A Lucid Description, Pt. 2

In the Kyrenia Mountains of Cyprus, Art Guy and Gus cast their eyes in all directions while intermittantly referring to the back of a catalog from a sub-par exhibition. The catalog is engraved with a map. A large 'X' marks the site of an archaeological site of one of the sparsely documented wallpainting cycles of the Last Judgment.

The site they have found is certainly one of the prettiest on Cyprus. The coastal town nearby encroaches in no way on its surroundings. The forested cliffs and mountains of the island attest to its setting for myths and the culture that propogated them. In addition, several churches and Mosques tuck into city squares or against mountain sides, with access determined by long staircases along cliffs. The air is saline and healthy feeling. Yet it is colder than the duo had imagined.

"Mr. Guy, I'm getting bored," says Gus.

"Will you ever give up on calling me Mr. Guy?" says our hero.

He looks more closely at the map. It reads, "Walk along this cliff and rappel down."

"You won't be bored for much longer, Gus."

Gus looks at the map, "Maybe rappel down is a metaphor. She can't actually mean it."

"A metaphor for what? Never underestimate a Byzantinist in search of new material."

They peer along the cliff. There is a decent stone outcropping at the top, and Art Guy moves slowly toward it, holding a coiled rope.

"Be careful of booby traps," says Gus.

"Don't be ridiculous, Gus. Which Indiana Jones movie do you think we're in?"

No sooner has our hero said this that he trips a vine, and the cliff path begins to dissolve under his feet. Art Guy jumps forward to safety, but the path behind him falls away. He is now isloated from his friend.

"It says on the map: 'Be careful of booby traps,'" says Gus.

Art Guy sits down on the ledge feeling a bit bewildered at the whole thing so far.

"I don't think I can make it over there," says Gus. "But I can yell instructions from the map to you."

"That's fine. What does it say next?"

"It actually says, 'Make sure the skinny one does the spelunking because he's more likely to fit through the entrance of the cave where the wallpaintings are.'"

Art Guy's annoyance becomes more visible. He says, "Does it warn me of anything else that's likely to kill me?"

It says, "Answer the question at the gate wisely."

Our hero rolls his eyes. Passing his generals was one of the high points of his life, and he swore to never be tested on fact-based knowledge again in his career.

"Couldn't she just tell me what the answer is? What else does it say?"

It just says, "Best of luck - Foxy (as in cunning) Byzwiz Irish."

Art Guy turns around. "Who is this woman?"

---

Foxy Byzwiz Irish sits in her study sipping whisky with a long-time friend of hers named Print-G. Mac D.a.T.

Print-G's most striking style choice is that her trousers are designed with Durer prints.

"That's the best you'll ever get," says Print-G, referring to the whisky.

"Right you are," says Irish.

"How's your research going?"

"Better than usual, it's actually finishing itself off while we speak. I've got a couple guys I met in Cairo spelunking around in Cyprus recording a description of that final Last Judgment I need."

"You jealous?"

"A bit."

"When will the book be out?"

"You know I don't want to talk about that," says Irish. "How's the Scottish print project going?"

"The prints are going on tour. That's it. Done," says Print-G. with an infectious smile on her face. "New Yorkers and Londoners alike will all know they've overlooked a significant body of material. They just need to see it with their own eyes." She stands up and karate kicks the air.

Irish smiles and sips her whisky.

"Mac," says Irish.

"Yes, ya wee lamb?" says Print-G, still throwing fists into the open study space.

"Do you think an art historian familiar with the late medieval west would know the Greek names of Byzantine iconographies?"

"I shouldn't think so, why?"

---

"What are you likely to encounter behind these doors," reads a spooky-looking but obviously modern inscription carved into the gate at the base of the cliff. Our hero and Gus stand in front of it shivering from their own sweat. Gus had clambered dangerously over the gap in the cliff and the two of them have now spent a nervous hour rappelling down the face. Below the inscription on either side of the door are large stones that one can press into the face of the wall. The stones read, "Theotokos," "Koimisis," "Psychostasis," and "Anastasis."

"Looks like it was the archaeologists who set these booby traps and gates," says Gus.

"Maybe they were trying to keep out Dr. Irish," says our hero.

"But wouldn't she know the answer to this question?" says Gus.

"I suppose so," says Art Guy. "She's the Byzantinist."

"Do you know the answer?"

Our hero can't hide his confusion as he looks from one side of the gate to the other.

"I thought you knew your medieval iconography."

Art Guy notices something and chuckles. "I know these aren't part of Last Judgment iconography." He points to obviously modern clay sculptures of satyrs holding water jugs above where Gus and Art Guy stand.

"Booby traps," says Gus.

Art Guy says, "Gus, lightly press, 'Koimisis' but stand away from the pot."

As Gus presses in the stone, a boiling stream of tar begins to trickle from one of the satyrs' jars onto the ground by Gus's feet. He jumps. "That can't be the right answer, Mr. Guy! Do you know what these iconographies mean or not?"

"Ye of little faith," says our hero. "Of course the Dormition of the Virgin doesn't occur in Last Judgment cycles. I just wanted to see what came out of the jugs. There isn't just one answer here. Press 'Theotokos' while I press 'Psychostasis,' and we'll get through this alive."

After counting to three they press the scenes referring to 'The Virgin Mary' and 'The Weighing of Souls,' and the gate opens on mechanised hinges more reminiscent of Disney World than anything you're supposed to encounter on archaeological digs in Cyprus.

There is a narrow crevace through which our hero passes with embarassment.

The cycle is extensive, well preserved, and breathtakingly beautiful. It is similar to the Mt. Sinai 'Last Judgment' and laden with deep red. The scenes are alive with the most brilliant of Byzantine lines and rhythms. One senses all stages of Cyprian religion, as some of the figures evoke classical sculpture (particularly the seated Zeus-like Satan figure). Situated in a stunning mandorla, Christ holds the visual field with a confrontational gaze. Our hero pulls out his notebook and begins to write a description of the scenes, careful to avoid the outdated poetic formalism used above.

Gus struggles to take pictures with slow shutter-speeds by propping his point-and-shoot up against stalagmites. He cuts himself on one and cusses.

"We won't be having any of that in the presence of beautiful wallpainting," says Art Guy. "Are we American curators or are we respectful preservationists of the past?"

"Get over yourself, Mr. Guy," says Gus.

Our hero is suddenly confused by what he sees. In the lower right hand corner of the wallpainting, St. Peter, immediately recognizable with his haircut and the keys he carries, is ushered into hell as one of the damned.

Art Guy looks up to the seated row of apostles. "This can't be right," he says.

Peter is absent from the order of apostles.

"Just a lucid description, Mr. Guy," says Gus. "Remember what she said?"

"Right," says our hero, smiling. "No crazy theories..."

...to be continued...

A Lucid Description, Pt. 1

Gus's t-shirt depicts the Mona Lisa with sunglasses. Art Guy is wearing a leather jacket and an orange sweater. The duo is in Cairo.

"Aren't you warm in that get-up?" says Gus.
"Aren't you embarrassed to be wearing that t-shirt, Gus, we're in the medievalist's bar."

Indeed the bar they have chosen (non-alcoholic of course) is specifically a secret hangout for traveling medieval experts. Cyril Mango vacates his seat next to the two of them and exits the bar.

"Why didn't you talk to Mango?" says Gus.
"Are you kidding? One does not simply talk to Cyril Mango," says our hero.

A one-day plane layover has naturally landed Art Guy and Gus in Egypt before heading to Cyprus then through the land of Byzantium. For research purposes? No. Art Guy just wants to see the sights. It's his first vacation in a while, and he wants to reflect on what jobs will suit him better in the future. His last adventure, involving tomb shards of Etheldreda, ended in a certain incompatibility of ideas with the museum world.

"What did you think about the art we saw this morning, Mr. Guy?" says Gus.
"Amazing, I was loving it."
"Do you think that Coptic art's Egyptian influences can be seen in the medieval west?"
"I have no idea. I'm on vacation, Gus."

Our hero sips some water.

"Just look at the Osiris pose," says a gruff voice behind them. As they turn they see a Byzantinist bedecked in a great wool burqa. Three leather pouches and a flask hang from her torso.

"26 of the heavy stuff," she says across the bar.
The bartender says, "Sorry, we don't serve alcohol in this country."
"The heavy water then," she says.

Art Guy and Gus exchange looks.

"Don't get this one started," whispers our hero to Gus.
"Excuse me," says Gus to the stranger.

She drinks from a large mug of water as if it has alcohol in it. "Yes?"
"What about the Osiris pose?" says Gus.
"It's one of the ways Coptic art probably influenced the monastic communities of Ireland. I've shown it to relate."

Both our hero and Gus notice a distinctly Irish brogue.

"Ireland?" says Gus. "That's hard to believe, eh, Mr. Guy?"

Art Guy sinks into his chair and wishes he were on the other side of the world.

"What did you say," says the stranger.
"Just, Ireland is so far from Egypt, how do you figure that would work?" says Gus.

Art Guy interjects before Gus has a chance to lose his front row of teeth:

"I'm sorry, we're just on vacation, we didn't realize this was a medievalist's bar."

The stranger is silent and returns to gulping mug after mug of water as if it was indeed heavy stuff. At long last she speaks again,

"And you, skinny man in jeans? Do you know anything about the import of Coptic imagery into the monastic art of Ireland?"

Our hero feels about two feet tall.

"Well, I study more late medieval."

"So you are a medievalist."

"Well, yes."

She rolls her eyes. "Do you know anything about Coptic art and Ireland?"

"No."

"There's a well-known import of ideas between the Coptic monastic communites and the Irish monks. They were some of the most clever monks ever known to art history. But I'm not going to bore you with the art if you're not familiar with it. It just sounded like the two of you were having a discussion about Coptic art and the medieval west, and I happen to know a thing or two, that is all. Tell your non-medievalist friend that it was insightful of him to pick up on that at the Coptic musem."

The three of them sit at the bar in a chilling silence known only to Khufu's tomb.

The stranger again breaks the ice. "My name is F.B. Irish."

"Dr. Irish, I'm Art Guy in Jeans."

"I can see that."

"No, that's actually my name, not just my descriptor."

"And who's Mr. Coptic?"

"That's Gus."

"Hi!" says Gus.

The three of them begin to get along.

"Cyril Mango was sitting here before you got here," says Art Guy.
"I could take him or leave him," says Irish.
"Hey, we're travelling through Byzantium," says Gus. "Do you have any idea what we could do for fun there?"
"Where specifically?" says Irish.
"Cyprus," say Art Guy and Gus.

Suddenly Irish grabs the two of them by the shoulders and shakes them and pulls them into a huddle. Our hero and his trusted companion are terrified.

"I need you to do something for me," says Irish.
"Shoot!" says Gus.
Art Guy's head is swarming with warnings from Byzantine curators across the world not to get involved in mafia-headed archaeological schemes in the medieval East.

"I need you to investigate a Last Judgment cycle," she says.
Art Guy says, "Why do you need us to do that? I hate to say it, but we're trying to take our first vacation in years."
She says, "They won't let me near it after last time. There's a restraining order. They had these lights shining on it that were clearly damaging the wall paint, so me and my buddies got together and destroyed all the light apparati with crowbars. Now they won't let me back to the site. I need you two to write a clear description of the scene. It's the only chance I have to incorporate this site into my studies. I'll pay you handsomely in sterling."

"Would you like me to take a try at the iconography?" says our hero.

"No thanks," says Irish.

"So, just a description and some photos?"

"Yep."

Our hero turns to Gus.

"I'm in, Mr. Guy! This is exciting. I feel like I'm in an Indiana Jones movie."

"Take it back," says Art Guy.

F.B. Irish pulls out a disposable exhibition catalogue and carves a map on the back cover with a swiss army knife. "Now, look. I just want a description. Every figure, every movement, every gesture. If you're not clear on who it is, don't guess. Just take a photo. I should be able to figure it out. Okay? Lucid description. No crazy theories, none of this 'overpaint makes it difficult to surmise the intentions of the original artist' crap. This'll look good on a C.V."

"Thanks," says our hero with transparent exuberance.

"Meet me back in this bar in exactly two weeks time. That's the only time I plan to be in the vicinity of this dry bar," says Irish.

"Got it." Art Guy and Gus head for the door.

"Hey," says Irish.

They turn back.

"This is really what my career needs," she says. "God bless the two of you."

They smile and salute.

"Can we take flash pictures?" says Gus off-hand.

The Byzantinist's expression changes. She looks Gus dead in the eye and pats the distinct shape of a crowbar under her burqa. "See you in two weeks."

--- to be continued...

The Curious Case of Less is More

"Mr. Guy!" says Gus, shaking our hero from a deep Ovidian dream involving Gothic decorative elements.

It is 11:00 A.M. and we find Art Guy and Gus lodging in a dingy hotel in central London. Art Guy puts on his glasses and sits up, feeling especially excited for his latest archaeological contract.

"Have you heard about the new exhibition at Tate Modern? We have to go, it's the last day. Can we can do that before excavating Purbeck marble shards from the crypt of St. Etheldreda's?"

"Not sure we have time Gus, those shards won't wait for us if someone beats us to them."

But the look on Gus's face instills our hero with regret.

"Okay, I'll just catch it next year," says Gus.

"Gus, in the Tate Modern the exhibitions change by the year," says Art Guy. "You'll never be able to see it again if we don't go today. We're in London; let's have a little fun."

When the fearsome duo step out of the rain and shake out their umbrellas - Art Guy with a black standard model and Gus sporting one decorated with inverted details of Van Gogh's Sunflowers - they pause for a breath before moving to the Turbine hall of the Tate Modern. Once there they survey the exhibition space.

"How interesting," says Gus.

"Gus, are you sure the exhibition hasn't already moved out?" says Art Guy.

The Turbine Hall is utterly empty. They walk aimlessly through the space, Gus with raised eyebrows watching Art Guy, Art Guy surveying the architecture. A security guard walks up behind the team and says, "Less is more," with an inflection on the word 'more' that denotes irony.

"How many times have you said that to someone today?" says Art Guy to the security guard.

"About a hundred or so. This is the 'less is more,' exhibition, so I'm supposed to say it to everyone."

Art Guy says, "What exhibition? All I see is an empty turbine. And if there's an exhibition there would be a wall text explaining it rather than a hired guard, don't you know anything?"

"There's no culturing some people. Good day sir," says the guard. He walks off.

"What's with that guy?" says Art Guy.

"It's an exhibition of nothing, don't you see?" says Gus.

Art Guy looks around, sighs, and rubs his eyes.

"No wall text needed. Materials: nothing. Artist: nobody. Acquisition date: never. Why? Because less is more. It's the ultimate in less."

Art Guy says, "Great. Are we done here?"

Gus, looks around, "Let me take it in for a little while longer..."

---

The next day, Art Guy waits by the phone for what can only be a momentous phone-call. Finally, the archaeological supervisor of Ely Cathedral rings.

"I found the shards," says our hero heroically.

"Which one?" says the curator.

"All ten. We should be able to put Etheldreda's ankle back together and at least be able to diagram out the engraving of the later casket."

"That's fine," says the archaeologist. "Are any of the shards in a particularly interesting shape?"

"What do you mean? They're all kind of pointy. If that was my cue to say a crude joke I missed it because I'm an art history scholar and don't have those skills."

"We're looking for something Matisse-esque. There's a big new wave of exhibitions coming out with the 'less is more' tagline. We want to compete with the sensational new Tate Modern exhibition."

"But you're a Gothic cathedral, what are you going to do with a Matisse-shaped shard?"

"Probably present it in a glass box in the Lady Chapel, where we're planning to hold our new exhibition - 'Empty Ely: less is more.' We're thinking of moving out all the sculpture, it's a little overwhelming don't you think?"

"Wait, don't you think this is a rare opportunity to show a 'gesamtkunstwerk?'"

"If that's a type of polygon, not so much. Do you have anything curvy and squiggly? If you don't, we're probably best off putting up nothing at all during the exhibition - that really would be 'more,' if you know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't..."

"Say no 'less,' Mr. Guy. Say no 'less.' Thanks for your help!"

And with that the Ely archaelogical curator hangs up.

"Hey Gus," says Art Guy.

"Yeah?"

"Let's go to a pub."

---

"Is less really more, Gus?" says our hero five drinks later.

"I suppose not: why would they call it more if it was less, and why would they call less more if it was more? Shouldn't they just call it what it is? What a conspiracy. Hey Mr. Guy, what did you think of that Tate exhibition?"

"Vasari used to praise paintings for multitudes of figures and scenes, and whenever in a Renaissance contract you saw the words, 'multiple figures,' it was always followed by, 'in the most beautiful fashion.' Yet those paintings have been broken down into their individual scenes and bought up by people who hunger to look at less. We've made a fetish out of it."

"Whoa, keep your fetishes to yourself buddy," says Gus. He turns across the bar and says, "Another round!"

"The worst part of it though is that I can't say I disagree. Have I been socialized into preferring still-lives with three pots rather than seven?" says Art Guy.

"Less is more needs to be qualified," says Gus. "Less is more, except with booze." The round arrives.

"Giotto knew that less was more," says Art Guy off into space while sipping. "He only showed you the figures you needed to see."

Gus says, "But what about Giotto's Last Judgment. Isn't that a testament to Vasari's favored aesthetic? The monumentality of the moment augmented by multitudes of figures undergoing various punishments, donations, acts of contrition. All wrapping up the tour de force of the entire program, the 'gesamtkunstwerk' if you will, of the Arena Chapel?"

Art Guy perks up. "Yes okay, fair enough, you have a good point Gus. But what about the way that Giotto divides those multitudes into easily identifiable frames? Isn't he successful in pulling the viewer into the individual scenes and out of the gesamtkunstwerk."

The bartender says, "If I hear you lot say that word one more time, I'll get the bouncers over here. I don't want any trouble."

"Frames," says Gus.

"Frames," our hero agrees.

---

"Hey is this the Ely archaeological staff?"

"Indeed, it is. Is this Mr. Guy? I recognize your voice."

"Less is more at the Tate Modern, right? They understood what less could do for an exhibition given its frame. It made me pay attention to the architecture of the space, guiding my interest successfully to the frame of the work. You have a framing that is compatible with a similar exhibition."

"You mean, 'Empty Ely?'"

"Draw attention to the sculptures of the Lady Chapel, so that people can see them in their full splendor. Diagrams aren't going to help them. No one from the middle ages or our age would come to see a diagram of the casket of Etheldreda."

"What should we do with your shards?"

"I don't know. But for the sake of us all, don't remove sculptures from the Lady Chapel. Frame them with this 'less is more' thing or whatever you want to call it. Or better yet, draw attention to them as the frame."

"Have you been drinking, Mr. Guy?"

"With a brilliant scholar named Gus."

And the archaeological institute hangs up the phone.

Art Guy looks over at Gus.

"How's your wife these days, Gus?"

"Doing well. I got her to watch those great Sister Wendy episodes explaining the Arena Chapel."

Our hero stares blankly across the suite.

"Want to watch an artist biopic?" says Gus.

"Yeah, just a moment though." Our hero shuffles through his Etheldreda shards and picks up the phone.

"Hey, Ely Cathedral? It's me again. I've got a real squiggly one for you."

The Courtauld Insitute of Art, an Art Guy update

Well this art guy in jeans is sitting here at the Courtauld Insitute of Art, still persisting in wearing jeans to class.

The scholars around me are truly amazing. Let's do a person-by-person account, I will go for the style of James Bond MI6 files. Their names have been idealized for the sake of personal protection and privacy.

Foxy Byzwiz Irish: This early medieval expert can drink 23 pints of the heavy stuff, construct an interpretation of its taste using Biblical hermeneutics, ramble her way into an animated recital and reenactment of Revelation, and then rattle off the saints depicted in San Marco without a single hicup.

Printgirl McDrinks-a-ton: Can frankly drink Ms. Irish under the table and wears prints instead of pants. She once chopped a self portrait of Durer in half and then successfully argued that the code in the painting instructed her to do so. She is Scottish.

Hates Italy dude: I don't know what his problem is, but he's brilliant nonetheless. Knows more languages than Hepburn in Roman Holiday and has a better tea set.

Victoria 2.0, demolitions expert: Let me explain. She started the London fire of the 1660's and now seeks to take the world of Victorian and pre-Victorian replacement churches by storm. What a rockstar.

Fiddlin' Ginevre: Don't be fooled by her resemblance to Ginevre de Benci, she's not actually an oil painting from c. 1500! She's a fiddle expert, a fearless book explorer, and a savage medievalist. As such, she's best friends with fierce crusader and Cictercian abbot, Bernard of Clairvaux. They went on crusade together.

Maid of Manhattan: Faster than a speeding London motorbike and can make giant leaps from the Etruscan period to the 12th century in a single bound. By day, stylish art historian with an eye for perfect form. By night, stylish art historian with an eye for perfect form.

Loose-cannon-likes-to-steal-people's-stuff: The name kind of says it all. She won't let you say a word about your appreciation of art without condemning you as a filthy fetishist. Then she grins and cackles, explains that art history has been a social investigation since 1970, then lights a pipe with a Bic lighter that you swear belongs to you.

Hardcore art girl and assassin: It's told that an artist once tried to stifle eroticism in the contemporary art scene. He was on his way back from Tate Modern one day, crossing Waterloo bridge, when a figure dressed entirely in black, and I believe wearing comfortable, low heels and a bow in her hair, assassinated him. Hardcore art girl and assassin had been hiding under the bridge before she evoked Giulio Romano's "Modi" by driving a long sharp object into the hollow depths of his conservative mind. Then she strung him up so that he would catch on a passing barge and anyone on the Thames would see the conquest of sexuality in art. She also kept one of his ears.

The Conclusion to Death of General Wolfe and New Rants

Well if you're still scratching your head about why the NGA and the Met and National Gallery of Canada had all replaced their permanent collections with the Death of General Wolfe by Benjamin West, I will now explain to you how this happened.

Just kidding. There can be no explanation. But perhaps the question is, would we want this to have transpired? What if, just for a month, all the galleries in the world displayed Benjamin West's Death of General Wolfe and touted it as the greatest painting of all time?

What's your favorite painting? Would you want replicas of it hung in every museum in the world? Come on, sure you would.

This is why I now present to you my favorite works of art ever:

Lamasu
Head of Christ, Mt. Sinai
Muirdeach's Cross, Monasterboice
Coppo di Marcovaldo - Madonna del Bordone
Giovanni Pisano - Pistoia Pulpit
Duccio - Maesta
Orcagna - Strozzi Altarpiece
Francesco Traini (?) - Triumph of Death
Diego Velasquez - Las Meninas
Dante Gabriel Rossetti - Annunciation

The West Phenomenon (part 2)

"It's a bird,
It's a plane.
No! It's the Death of General Wolfe.
The Met Celebrates 238 years of Death of General Wolfe month."

The words are written on the ad banners across the Metropolitan Museum's late neoclassical facade. In fine print it continues, "See 3,200 replicas of the Death of General Wolfe, in order of accession number."

"I'm not going in there," says our hero.

"Come on, don't tell me you're not a Benjamin West fan," says Gus.

"Gus...I'm not a Benjamin West fan."

Gus seems not to hear, and he romps his way up the steps into the museum.
As promised, nothing but replicas of Benjamin West's 1771 Death of General Wolfe replace every item of the Met's permanent collection, even the Temple of Dendur. There's even a special exhibition, "Death of General Wolfe on the Roof." Throughout the museum, tourists stand in front of one Death of General Wolfe replica, put their hand on their chin, and then glide over to the next one and nod.

"What does this one say to you?" says Gus in front of the Death of General Wolfe replica that has replaced David's Death of Socrates.

"I'm General Wolfe, and I'm dying," says Art Guy.

"But what does it SAY to you?"

"I'm controversial in that I'm not wearing a toga, as is common in contemporaneous American history paintings."

"You're such a nerd. What does it SAY to you?"

"It says, save me, why am I on every wall of the Met and the NGA? What's going on here!" Our hero starts to fly off the handle.

"Calm down, buddy," says Gus.

Two streets over they're eating a couple Grey's Papaya franks and trying to figure things out.

"Gus, the National Gallery and the Met have replaced their entire permanent collections with replicas of the Death of General Wolfe, under the pretense that it's the greatest painting in the world. I just don't understand," says Art Guy.

"Yeah that's kind of weird."

"The worst part is, no one seems to realize that there's something wrong. It's like no one remembers what the old permanent collections were like."

"It wasn't always like this?" says Gus.

"No, the Met has Sargent's Madame X, Duccio's Stoclet Madonna, Campin's Merode Altarpiece!"

"Oh man, this Death of General Wolfe month is turning into a real bummer," says Gus.

"What's Death of General Wolfe month!? Nevermind, we've got to get to the bottom of this, and there's only one thing to do," says Art Guy.

"What's that?"

"Go to Ottowa."

About two days later, they step out of the car and enter the National Gallery of Canada in Ottowa. This museum, too, is holding a special Death of General Wolfe exhibition of replicas. But it is also the museum that holds the original Death of General Wolfe. But as Art Guy and Gus enter the room of the original painting, it is filled to the brim by a roudy mob of tourists, the likes of which Art Guy has never seen, either in the Sistine Chapel or in front of the Mona Lisa.

They step out for a second.

"Mr. Guy, those tourists are too roudy and pushy, we'll never get in to see that painting," says Gus.

"It's okay, I only wanted to make sure it was here," says Art Guy, "and not on tour to the highest bidder. The only question is, where the hell did all these replicas come from?"

"Over here," says a strange-looking old guy. "I've got your answer, Art Guy in Jeans."

"How did you know my name," says Art Guy.

"I don't, you're just an art guy wearing jeans. What do you mean, is that your name?"

"Who are you?" says Gus.

"I'm Jonathan Brit, a member of the Benjamin West replica guild. Come with me."

Jonathan drives them deep into the Canadian wilderness, and stops at an enormous barn. As they enter, Art Guy is overwhelmed by a workshop of hundreds of painters. From the ceiling and the walls hang thousands of oil replicas of the Death of General Wolfe.

"Jonathan," says Art Guy, "I don't know who you are, but I think I need to ask you some questions."

To be continued...

The West Phenomenon (part 1)

Today we find our hero on his usual walk through the National Gallery's permanent collection. But something's not right.

"Excuse me," Art Guy says to a security guard.

"Quiet down, don't you know this is an art museum?"

"I'm sorry, I was not aware - um, I had a question."

The guard raises his eyebrows.

"Well I've been here before," says our hero, "but I think that in the past, the collection was different."

The guard's eyebrows hold fast to their raised position.

"In the past, I could have sworn that there weren't copies of the Death of General Wolfe throughout the entire museum. I remember seeing all sorts of paintings by Giotto and Leonardo and Vermeer and Monet..."

The guard sighs. "It's Death of General Wolfe month; the museum is paying special tribute to the Death of General Wolfe because they have found that the Death of General Wolfe is the greatest painting in the world, and since this is an art museum, they want to honor it."

"Oh...um...wait, really?"

"Yes. That is why they made me dress in this ridiculous uniform."

"I see," Art Guy now notices that the guard is dressed as General Wolfe.

Art Guy in Jeans continues through the museum, only to find about 1,500 images of the Death of General Wolfe, all as life-sized oil paintings. He books it to the East building. Instead of Calder's giant mobile, another oil replica of the Death of General Wolfe hangs from the ceiling of the main hall. The exhibition space on the Mezzanine features nothing but copies of the oversized history painting. Here our hero finds a clue.

The wall text for the exhibition reads: "A Tribute to The Death of General Wolfe: It is well recognized that Benjamin West's The Death of General Wolfe is the best painting on the face of the earth, and since the National Gallery of Art is, after all, an art museum, it is only fitting that we hang 1,500 replicas of West's masterpiece in the museum for the duration of The Death of General Wolfe month."

-------

"Gus," Art Guy whispers into his cellphone.

"Mr. Guy! It's been so long since you've called me," says Gus.

"I can't talk for long, I've got a real mystery on my hands, I need your help, I don't have people skills."

"Ah, calm down Mr. Guy, I'm sure everything's alright, what's troubling you? Is it a girl?"

"No! Um, I'll describe it to you in person, where are you?"

"I'm in New York. You should come up here for a few days and unwind."

"Unwind in New York?"

"Sure, we can talk things out at the Met,"

"Okay, that sounds good." Having just stepped outside, Art Guy finally feels some sense of relief. Gus and he were long time buddies, and ever since a little investigation in North Carolina involving a Brutalist library, they had hit it off as co-art sleuths. A few days in New York with Gus is just what our hero is looking for.

"Oh and the Met's bringing in this great new exhibition," says Gus. "Something to do with Benjamin West. You probably know him better than I."

To be continued....

Fielding questions: Why does baby Jesus look like an old man?

I'll go ahead on this one because I get it a lot. But then again, a lot of the people who ask this question can't be looking for an answer. If they had an answer they couldn't keep asking this funny question. If you're one of those who asks this question often, believe me I won't be offended if you keep asking it for its comic value.

Why does baby Jesus look like an old man?

Understanding the answer to this question requires a leap of faith: medieval artists were smart people. They were skilled at this facet of art called iconography. There is meaning behind medieval paintings. A lot of it goes right over our heads because we either cannot read the Latin inscriptions or don't have a priest reading the accompanying passages.

In a typical Madonna and Child image from, say, the thirteenth century, Christ does not look like a newborn infant. In paintings like the Madonna degli Occhi Grossi (you can google it, it comes right up) he might strike some as kind of like an older man. But he's not. He's supposed to be a child. Not necessarily a newborn, just a child. If he was an older Jesus, he would obviously have a beard.

The iconography of this type of painting is to show the intercession of God's word through Mary. By holding Jesus at her midsection, Mary holds the Word in her, and transmits it to us. Therefore it is apt that Christ be a child in these paintings. There's a lot of meaning to the Madonna and child painting, and it has to be painted just so, or else it gets messed up.

It takes a little respect for the theologians and painters of the middle ages to accept that maybe, just maybe, they weren't trying to paint a newborn infant. That came in time, and the first who tried it nailed it: folks like Giovanni Pisano in 1300. Since this is my field, I respect them deeply for their talent and their use of iconography. If you're curious about why the forehead is round, there's a meaning for that too (let me know if you want to hear more about that.)

Here are some myths I've heard about why mevieval painters depicted Christ as a man (which they didn't, I'm telling you, he's a little boy.) Anywho, 1) Only wetnurses got to see the babies, so medieval painters didn't know what babies looked like. 2) They thought Christ was never a baby and that it was a miracle. 3) They really tried to make it look like a baby, but it kept coming out like an old man until Giotto taught everyone how to paint.

Believe me, none of these myths are the answer. Why does baby Jesus look like an old man in medieval painting? Because he doesn't; he actually does look like a child, which is what he's supposed to be, not an old man, and every component of the image of Christ is loaded with meaning in this era.

Summer art questions, lay 'em on me. / modern painters

"Which way's the David?" "Is all this religious art?" "Did Rembrandt go blind at the end of his life?" "Did Rome steal all of Greece's ideas?" "Why does baby Jesus look like an old man?"

It must be summer because people are hitting the museums and putting their fingers right up to the canvases while betraying their perplexity at a greater volume than in previous months this year.

Art Guy is here to field any questions you might have about art. If I don't know the answer off the top of my head, I'll happily dig around and do some research for you. Throw it on the blog or e-mail me, do whatever works for you. I hope you don't mind if I quote your question on the blog anonymously when I publish my response.

Let's start with a question that I get asked a lot. I'm not sure if anyone really wants an answer, but they do ask me a lot, so they have it coming:

'Do modern painters avoid painting representational subject matter because they don't want to, or is it because they can't?'

I can't speak for every modern painter in the world, but I'm sure you would get a myriad of responses if you asked them this question. Don't ask them; they won't help you find your answer. They'll probably make fun of you, through art, which is more enduring than conversation.

My answer-and I've given it a lot of thought-is that it has nothing to do with their ability or lack thereof to paint representational subject matter. The great abstract modern art movements (we're talking early to mid twentieth century here, not contemporary) had bigger fish to fry. To many of them, academic, representational art needed to be taken off its pedestal and put on the shelf for a little while.

But it's not fair to put all abstract modern art under the same umbrella. There were literally thousands of modern abstract art movements, all with their separate coffee shop manifestos and traditions to uproot. For instance, Munich's Blaue Reiter group were exploring expression by means of emotive color. For all the people who stand before Kandinsky's Compositions and claim, 'I could paint that, and I'm not hailed as a great artist,' please note that abstract colorism is no walk in the park. These guys wrote several books on the emotion of tone and color, and it was easy to get it wrong. In a way, these painters were doing the hardest work of their time: they were abandoning local color, which any skilled art student could represent, for a creative universe of emotional color. Kandinsky spent months on his Compositions.

On the other hand, I'm not necessarily saying that every modern abstract painter could paint representational subjects like the old masters. Picasso is often praised for his 'mastery' of the traditional style before he could branch out into abstract art. To this, I pose an important question: at what point does one 'master' the traditional style? I want to dispel the myth of a young Picasso marching around the art market like the next Peter Paul Rubens and getting bored of being perfect. There's more than one traditional style, and to be any traditional artist of note you have to pick a combination of techniques that makes you unique. This was true of Claude Lorrain, David, and Ingres, and holds true of anyone we hold in high regard. I don't know what techniques Picasso 'mastered,' but I can guaruntee you that there were many greater masters of the traditional style, and Picasso distinguished himself with his abstract art. Certainly some modern artists were better at representing life than others, but we will never really know who the best ones were because they didn't care about painting traditional subject matter - it wasn't what they chose to distinguish themselves with.

To those who look at a minimalist painting, and say, "Anyone could paint that," and then turn to a Claude Lorrain and swoon, I need to throw it out there that in the early 20th century, people who could reproduce Claude Lorrain were a dime a dozen. In fact, now you can find them selling thirty copies a day of the same painting on the street outside museums: they are THAT talented as copyists. But plenty of people can do that. The important thing about Claude is he was the FIRST to make that painting, just as Marcel Duchamp was the first to turn a urinal on its side and present it as a work of art.

If any large umbrella-like statement can be made about 20th century abstract art, it might be that it conveyed, rather than represented, emotions and themes. This was a conscious innovation. Sometimes it's hard to understand some of this art: all the more reason to spend time with a particular piece and know it well. Sometimes it's ugly; sometimes it's beautiful. But it always makes you think. So do these artists paint this way because they don't want to paint traditional subject matter or because they can't? My answer, and you'll hear this phrase a lot, is:
I'm not saying they could, but it's not because they couldn't. In simple terms, they were too busy changing the world of art to worry about proving themselves to us.