Posts from the ‘Visual Notations’ Category
November 25, 2016
Hello out there…
It has now been about two years since I last posted, and I am sorry about that. But not too sorry, because I have very gladly cherished the time I have spent with my daughter.
Was I craving to paint this whole time? Yes. But I also know the kind of painter that I am, and it doesn’t seem to function so well when I have a very limited amount of time and space to paint. I need a block of time, not just half an hour’s here and there. While painting, I can devour hours as if they are minutes, and I don’t feel like painting if I don’t have that block of time, not to mention the contemplative time afterwards. So if I knew that I had only an hour to set up and paint, I usually opted not to, as I had this strong feeling that I would only feel terribly frustrated. I tried a couple of times, and it made me feel that I would never paint again. Plus, I thought, painting just seems so silly compared to being a mamma.
So I picked up knitting needles and tried to satisfy my creative impulses in yarn in the short spurts of free time I could find. I think I have now knitted about 50 sweaters and a couple dozen scarves, hats, shawls, cowls, with a very large blanket in the works. I can now do lace, cables, fair isle, intarsia, slip stitches, top down, bottom up, contiguous sleeves, steeks, write patterns, pretty much you-name-it. It has been very therapeutic, exciting, and inspiring.
But oil painting is so very different. And sooner or later I was going to need to start again. And I have, just at a different pace, maybe getting a block of time once a week. And my material this time around is my backyard of Napoli, an urban masterpiece of mess. I can’t go over it, and I can’t go under it – just have to go through it, as the children’s book goes. So I am including a few images of works in progress as I stumble and trip my way through this forest of Napoli. I am feeling very rusty, which I think is pretty evident in these sketches, but I somehow feel that I am veering in an interesting direction. Only time can tell if I will persist on this quest or climb back under the covers and hide.
I have been soooo busy the last few months on things that required my absolute focus – such as making my wedding dress, teaching, and preparing for an upcoming solo exhibition. I was literally up to my eyeballs in yards and yards of ivory silk, wool and cream, and I discovered some truly wonderful people and places in the process. I am now returning more full-time to the world of paint just when spring has begun in the most glorious fashion, and I am hoping that I will have a little more time for writing about painting.
One of the images constantly in my mind’s horizon is that of Mount Vesuvius, my next-door neighbor. For those of you who have never been to Naples and have heard rumors about how “dangerous” it is, be aware that the real danger is Vesuvius – a silent fountain of “rebirth” from which gushes the thrills, the fire, the dust, the goosebumps and the chaos that form Naples today, a modern city perched on a delicate historical tapestry. The experience is invigorating and intoxicating for an artist, a true adrenalin rush similar to that first enormous crush. But when in Naples, do as the Neapolitans do: Don’t worry about it. Let it overwhelm you, and in the meantime, if you can concentrate on getting some decent painting done, someday someone might really appreciate it.
Here below are some images/fantasies inspired by the presence of this potent volcano, a little tribute to “playing with fire.”
Artists featured in alphabetical order include: August Wihlem Julius Ahlhorn, Henry Brokman, Achille Carelli, Henri Carr, Franz Ludwig Catel, Edward William Cooke, Jules Coignet, Christopher DiPietro, Johan Christian Claussen Dahl, Robert Dukes, Robert S. Duncanson, Jacob Philipp Hackert, Alessandro La Volpe, Heinrich Reinhold, Charles Remond, Kajetonas Sklėrius, Gustaf Soderberg, Joseph Mallord William Turner, Pierre Jacques Volaire, Michael Wetzel, Joseph Wright of Derby, Michael Wutky
Qu’est-ce qu’une tête? A good question, always. I came across this French film on Alberto Giacometti today quite by accident, and as it deepened my Sunday, I am sharing it here in its five parts. After the buttery introduction in French, the English subtitles kick in.
Not so long ago, I was wandering the glorious halls of the Capodimonte museum in Naples, delirious like a child over having the museum practically all to myself (such is the case with the museums in Naples), when I was stopped by two very beautifully crafted paintings appearing in the left corner of my eye, “The Misanthrope” and the “Blind Leading the Blind” by Bruegel. I am not sure if there is anything quite like coming across a Bruegel painting when visiting a museum, being both very poignant and invigorating for the eye and mind at the same time. There are times when I am just exhausted from seeing so many famous paintings and crumbling fragments and “formal concerns.” Coming across a panel of such perfectly sustained, fragrant colors that are hundreds of years old, with so many details to linger over and a continually relevant life theme to ponder, is perhaps art absorption at its dearest and finest. All sounds around me went faint as I heard my blood pulsing and my heart aching; the goosebumps finally overwhelmed me, turning me into one big slushy mess of an artist-tourist who would have to try to put her life back together.
The Blind Leading the Blind, 1568 – please click on all images for larger viewing
Update: since posting, I was sent this video interpretation of Bruegel’s painting created by Nir Nadler and Chaja Hertog, a triptych compilation of figures set in the misty, haunting landscape of Holland in a focus which ranges from sharp to foggy. A beautiful adaptation.
The Misanthrope, 1568 – A ragged figure in a glass globe is cutting the purse strings of an old man wearing a dark habit. Under the picture are the words: “Since the world is so unfaithful, I am in mourning.”
When I was a child, I used to love looking at Bruegel’s painting of the Hunters in the Snow. That snow looked just as real and cold as snow, and I longed to get out there with the other skaters in what seemed a perfect winter wonderland of paint. The hunters, however, gave me a shudder of something with a different, inexplicable quality of cold. Still today, I feel the same in looking at this painting, preferring the skaters over the hunters, having learned a bit more about that second kind of chill.
As for the painting Dulle Griet, also known as Mad Meg, I am relieved I learned about it as an adult, for the nightmare probability is quite high from viewing such a magnificent painting like this. Mad Meg is the Anglicized version of Dulle Griet, a peasant woman figure of Flemish folklore who leads an army of women to pillage Hell, wearing an apron and armed with rough language and tools of male aggression. She is also the subject of a 1640s painting by Flemish painter David Teniers the Younger, and she appears as a character in Caryl Churchill’s Play “Top Girls” (1982), where she recounts her invasion of Hell: “I’d had enough, I was mad, I hate the bastards. I come out my front door that morning and shout till my neighbors come out and I said, “Come on, we’re going where the evil come from and pay the bastards out.'” (Churchill, 28).
But mostly, Bruegel created paintings that richly suggest that we stop to reflect, no matter if we are contemplating ice skaters, hunters, crucifixions, demonic peasant women or Icarus falling from the sky. As W.H. Auden explains in his poem, great masters such as Bruegel show how most people are too oblivious to care.
“Musée des Beaux Arts”
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
Aldous Huxley wrote a very interesting essay on Brueghel which was circulating around on facebook recently, in which he prefaces his thoughts on Brueghel with an interesting opinion on the modern art values of his day. I have written before about my disappointment in the fact that current artmaking seems to eschew emotional content, any narrative and any focus on any real subject matter, other than the artist’s “formal concerns.” Thus, I found I could not agree more when Huxley writes about the value of feelings in painting,
One feeling is excited by another. Our faculties work best in a congenial emotional atmosphere.
I also enjoyed his discussion about the value of “the sentiment of the buttocks”:
The contemporary fashion is to admire beyond all others the painter who can concentrate on the formal side of his art and produce pictures which are entirely devoid of literature. Old Renoir’s apophthegm, “Un peintre, voyez-vous, qui a le sentiment du téton et des fesses, est un homme sauvé,” is considered by the purists suspiciously latitudinarian. A painter who has the sentiment of the pap and the buttocks is a painter who portrays real models with gusto. Your pure aesthete should only have a feeling for hemispheres, curved lines and surfaces. But this “sentiment of the buttocks” is common to all good painters. It is the lowest common measure of the whole profession. It is possible, like Mantegna, to have a passionate feeling for all that is solid, and at the same time to be a stoic philosopher and a hero-worshiper; possible, with Michelangelo, to have a complete realization of breasts and also an interest in the soul or, like Rubens, to have a sentiment for human greatness as well as for human rumps. The greater includes the less; great dramatic or reflective painters know everything that the aestheticians who paint geometrical pictures, apples or buttocks know, and a great deal more besides. What they have to say about formal relations, though important, is only a part of what they have to express. The contemporary insistence on form to the exclusion of everything else is an absurdity. So was the older insistence on exact imitation and sentiment to the exclusion of form. There need be no exclusions. In spite of the single name, there are many different kinds of painters and all of them, with the exception of those who cannot paint, and those whose minds are trivial, vulgar and tedious, have a right to exist.
And just a bit later he writes,
Every good painter invents a new way of painting. Is this man a competent painter? Has he something to say, is he genuine? These are the questions a critic must ask himself. Not, Does he conform with my theory of imitation, or distortion, or moral purity, or significant form?
Like Auden, Huxley also recognized the tremendous impact Bruegel creates by presenting a scene of “regular” people in which the mourners of an “important” tragedy go unnoticed, discussing it particularly in The Procession to Calvary (1564):
“Breughel… represents the scene as it would have appeared to any casual spectator on the road to Golgotha on a certain spring morning in the year 33 A.D. Other artists have pretended to be angels, painting the scene with a knowledge of its significance. But Brueghel resolutely remains a human onlooker. What he shows is a crowd of people walking briskly in holiday joyfulness up the slopes of a hill. On the top of the hill, which is seen in the middle distance on the right, are two crosses with thieves fastened to them, and between them a little hole in the ground in which another cross is soon to be planted. Round the crosses, on the bare hill top stands a ring of people, who have come out with their picnic baskets to look on at the free entertainment offered by the ministers of justice. Those who have already taken their stand round the crosses are the prudent ones; in these days we should see them with camp stools and thermos flasks, six hours ahead of time, in the vanguard of the queue for a Melba night at Covent Garden…
That eager, tremulous, lascivious interest in blood and beastliness which in these more civilized days we can only satisfy at one remove from reality in the pages of our newspapers, was franklier indulged in Brueghel’s day; the naïve ingenuous brute in man was less sophisticated, was given longer rope, and joyously barks and wags its tail round the appointed victim. Seen thus, impassively, from the outside, the tragedy does not purge or uplift; it appalls and makes desperate; or it may even inspire a kind of gruesome mirth. The same situation may often be either tragic or comic, according as it is seen through the eyes of those who suffer or those who look on. (Shift the point of vision a little and Macbeth could be paraphrased as a roaring farce.) Breughel makes a concession to the high tragic convention by placing in the foreground of his picture a little group made up of the holy women weeping and wringing their hands. They stand quite apart from the other figures in the picture and are fundamentally out of harmony with them, being painted in the style of Roger van der Weyden. A little oasis of passionate spirituality, an island of consciousness and comprehension in the midst of the pervading stupidity and brutishness. Why Breughel put them into his picture is difficult to guess; perhaps for the benefit of the conventionally religious, perhaps out of respect for tradition; or perhaps he found his own creation too depressing and added this noble irrelevance to reassure himself.”
You can read the rest of Huxley’s essay here. No need to rush off, though, as each image below is an “island of consciousness” well worth visiting.
October 9, 2011
Way off the subject of painting here, but really felt that this was worth sharing. (The embedding on the video is disabled, so you will have to click over to youtube and come back.) Today it has been cool and windy in Naples and as I was knitting away my domenica, I decided to look up videos of songs I used to belt out with my many sisters when I was a wee little one. I never spend time on youtube because of all the crap that’s on there and the annoying lags in the replays, but today I was craving different music and I was lucky enough to find recordings of songs that brought tears of laughter to my eyes and ears: Perhaps Love (1980) by John Denver & Placido Domingo (hahaha!!), the Beatles White Album, Cat Stevens, Don McLean (1979 performance in Caesarea, Israel), the Carpenters (We’ve Only Just Begun), Simon & Garfunkel, Van Morrison and many other surprises. We would dress up in clothes from my mom’s fabulous wardrobe and mime out the music, utilizing utensils and pots from the kitchen cabinets for musical instrument props.
While browsing Van Morrison’s songs, a title with Santana caught my eye. And this recording, though a little distorted and cropped at the beginning, is just fantabulous. I had not known this recording nor had I seen it live on the Midnight Special on April 22, 1977 because I was four years old and I went to bed at 9. Hosted by George Bensen, this Midnight Special episode featured Moondance performed by Van Morrison, Carlos Santana, Etta James, Dr. John and Tom Scott. It threw me off my feet – and my knitting – as I found it impossible to sit still while listening to this.
I then looked up information about the performance, and came across some interesting tidbits on an archived page that looks like it may expire. There’s a funny story about how the managers of the program got high (and deaf) on a “doob” offered by Jerry Garcia just before going over to Van Morrison’s house to ask him to make the guest appearance. If the link doesn’t work, here is a PDF copy I made: Van Morrison Story
Napoli. Che meraviglia is pretty much all I have to say so far since my arrival. Now that I am feeling a little more settled and have learned my way around in a general way, I am looking forward to exploring all the nooks and crannies – being careful of course when venturing down dark alleys by myself. I have begun painting as well, and I like to keep the windows open so that I can hear the sounds of the motorini, distant hammering, the soccer ball kicking around the courtyard and the sounds of plates clattering. I am wondering if I will be able to incorporate those sounds into the paintings I am beginning.
Whatever one might say about the great sun and light in Israel, I can now personally vouch that it is way over-rated. Just too much of it all the time, never changing, and just too hot. So hot that it bleaches rather than burns, in my opinion, so that if I had stayed any longer I may have disappeared. And who wants to feel sticky all the time, from breakfast to dinner? I was once talking to a taxi driver in Israel as we were going from Rehovot to Jerusalem, and he said to me that he loves the heat and sun of Israel, “The hotter the better.” And this he says as we are sitting in sub-zero temperatures of the air-conditioning he has cranked up in his car, for that is how much he “enjoys” the hot weather.
The weather in Naples is changing now from summer sun to autumn rain, and as I make my way around the city to see the different Caravaggio paintings and erotic frescos, it made me think about the work of Walter Sickert (31 May 1860 – 22 January 1942). A German-born English painter and a member of the Camden Town Group, Sickert often favoured somber colors and ordinary people and urban scenes as his subjects, and his works were considered very controversial, even connecting him to murder. He is considered a prominent figure in the transition from Impressionism to modernism, and I can see how he might have been an important influence on certain British painters, particularly Lucian Freud and Francis Bacon and even the young Jenny Saville.
I personally think that his nude paintings are his best works, but I have included here below as many as I could find. Following Degas’ advice, Sickert painted in the studio, working from drawings and memory as an escape from “the tyranny of nature.” His oeuvre also included portraits of well known personalities and friends, as well as images derived from press photographs. Continued biographical information on Sickert is available here on WetCanvas, and here on Wikipedia.
As much as I do like looking at “dark” paintings from time to time, I don’t particularly revel in them; a good dip down now and then though provides some variety, something I do vastly appreciate, like an enormous platter of antipasti. And of course, Napoli itself. Today I took advantage of a questionable sky and brisk air to explore the neighborhood of Chiaia, with occasional jaunts into alluring doorways and enticing stairs going up up up, ending with an inhalation of sun, salt and surf along Naples’ Riviera.