painter Raphael, and I don't say that from the title. I literally saw this work from across the gallery floor, and I immediately knew it was based off of Raphael. My second thought was, knowing it wasn't a Raphael, how skillful the artist was, this distorted and fragmented head yes still such a recognizable interest. I had a quick search of Madonna's that Raphael painted, and while I can't find the exact posing, this work is probably the closest I'll get to the real thing. Raphael painted a series of these Madonna's in various poses with Jesus and John the Baptist, and Dali has hit the nail on the head. Her carefully tilted face, looking down in maternal warmth even when the babies aren't present while there's this grace, this humbleness to her. Her head also resembles the Pantheon, a temple with a large dome that's got a large oculus and Dali probably did this in homage to Raphael, who's buried here. But the oculus also gives this ethereal feeling in combination with the lightly sketched halo. She has this inner light from a heavenly place, an inner wisdom that is from something higher than us, she truly has reached the status of a Virgin Saint.

But this is where the classical influences really end, as the most obvious feature is the fluctuating and almost fluid fragments that make up her head. Dali describes it best, there's this inner explosion and although they may be held together by some sort of other wordly gravity, they're disintegrating. This is one moment in time, but who knows wether she will still be with us in the next. The date is significant in this context, 1951. Dali has had to live through World War I, World War II and the horrific bombings of Ngasaki and Hiroshima by the first atomic bombs (I just had to google that to make sure I had spelt it right, and the images that came up were terrifying). Dali has to be feeling some disillusionment, some questions over what history has presented him. This shattered world, fractured, divided. Destruction, everywhere. Perhaps this is why he painted such a distorted image of such a beautiful subject.

Another contemporary development of the time to mention was the atomic bomb, which has undoubtedly influenced him. Although there's this inner explosion, it isn't one of rubble and shrapnel but one of this shimmering fluidity. The scientific revelations (or horrors, whichever way there is to look at it) was not lost on Dali, who kept up with scientific readings of the time and was surely aware of atomic theory and what it could bring. He had witnessed it's horrors only six years earlier.

You can also see the faint sketchings of vertebrae just to the right of her neck, a light inkling of the rest of her body. It adds a certain grace in my opinion, I don't know what it is but I just love the beauty of the spine. One other point to mention is the half recognizable wheelbarrow in the bottom left, a wavering image of what it once was. This to me is a small modern twist to an otherwise modern main subject, perhaps signalling the destruction of such ordinary things that the atomic bomb can bring.

I've always loved the Surrealists in their own way, and I have held admiration for Dali and all his innovations but this work... It has got to be in my top 3, if not, my favourite work of all time. This absolute clash and mix of beauty and destruction, heaven and hell, enlightenment and destruction, terror and calm, dream and reality, old and new... What is not to love about this painting. I think this is Dali's masterpiece, and even though it's been painted over 50 years ago, it resonates with me. It makes me wonder about if we've really progressed from the terror of what's happened. I sat there in a gallery and looked at it, and it all just melted away, even if just for a second. I was in this other world with her and it was all so certain and uncertain. So fragile, like any little tilt would make it all fall away.

She's so beautiful...

Picasso, Guernica (1937)

Pablo Picasso, Guernica (1937)
Oil on canvas
349 cm × 776 cm

Another Picasso so soon, I couldn't help myself. This is probably my favourite work by him, and it's probably his most famous, it's just been playing on my mind a lot lately. I think a lot of people don't like Picasso because what they see when they look at his pieces (much like this) is a stage of chaos and disorganization, when really, everything has carefully been planned.

This scene is depicting the bombing of the Spanish town Guernica by Italian and German planes during the Spanish Civil War. It's important because it's the first time that in aviation that planes specifically targeted a defenceless civilian town, recognized mostly as an act of terrorism. I mean look at how Picasso has depicted it, he certainly caught the terror. There's never really been a universally accepted interpretation of this painting, it's all about how you interpret it.

The main focus to me is the horse in the center, in a silent scream of agony with its side wounded. A bull sits just to the left of this, it's tail reminiscent of fire. A man lies dead on the bottom of the work, but interestingly is his left hand, which bears stigmata marks like those of Jesus. Is Picasso trying to paint these men as martyrs? However there seems to be a bit of hope too, in the right hand of this fallen man is a sprouting flower, perhaps this represents the chance of life springing from the destruction. The most eerie calm comes from above though, the 'eye' that has a lightbulb in its centre. The bombs. The cause of the destruction. Like an all knowing being in the sky, this symbolism is so calm but terrifying at the same time.
The most disturbing part personally for me in this work is the mother and child in the left hand side. The child is limp in her arms, lifeless. She screams in agony, a vocal manifestation of her loss, shrill and chilling yet silent. It's the horrifying reality of the situation, not just adults but innocent children who suffer to. It breaks my heart to look at the couple.
The writhing yet static mass of figures that interlock are haunting, Picasso has truly created a masterpiece here. I haven't even begun to cover all the symbolism and figures, it's so personal but the message is always the same. War is wrong. Simple, cliche, but effective all the same. It seems like Picasso has taken all the war statistics that we hear everyday and created a visual representation of the people that are lost.
These are not numbers. They are not names on a page. They are not the headlines of a newspaper. The victims in our history books.
They are people. Defenceless people. The individuals who suffer, and still suffer to this day, because people higher up in society cannot settle petty differences. How dare we not mourn the loss of them. How dare we overlook them. I can hear Picasso say, look at them. Look at their faces. Look at their pain, their loss, their death. Just simple, look.
It's a beautiful piece, in the most haunting and terrifying way imaginable.

David, La Mort de Marat (1793)



Highly political yet so spiritual, this painting seems on the edge of both in its beauty. By the French painter Jacques-Louis David, I've always been so mesmerized by this painting, and knowing the backstory only heightens it for me.




Jacques-Louis David, La Mort de Marat [The Death of Marat], 1793
Oil on canvas
165 cm × 128 cm

Jean-Paul Marat was a leader of the French Revolution, a journalist and maybe one of the most radical revolutionaries in the movement. He named 'enemies of the people' in his writings, which (wether intentional or unintentional) led to numerous executions which may have been in the hundreds.  This man signed the death warrants of a vast amount of people and as a result was assassinated by those who didn't agree with what he was doing. He was assassinated in March of 1793, the same year of David's commission. But what does this mean in relation to David's work?

Look at the painting, we can see that even as he dies Marat is working on a makeshift table, still writing with the feather in his hand and paper on the table. This is almost admirable, he is ever working seen by the note on the table. However the note in his hand is from his assassin, held in a loose grip. In the very bottom left of the work is a bloodied knife, and just below his collarbone is a small laceration, the stabbing that led to his death. Subtle, no? The point of this subtlety is clear, David is not drawing attention to his assassination. It is not the assassination that is the focus here, it is the death. A very fine line, but extremely important to recognize.

Marat was also known to have a skin disease which was only relieved by a bath, and has also been described as having a hideous face. But the man here is beautiful, with no indication of any skin ailments. What was David trying to achieve? The answer lies in who commissioned the work, for it was the revolutionaries who wanted David to paint Marat's death. 

Marat is not depicted as a tyrant, but as a martyr. He is not in the throes of death, but in a poignant depiction of his transition to the next life. The soft glow on his face coming from above indicates a heavenly ascension that resonates deeply with traditional Christian art. Over a third of the painting is empty, an ambiguous space in where this world and the afterlife mix. Marat has been effectively shown as a saint, a martyr, a man who should be followed and revered. It is a work of propoganda, created to support the revolutionaries despite their numerous acts of terrorism.

I love it, a mix of political intentions and spiritual ascension. That empty space, that soft glow, it's a quiet and peaceful place even in the grips of death. David has truly done his job, the beauty and poignancy isn't missed.

What I love though is the irony. David painted this work as a commission in support of the revolutionaries, but in truth, David seems to simply painted for the highest bidder. He shifted in supporting the revolutionaries to supporting Napoleon, and subsequently creating numerous paintings for the leader. Maybe it was survival in the political world, maybe it was a real shift in his attitude, I don't know.

All political intentions aside, I can't deny the beauty of this painting. How peaceful yet terrifying it is. That space... That beautiful space...

The All-American Rejects, Kids in the Street (2012)

Kids in the Street, The All-American Rejects (2012)

I'm absolutely loving this album at the moment. I was a bit skeptical at first, some of the songs on the last album had been a bit average, but I was really surprised with this effort.

I've always followed The All-American Rejects since their breakthrough (their most first really famous single probably being Dirty Little Secret) and their music is really addictive. But this album combines Pop/Rock tunes.

Beekeeper's Daughter is a bright and free song, makes me want to smile and dance, it's so upbeat! The video is really funny as well, I'd recommend a look if you've got the time.

Then you have the more Rock riffs like Walk Over Me which I had on repeat for quite a while. It's a bit hard to walk down the street and not want to headbang a little bit... Well to not look like a right dick while doing it. Especially the solo part when the guitar really breaks out, it's quite simple but break out the damn air guitars!

Heartbeak Slowing Down was quite a shock when I fell in love with it, it's quite pessimistic but beautiful (I fucking hate this town // I wanna burn it down // I've never felt so cold). Just looking at that lyric it seems unneccessarily depressing, but it's a song that makes your heart ache, a mix of love and hate. Don't leave this on repeat for too long, it really starts to get into your head after a while... But luckily Walk Over Me is right after to bring the mood right back up!

Gonzo, another track and how to explain the feelings when I listen to this? It's got a feeling of nostalgia, resignation, but also this overwhelming feeling of hope. It's triumph, uniting to overcome the loneliness that can sometimes come over us in this day and age. It's about moving forward, finding beauty in life. Gives me a proud feeling up whenever I hear it, I just want to go out there and live life, to rediscover what was once new.

Other highlights for me were, Bleed into Your Mind, Drown Next to Me... Oh who am I kidding, I pretty much loved the entire thing. Highly recommended, a mix of beauty, love, hate and downright fun.

The only downside for me was the title, it's taken from the track of the same name on the album, Kids in the Street. I found this track to be dull an repetitive, too cliche and overdone. Affection also bugged me.. It sounded like a song that needed to be on a romantic comedy or something, not at all fitting on the album. Although I have to admit, I did like the ending when the guitars really kicked in. But hey, the amazing songs outweigh the few crappy ones.

I find myself on a ride, these guys really take you into the feelings of these songs until you just get this upwelling of emotion. Sometimes I want to  go out and hug a stranger, sometimes I want to rock out, and sometimes I just want to say "fuck you" to that guy and continue dancing my heart out with a big goddamn smile on my face.

Picasso, Mère et enfant (1902)

I saw this artwork yesterday in the Degas to Dali exhibition in the Auckland Art Gallery and I have to say, this picture does the real piece no justice. I've always had a love-hate relationship with Picasso, I either love his work or find it awkward and disconnected, but this piece really touched me in some way I'm still finding hard to explain.

Standing there while looking at it in quiet murmuring room, it was like I was trespassing in this scene. A mother gently cradles her child, the blue saturating the piece in a soft yet deeply entrenched glow. I should not have been there, watching such an intimate moment, it was a scene that was so public yet so private.



Pablo Picasso, Mère et enfant [Mother and Child] (1902)
Oil on paper laid on canvas
40.50 cm x 33.00 cm

 Even though it's a scene with an air of tenderness, I can't help but feel some sort of resigned desperation in the mother. Why has she so quickly forgotten her washing in the corner to comfort her child? It feels like an acceptance of a hopeless future, the only thing left being a mothers embrace in an attempt at comfort.

Yet I wasn't sad. I didn't feel sad watching this woman. While looking at it, this hopelessness was coupled with a sort of hope. It wasn't like there was a switch or that one displaced the other, they coinsided. A resigned acceptance by the mother, but did it matter what the world held for the child if he or she had a mother that cared so deeply?

In a room filled with people chatting around me, I was enveloped in a silence so tender it almost hurt. My heart literally ached watching the duo. Such a scene of love and comfort, but so hopeless at the same time. I try and put it into words, but I never saw this painting as depressed. Perhaps lonely and quiet, but never a total depressive sadness. It was touched with endearment that came and went the longer I looked at it, fading in and out as I watched. It was the intruding in the worst way, feeling like she would turn and see me at any moment, but I couldn't manage to tear my eyes away.

Looking at it made me feel so damn human.