Monday, March 17, 2008
What Do Shimmering Winks Look Like?
I've been quite busy in my studio this year, and have already completed a number of new paintings and assemblages. Several of them are available for viewing via lauragrey.com. To see what comes of messing with antique clock and watch parts, shimmering glass stones, metal mesh and sheer acrylic paints, just scroll to the bottom of the Assemblages page and click on the photo of my artwork. Then you'll see my online gallery showing over 60 of my paintings and assemblages, including a few inspired by tiddlywinks. (Yes, really. Can pick-up sticks be far behind?) About a dozen of my drawings are also available online; just go to the Drawings page at lauragrey.com. I update the gallery frequently; more pieces will be coming soon!
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Stendhal Syndrome
When Stendhal, the 19th century French author, visited Florence in 1817 he became so overwhelmed by the city's glorious art that, overcome by a surfeit of visual splendor, he had a temporary psychological breakdown. He's not the only one to react to extreme beauty in this way. Art lovers have found being in the presence of tremendous beauty so moving and emotionally taxing that they've suffered confusion, tachycardia, dizziness and hallucinations in art museums frequently enough for psychiatrists to give a name to this cluster of responses: Stendhal Syndrome.
Tourists occasionally experience breakdowns while overcome by the beauty of Botticelli's paintings in the Galleria degli Uffizi or at the foot of Michelangelo's David at the Galleria dell'Accademia. Some are sent to Florence's Santa Maria Nuova Hospital's psychiatric ward for evaluation. The syndrome was named in 1979 after an Italian psychiatrist observed more than 100 cases among tourists in Florence. Apparently American tourists are not known to suffer the syndrome as Europeans do; some say that perhaps this is because as a culture, we don't experience the same immersion and attachment to masterworks of art as Europeans. As a rule, Europeans believe we derive neither the ecstatic joy in being surrounded by profoundly beautiful and important masterworks, nor the psychological trauma of being overwhelmed by it. When they find an American who is deeply touched by their heritage and art, most Europeans are surprised and delighted. I have found that many will go out of their way to help a visitor enjoy immersion in their glory.
Most U.S. tourists visiting Europe simply lack the frame of reference and familiarity with European art and history that Europeans have, and without such a frame of reference there is less build up of anticipation or depth of understanding, and these are the underpinnings of emotional reaction. Faced with the exhaustion of travel, the unforgiving pace and the breadth of new experiences that most packaged tours provide to Americans overseas, the majority of my compatriots can be forgiven for being too numbed and overwhelmed by the fatigue and novelty of European tourism for great meaning to sink in. It's not that emotional reactions to beauty and meaning are lacking in our makeup, but that most of us have simply not been exposed to either the depth or breadth of art historical experience and understanding that many Europeans enjoy. This is, of course, partly because of our physical distance from the majority of masterpieces of Western art, and also because of the relative novelty of our national history and treasures.
While the U.S. has many European masterworks in museums, one must make an effort to visit them. We are not surrounded with them as most urban Europeans are. Turn a corner in any major European metropolis and you may find that treasure troves of art and architecture await you. In Italy especially, the sheer volume of exquisite historically and artistically important works is staggering. In Rome or Florence, it seems as if nearly any random block offers a world-class repository of culture to rival anything Americans could muster. One city after another (not to mention little villages and gorgeous hill towns) boasts ancient treasures, Roman monuments, priceless works of every kind. So it is no wonder that people steeped in stories and photos of such masterworks who enjoy and remember their history should be overwhelmed when immersed in the glories of Europe's cultural centers.
I have never had a nervous breakdown in a museum (or anywhere else, for that matter), but I have several times been moved to tears and wonderment before a work of art which I have studied and loved from afar. Here is my favorite example.
When I was 21, my mother and I spent several hectic weeks traveling through the art centers of Italy together in honor of my having completed college. For both my senior theses (I wrote one for my history major and my art history minor) I wrote on art historical subjects. One essay was on 15th century Florentine architecture; the other compared the impact of different sources of patronage (e.g., Italian popes, Spanish monarchs, Flemish churches, Dutch merchants) on the styles and subject matter found in works painted or sculpted by major 17th century Italian, Spanish, Dutch and Flemish artists.
I took night school classes in Italian, since Mills College didn't offer that language, to enrich my art historical studies. When I went to Italy with my mother two months after graduation, all my art historical research and Italian language studies were still fresh in my head, and I was aching to see all the pieces whose photographic representations I'd spent four years swooning over. I had been to Italy on multi-country package tours of Europe in my teens, but this time we were focusing on one country alone and spending days on end in magical cities where we had enough time to seek out the tinier churches that tours usually missed. We were women on a mission.
My mother was as crazy for 16th and 17th century art and architecture as I, and as determined to cram as many masterpieces into our free days as I was. On one swelteringly humid July day in Rome, she and I visited so many churches we lost count. We crisscrossed the city on swollen legs and blistered feet, determined to get one more painting in, view one more astonishing Bernini sculpture, admire another set of volutes or one more baldachin or another monument or reliquary or crumbling edifice. At last, dehydrated and aching, we dragged ourselves into Santa Maria del Popolo in search of a painting neither of us wanted to leave Rome without seeing: Caravaggio’s Conversion of St. Paul.
We hobbled all around the church looking for the chapel we sought, so overwhelmed by pain and fatigue that we had to poke each other to make sure we admired and appreciated the other masterworks all around us. Then we walked around a corner and into the Cerasi Chapel only to find St. Paul lying on the road to Damascus before us. The painting was darkened by time, covered in dust and obscured around the edges by layers of cobwebs. With one of the greatest paintings anyone will ever paint before us, enormous, filthy and exquisite, we simultaneously burst into tears and hugged each other in relief and delight. This painting alone was worth every blister, every step, every night of study, every set of endless marble steps we had climbed throughout the city for six long, hot days.
Finding my way to this painting distilled all I love about art into one perfect moment, just as Caravaggio distilled all that was important about Paul's conversion into one perfect image. For Caravaggio, the moments of most pathos and meaning come when holy figures are brought down to their most elemental humanity and humility. He humbles Christ, the Virgin Mary (whom he painted as bare- and dirty-footed and swollen in death) and St. Paul in his paintings to bring their essential humanity closer to us, so we see that as we are now, so once were they. Unlike someone like Rubens, who elevates powerful human beings to lofty heights, Caravaggio brings holy personages down to the human level so we can empathize with them and love them in a more completely human and heartfelt way.
As painted by Caravaggio, Saul becomes Paul while lying in the dirty, dark road, nearly trampled by his oblivious horse. He is literally knocked off his high horse and blinded so he can be humbled enough that his soul might be exalted in times to come. My experience in making my way to the piece was similar on a small but meaningful scale; my little pilgrimage exhausted and humbled me so that in the midst of all the glories around me after days of being bombarded by the endless masterworks of Rome, I could still be touched profoundly by one old, dusty and perfect painting.
Other works of art have moved me to tears, but I think no first moment with any work of art can surpass the joy I felt in the perfection and purity of that moment with that work of art. Unlike Stendahl in the Uffizi Gallery, I did not need to fall to the floor with arms outstretched in my ecstatic moment. Paul did that for me in his eternal ecstatic moment on the wall of a dark Roman chapel.
Tourists occasionally experience breakdowns while overcome by the beauty of Botticelli's paintings in the Galleria degli Uffizi or at the foot of Michelangelo's David at the Galleria dell'Accademia. Some are sent to Florence's Santa Maria Nuova Hospital's psychiatric ward for evaluation. The syndrome was named in 1979 after an Italian psychiatrist observed more than 100 cases among tourists in Florence. Apparently American tourists are not known to suffer the syndrome as Europeans do; some say that perhaps this is because as a culture, we don't experience the same immersion and attachment to masterworks of art as Europeans. As a rule, Europeans believe we derive neither the ecstatic joy in being surrounded by profoundly beautiful and important masterworks, nor the psychological trauma of being overwhelmed by it. When they find an American who is deeply touched by their heritage and art, most Europeans are surprised and delighted. I have found that many will go out of their way to help a visitor enjoy immersion in their glory.
Most U.S. tourists visiting Europe simply lack the frame of reference and familiarity with European art and history that Europeans have, and without such a frame of reference there is less build up of anticipation or depth of understanding, and these are the underpinnings of emotional reaction. Faced with the exhaustion of travel, the unforgiving pace and the breadth of new experiences that most packaged tours provide to Americans overseas, the majority of my compatriots can be forgiven for being too numbed and overwhelmed by the fatigue and novelty of European tourism for great meaning to sink in. It's not that emotional reactions to beauty and meaning are lacking in our makeup, but that most of us have simply not been exposed to either the depth or breadth of art historical experience and understanding that many Europeans enjoy. This is, of course, partly because of our physical distance from the majority of masterpieces of Western art, and also because of the relative novelty of our national history and treasures.
While the U.S. has many European masterworks in museums, one must make an effort to visit them. We are not surrounded with them as most urban Europeans are. Turn a corner in any major European metropolis and you may find that treasure troves of art and architecture await you. In Italy especially, the sheer volume of exquisite historically and artistically important works is staggering. In Rome or Florence, it seems as if nearly any random block offers a world-class repository of culture to rival anything Americans could muster. One city after another (not to mention little villages and gorgeous hill towns) boasts ancient treasures, Roman monuments, priceless works of every kind. So it is no wonder that people steeped in stories and photos of such masterworks who enjoy and remember their history should be overwhelmed when immersed in the glories of Europe's cultural centers.
I have never had a nervous breakdown in a museum (or anywhere else, for that matter), but I have several times been moved to tears and wonderment before a work of art which I have studied and loved from afar. Here is my favorite example.
When I was 21, my mother and I spent several hectic weeks traveling through the art centers of Italy together in honor of my having completed college. For both my senior theses (I wrote one for my history major and my art history minor) I wrote on art historical subjects. One essay was on 15th century Florentine architecture; the other compared the impact of different sources of patronage (e.g., Italian popes, Spanish monarchs, Flemish churches, Dutch merchants) on the styles and subject matter found in works painted or sculpted by major 17th century Italian, Spanish, Dutch and Flemish artists.
I took night school classes in Italian, since Mills College didn't offer that language, to enrich my art historical studies. When I went to Italy with my mother two months after graduation, all my art historical research and Italian language studies were still fresh in my head, and I was aching to see all the pieces whose photographic representations I'd spent four years swooning over. I had been to Italy on multi-country package tours of Europe in my teens, but this time we were focusing on one country alone and spending days on end in magical cities where we had enough time to seek out the tinier churches that tours usually missed. We were women on a mission.
My mother was as crazy for 16th and 17th century art and architecture as I, and as determined to cram as many masterpieces into our free days as I was. On one swelteringly humid July day in Rome, she and I visited so many churches we lost count. We crisscrossed the city on swollen legs and blistered feet, determined to get one more painting in, view one more astonishing Bernini sculpture, admire another set of volutes or one more baldachin or another monument or reliquary or crumbling edifice. At last, dehydrated and aching, we dragged ourselves into Santa Maria del Popolo in search of a painting neither of us wanted to leave Rome without seeing: Caravaggio’s Conversion of St. Paul.
We hobbled all around the church looking for the chapel we sought, so overwhelmed by pain and fatigue that we had to poke each other to make sure we admired and appreciated the other masterworks all around us. Then we walked around a corner and into the Cerasi Chapel only to find St. Paul lying on the road to Damascus before us. The painting was darkened by time, covered in dust and obscured around the edges by layers of cobwebs. With one of the greatest paintings anyone will ever paint before us, enormous, filthy and exquisite, we simultaneously burst into tears and hugged each other in relief and delight. This painting alone was worth every blister, every step, every night of study, every set of endless marble steps we had climbed throughout the city for six long, hot days.
Finding my way to this painting distilled all I love about art into one perfect moment, just as Caravaggio distilled all that was important about Paul's conversion into one perfect image. For Caravaggio, the moments of most pathos and meaning come when holy figures are brought down to their most elemental humanity and humility. He humbles Christ, the Virgin Mary (whom he painted as bare- and dirty-footed and swollen in death) and St. Paul in his paintings to bring their essential humanity closer to us, so we see that as we are now, so once were they. Unlike someone like Rubens, who elevates powerful human beings to lofty heights, Caravaggio brings holy personages down to the human level so we can empathize with them and love them in a more completely human and heartfelt way.
As painted by Caravaggio, Saul becomes Paul while lying in the dirty, dark road, nearly trampled by his oblivious horse. He is literally knocked off his high horse and blinded so he can be humbled enough that his soul might be exalted in times to come. My experience in making my way to the piece was similar on a small but meaningful scale; my little pilgrimage exhausted and humbled me so that in the midst of all the glories around me after days of being bombarded by the endless masterworks of Rome, I could still be touched profoundly by one old, dusty and perfect painting.
Other works of art have moved me to tears, but I think no first moment with any work of art can surpass the joy I felt in the perfection and purity of that moment with that work of art. Unlike Stendahl in the Uffizi Gallery, I did not need to fall to the floor with arms outstretched in my ecstatic moment. Paul did that for me in his eternal ecstatic moment on the wall of a dark Roman chapel.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
But Is It Art?
I take art seriously, and often have very strong opinions about it. There are artists whose technical skill, taste or vision doesn't match mine but whose work I can still respect and admire in some capacity. And there are a few whom I find so weak, irritating or vapid that I'll admit to expressing some scorn for them in private. But while their work may not feel like it merits being described as art according to my internal art-o-meter, I am willing to be liberal in my acceptance of the use of the term "art."
Multiple times, upon learning that I am an artist, I have had people tell me with big smiles and bright eyes that their favorite artist is Thomas Kinkade, and each time I bite my tongue and agree that his works are, um, quite cheerful. We can agree on that. Kinkade, the self-proclaimed "Painter of Light," is less an artist than a kitsch commercial illustrator with massively impressive marketing skills. He does not provide what I look for in an artistic experience, but he moves others, so when his admirers tell me how much they love him, I do my best to show them respect. I may find his work personally offensive in its soft-focus, Kleenex-box-like style and subject matter, but he touches people with his paintings, and their emotional reactions are real and important to them. Kinkade prompts pleasing visceral reactions in them that bring them joy and comfort. So, much as his work turns my stomach, even it is art.
Essayist Joan Didion wrote, "A Kinkade painting was typically rendered in slightly surreal pastels. It typically featured a cottage or a house of such insistent coziness as to seem actually sinister, suggestive of a trap designed to attract Hansel and Gretel. Every window was lit, to lurid effect, as if the interior of the structure might be on fire." I must admit to laughing and nodding in agreement when I read those words.
The glowing houses, churches and street lamps in Thomas Kinkade's paintings are so extraordinarily popular because they evoke an instant and comforting emotional reaction in so many people. His imitations of light are meant to bring to mind thoughts and feelings of an idealized old-time American home life: clean, cozy, quaint, old fashioned, oozing charm and warmth. As a nation our taste often runs to the sweet, the peppy, the saccharine, and we admire and appreciate those who serve up our stereotypes in the most sanitized and friendly way. A man who sells reproductions of his paintings in the hundreds of thousands, many touched up with selected highlights by worker bees so that they look more like actual paintings than the cheap copies they are (so they can be sold for hundreds or thousands of dollars each instead of the ten dollars they might be worth), Kinkade understands his market and has grown rich by never underestimating the public’s desire for clichéed and emotionally manipulative imagery. According to Wikipedia, he is estimated to have made $53 million from his art works from 1997 to May 2005 alone. Yikes.
His subject matter, style, technique and execution give me the willies, but his work is art, albeit bad art. Some would disagree with me, saying that merely evoking a cheerful reaction with one’s creations doesn't make one an artist. Art is meant to provoke thought and emotion, to make us ask questions, to inspire discussions, to challenge, to confuse or reward or transform us, some say. Sure, it's meant to do all of that. And Kinkade's work does indeed challenge, provoke and confuse me. But not every piece has to accomplish all of those goals. Art can also exist merely to delight, to embellish, to decorate or to express whatever thought, feeling or impression the artist wishes to convey.
Good art can elevate, or soothe, excite or inspire. A lot of works that I personally revile are still, in my estimation, important art because they successfully innovate, surprise or make me think. Beauty speaks to the soul, and each of us finds beauty in different forms. We seek out things that please our eyes and our hearts. Art does transform, but it can do that through humor or subtlety, elegance, spareness or outrageous joie de vivre. Art can also be kitsch, and sometimes that's a lot of fun. Takashi Murakami's pop-art pieces are terribly popular now, and though my favorites among them look a lot like the vinyl flower power stickers found all over beat-up VW beetles circa 1970, they're fun, fresh and freeing. They're real art.
Art asks questions, but it doesn't need to be in our face and ugly about it; it can also ask us sly and amusing questions. Art provokes, yes: it provokes anger, excitement, disgust, questions or tears. It also provokes laughter or thoughtfulness or merely prods us to stand still and feel. It is not a bad thing to feel comfort or joy or simple pleasure. Schmaltzy art may not be high art, but it is still art. Obvious, twee, soulless wrapping-paper-style paintings and prints may feel like caricatures of landscapes to me, but they bring joy to millions. I look down on an artist's decisions to use his or her technical ability in the service of creating sub-par paintings with trite subjects with no aspirations to be anything more than derivative dreck. But whether I like it or not, it is still art.
Someone like Thomas Kinkade achieves something that many artists of integrity cannot: he manages to evoke strong feelings in many people who view and enjoy his work. Just because those of us with art history degrees may look down on untrained eyes as having inferior taste doesn't mean that the feelings of those without our training aren't real or legitimate. We may denigrate Disney's homogenized, dumbed down and sexist animated fairy tales for blandly pandering to the lowest common denominator, but the fact remains that the technical quality of their work and their theme parks is usually superlative, and their understanding of the needs and desires of their market segment has been remarkably keen for 80 years now. They evoke genuine strong emotion with imagery so powerful that indelible icons come to mind when we think of Disney.
It is upsetting when inferior versions supplant the more elegant, subtle, powerful or beautiful versions in our minds. Disney's Winnie the Pooh animation is nowhere near as gorgeous as Ernest Shepard's original illustrations for A. A. Milne's books are, for example. But Disney's work is still art. It may not be high art, it may not always be good art, but it is valid art, as is Andres Serrano's “Piss Christ” or Robert Mapplethorpe's S&M nudes (or his exquisite flower portraits) or Picasso's “Guernica” or Jeff Koons's ridiculous, goofy and disturbing sculpture of Michael Jackson and his chimp Bubbles. Even Koons's images of himself having sex with his real-life porn star ex-wife Cicciolina (who was, incidentally, also a member of the Italian parliament) are works of art, though not art I'd want to own. The art world is more complex and ridiculous than we even know. Just like the real world around us.
Multiple times, upon learning that I am an artist, I have had people tell me with big smiles and bright eyes that their favorite artist is Thomas Kinkade, and each time I bite my tongue and agree that his works are, um, quite cheerful. We can agree on that. Kinkade, the self-proclaimed "Painter of Light," is less an artist than a kitsch commercial illustrator with massively impressive marketing skills. He does not provide what I look for in an artistic experience, but he moves others, so when his admirers tell me how much they love him, I do my best to show them respect. I may find his work personally offensive in its soft-focus, Kleenex-box-like style and subject matter, but he touches people with his paintings, and their emotional reactions are real and important to them. Kinkade prompts pleasing visceral reactions in them that bring them joy and comfort. So, much as his work turns my stomach, even it is art.
Essayist Joan Didion wrote, "A Kinkade painting was typically rendered in slightly surreal pastels. It typically featured a cottage or a house of such insistent coziness as to seem actually sinister, suggestive of a trap designed to attract Hansel and Gretel. Every window was lit, to lurid effect, as if the interior of the structure might be on fire." I must admit to laughing and nodding in agreement when I read those words.
The glowing houses, churches and street lamps in Thomas Kinkade's paintings are so extraordinarily popular because they evoke an instant and comforting emotional reaction in so many people. His imitations of light are meant to bring to mind thoughts and feelings of an idealized old-time American home life: clean, cozy, quaint, old fashioned, oozing charm and warmth. As a nation our taste often runs to the sweet, the peppy, the saccharine, and we admire and appreciate those who serve up our stereotypes in the most sanitized and friendly way. A man who sells reproductions of his paintings in the hundreds of thousands, many touched up with selected highlights by worker bees so that they look more like actual paintings than the cheap copies they are (so they can be sold for hundreds or thousands of dollars each instead of the ten dollars they might be worth), Kinkade understands his market and has grown rich by never underestimating the public’s desire for clichéed and emotionally manipulative imagery. According to Wikipedia, he is estimated to have made $53 million from his art works from 1997 to May 2005 alone. Yikes.
His subject matter, style, technique and execution give me the willies, but his work is art, albeit bad art. Some would disagree with me, saying that merely evoking a cheerful reaction with one’s creations doesn't make one an artist. Art is meant to provoke thought and emotion, to make us ask questions, to inspire discussions, to challenge, to confuse or reward or transform us, some say. Sure, it's meant to do all of that. And Kinkade's work does indeed challenge, provoke and confuse me. But not every piece has to accomplish all of those goals. Art can also exist merely to delight, to embellish, to decorate or to express whatever thought, feeling or impression the artist wishes to convey.
Good art can elevate, or soothe, excite or inspire. A lot of works that I personally revile are still, in my estimation, important art because they successfully innovate, surprise or make me think. Beauty speaks to the soul, and each of us finds beauty in different forms. We seek out things that please our eyes and our hearts. Art does transform, but it can do that through humor or subtlety, elegance, spareness or outrageous joie de vivre. Art can also be kitsch, and sometimes that's a lot of fun. Takashi Murakami's pop-art pieces are terribly popular now, and though my favorites among them look a lot like the vinyl flower power stickers found all over beat-up VW beetles circa 1970, they're fun, fresh and freeing. They're real art.
Art asks questions, but it doesn't need to be in our face and ugly about it; it can also ask us sly and amusing questions. Art provokes, yes: it provokes anger, excitement, disgust, questions or tears. It also provokes laughter or thoughtfulness or merely prods us to stand still and feel. It is not a bad thing to feel comfort or joy or simple pleasure. Schmaltzy art may not be high art, but it is still art. Obvious, twee, soulless wrapping-paper-style paintings and prints may feel like caricatures of landscapes to me, but they bring joy to millions. I look down on an artist's decisions to use his or her technical ability in the service of creating sub-par paintings with trite subjects with no aspirations to be anything more than derivative dreck. But whether I like it or not, it is still art.
Someone like Thomas Kinkade achieves something that many artists of integrity cannot: he manages to evoke strong feelings in many people who view and enjoy his work. Just because those of us with art history degrees may look down on untrained eyes as having inferior taste doesn't mean that the feelings of those without our training aren't real or legitimate. We may denigrate Disney's homogenized, dumbed down and sexist animated fairy tales for blandly pandering to the lowest common denominator, but the fact remains that the technical quality of their work and their theme parks is usually superlative, and their understanding of the needs and desires of their market segment has been remarkably keen for 80 years now. They evoke genuine strong emotion with imagery so powerful that indelible icons come to mind when we think of Disney.
It is upsetting when inferior versions supplant the more elegant, subtle, powerful or beautiful versions in our minds. Disney's Winnie the Pooh animation is nowhere near as gorgeous as Ernest Shepard's original illustrations for A. A. Milne's books are, for example. But Disney's work is still art. It may not be high art, it may not always be good art, but it is valid art, as is Andres Serrano's “Piss Christ” or Robert Mapplethorpe's S&M nudes (or his exquisite flower portraits) or Picasso's “Guernica” or Jeff Koons's ridiculous, goofy and disturbing sculpture of Michael Jackson and his chimp Bubbles. Even Koons's images of himself having sex with his real-life porn star ex-wife Cicciolina (who was, incidentally, also a member of the Italian parliament) are works of art, though not art I'd want to own. The art world is more complex and ridiculous than we even know. Just like the real world around us.
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