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.