"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...
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
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....
"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.
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.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
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.
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.
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