Friday, March 13, 2009

Pieces of the Whole: Impressionism, Chuck Close, and My Winter Final



Hello blog readers. Here is my winter term final, on finding a work out in the world that I can see in person, and how that experience went.

I couldn’t figure out where to go. My girlfriend and I drove all around town, looking at local art in small galleries and in coffee shops. I struggled to find some piece of art that spoke to me. I was getting impatient and grumpy. The day had already been stressful. Finding art in Winston Salem was the last thing I wanted to be doing at the time. Almost out of resignation, we drove through the front gates of the Reynolda House to take a look at their art museum. After a stern warning to silence our cell phones, we followed the receptionist’s directions and found ourselves looking at a selection of American Impressionist paintings. Many of them were more interesting than I had expected, and I found myself compelled to look at many of them for a decent amount of time. I started to feel like I had found something that I might be able to write about.

Then I came across Edward Potthast’s painting The Boat Builders, from 1904. This image immediately grabbed my attention because it nearly matched the framing of a picture I took on vacation in Maine a year ago. The location was almost identical as well; based on the content of the painting I immediately recognized it as Maine. Unfortunately I cannot seem to find a reproduction of the painting online, so I cannot show you the painting. But I do have my photograph, which should at least give some sense of the content of Potthast’s painting:

Imagine this same image, pulled back a bit, and with men working on building boats at this same type of launch. Then maybe you can approximate Potthast’s painting in your mind.

We continued to explore the gallery and I left the main part of the museum under the impression that I would be writing about either Potthasts’s The Boat Builders or another piece I enjoyed by Gilford Beal called The Mall - Central Park. (It was strikingly vibrant; from a distance, my mind initially thought it was a photograph). Eventually we made our way out of the gallery space and decided to explore the rest of the house. The house was compelling, but we moved through it fairly quickly until we got upstairs to another small portrait gallery where I discovered the work of Chuck Close hanging on the wall. I suddenly knew what I was going to write about.

I first became familiar with Chuck Close’s work when I saw a documentary on the American composer Philip Glass, who Close famously photographed decades ago. I recognized his work in the documentary as work that I had seen at some point before in my life but I could not quite place where. With a little research I learned the basics of Chuck Close and shortly thereafter forgot about it. Then I saw his work in The Keith Series on display at the Reynolda House.

The Keith Series is a series of six drawings and one study in which Close experiments with how to depict the image. Each one is a different representation of the same image of Keith Hollingworth, a friend of Close’s. I find myself wrapped up in the detail of his work in this series. I especially love one particular version. This version was a contrast to the others because instead of making dark marks on a light background, Close made light marks on a dark background. He used varying amounts of white paint to control the contrast in the image. This immediately drew my attention and I spent more time staring at this version than any of the other six. The contrast was very compelling, making the image appear sharper than the other versions. It also struck me how it might have been difficult to wrap the brain around doing basically an inverse operation from the previous six versions. It is almost as if he had to decide what darkness to take away in order to uncover just enough lightness to make the right image. Now that I think about it, that idea has a lot to do with photography or filmmaking. You let light hit something dark in such a way that it is recorded onto a negative, and the correct image is produced from that negative. So in a way, Close created his own negative, but inversed it so that the image still looked anatomically and physically accurate, with light skin and dark glasses frames and clothing.


This is a reproduction, not the actual piece. I couldn't find the actual piece online.

I think I feel an attachment to Close’s work because of its sense of appreciation of the details. The idea that the tiny pieces add up to the whole is a powerful one to me, especially as a film editor. The meticulous nature of assembly appeals to me. Close combines tiny elements, each specifically constructed in their own right, into a larger piece that has a different meaning than simply the sum of its pieces. It is similar to combining individual scenes, composed of individual shots, into a larger film, which has some kind of thematic idea beyond simply the plot of the narrative.Close started working in portraits in the late 60s and continues to work in portraits today. His work is widely recognized across the globe, and interestingly is the only artist in recent memory to refuse an offer to have his or her work displayed in an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Close suffered a paralyzing spinal aneurysm in 1988 and had to learn a new technique to continue painting in his condition. He developed his style of individual smaller elements composing a whole in therapy. His work in portraits was famous before his injury, but his work since the aneurysm is widely appreciated.


How might I compare it to what we have studied this term? I am struck by how his portraits, because they are so close to the subject, are almost mannerist in style. They exaggerate the features of the face into massive size and scale. His work also demonstrates a specific artistic style, characteristic of mannerist artists.

Finding Close’s work at the Reynolda House was quite a surprise. I have not seen Close’s work in person before, and it was a real treat to see it. I hope I get the opportunity to find his work more often.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Landscapes

Jean Baptiste-Camille Corot's Volterra, 1834

The Order of Things, Disrupted by Wordle



This is the full text of The Order Of Things put through Wordle. The size of the words is relative to the number it times it appears in the text of the piece.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Common Midterm Place







UPDATE 2 (Friday): Pictures are working? They'll be coming up as Blogger allows...

UPDATE: I'm having trouble posting my images. Blogger is refusing to upload anything. I've got the one of First Baptist, but there are more. The writing is complete and does not necessarily need the images to be effective. I'll post the images ASAP. 

 This is my midterm writing. I figured it would fit best into my commonplace book if it had the same somewhat conversational tone as the rest of my posts and which seems to be characteristic of most blogs. Anyways, here it is...

First Baptist Church, Winston Salem


A tower strikes itself skyward, reaching for the air above the trees. At its peak is a cross, two perpendicular lines form the fingers of the hand grasping for heaven. It is perched atop an elaborate stone building, large and imposing. Columns flank the heavy wood doors that form its entrance. This church, capped with its steeple, is a place of Christian worship. It is a place for spirituality and fellowship. Yes, believe it or not, behind this looming structure, through its heavy hardwood doors, people who do not know each other are welcomed one and all to worship the Christian God. In this intimidating and imposing building, people come together in fellowship.

I hate churches. I do not consider myself a religious person and therefore do not find myself in churches very often, but when I do, I feel intimidated and uncomfortable. My discomfort begins even before I am inside the building. The building itself makes me uncomfortable. Why? Well, let’s say I’m driving down the road toward a church. What part of the building will I probably see first? The steeple. It’s a glorified Golden Arches. It’s an elaborate advertisement. A billboard guiding me to whatever services it is hawking. In the same way that a lot of people see a McDonald’s sign and get disgusted (or at least disinterested), I see a cross atop a steeple and want to stay away. So religious or not, the steeple has affected me in some way. I’m driven away from it, and consequently the church. Others are attracted to it. So is that the intention of the steeple? It seems logical. But is it factual? I decided to find out the history (and hopefully in turn, the original intention) of steeples.

Well, first thing’s first. What actually defines a steeple? Turns out, I hadn’t been intimidated by steeples on these churches, but spires, which sit atop steeples. The American Heritage Dictionary clarifies that a steeple is “a tall tower forming the superstructure of a building, such as a church or temple, and usually surmounted by a spire.” So it would seem that the spire is what everyone sees from off in the distance. The steeple is the structure that holds it up. Interestingly, steeples often had a functional purpose as well. The tapered pyramid shape of a spire/steeple combination was the optimum structure to hold the weight of the hanging church bells.

Steeples originated from a combination of elements. First was practical. In feudal European society, churches were often the center of towns. Bells were used to communicate to the town for services or to warn of danger. In addition, the public buildings in these towns were often fortified in case of attack. The needs for a place to hang bells for communication and for a fortified tower worked symbiotically, and the steeple was born. Second was aesthetic. The Roman Catholics embraced the architecture of upward-facing steeples to inspire worshippers and make them feel a sense of awe. With the development of Gothic architecture, sharp points became an element of architectural design, and the spires of church steeples fit right in with that aesthetic.

Strasbourg: characteristic for only having one steeple
at a time when Northern European churches had two.

Eventually this steeple style evolved, finding new footing in London in the 1600s when two churches were remodeled after the devastation of the Great Fire of London in 1666. It was at this point that the steeple became a fundamental part of church construction. With the settling of America, European immigrants that were fleeing religious oppression initially balked at the idea of grandiose churches with elaborate architecture, especially steeples. Early American churches are simple buildings built simply as meeting places. But with the influx of more immigrants from various economic and religious backgrounds, ornamental architecture in churches found its way to the new continent. Now steeples reach for the sky all across North America. There are a decent number of them in Winston-Salem.


I was most interested in one particular church in Winston-Salem, and I sought it out first. The First Baptist Church on 5th Street downtown is an imposing structure, much larger than I had expected. I drive past it occasionally and never really took the time to concentrate on it and analyze it. But with spending time thinking about it, the church is actually quite large, comprising multiple connected buildings. It was no wonder to me then that I felt uncomfortable as I approached the church. It’s not particularly welcoming. The façade of the building feels more like some kind of Roman municipal building than a warm and inviting place of worship. The Corinthian columns at the entrance stand atop sharp stone stairs and flank a heavy, dark, and large wooden door.

I also photographed two other churches in Winston-Salem which were quite different from the First Baptist Church. The Reynolda Presbyterian Church and St. Paul’s Episcopal were both notable in their design. Reynolda Presbyterian is somewhat traditional, with stained glass windows in the sanctuary and a spire perched atop a steeple. But something about the design of the building is more comfortable than the Baptist church. I still feel uncomfortable around the building, but it is definitely less intimidating. In contrast, St. Paul’s Episcopal has no spire, but it does have a large steeple. The construction style of the church makes it appear more as a fortress atop a hill than a place of warm fellowship and community. However, I was struck by the stone construction. The stones are natural; they’re elements of the world around us. They make me think of Mother Nature. Consequently the church blends in more to the natural surroundings. The landscaping of the land around the church helps to amplify this illusion. It makes this chuch feel much more welcoming than the cold and stoic design of the uniformly plain marble on the First Baptist Church.

Should I ever feel the desire to worship in a religious building of some kind, I have a feeling that I will steer clear of a building like the First Baptist Church on 5th Street in downtown Winston-Salem. I like the more casual appeal of the Reynolda Presbyterian Church, but I also like the stone construction of St. Paul’s Episcopal. However, the design of churches in general is discomforting to me. In researching the history of the steeple and the spire, I learned a lot about why churches were designed the way they were. It seems logical that a religious body based around one deity would want to inspire some sense of emotion in worshippers, and the Christian church has always clung to the idea of awe and wonder in association with their deity. Therefore their churches were designed to make worshippers feel such things. In my mind, however, I cannot help but think that the “awe” these structures were intended to inspire in worshippers runs parallel to the intimidation felt by enemies of the church or of other religions. I see this idea every time I see a church. An ideal worship space would have to be much more open and welcoming in its design. No intention of intimidation should ever have been contemplated during its design and construction. Unfortunately this intention seems to have been the case in the past for Christian churches, and it has permeated the design of Christian worship spaces for centuries.


I am indebted to a couple of sources for research on this posting/midterm. I found a rather fantastic article on the history of steeples, but unfortunately the website does not list an author so I do not know who wrote it. Also, wikipedia was a great source of background knowledge and a great jumping-off point for further exploration. 

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Giotto's "Lamentation", In-Class Writing


Giotto, Lamentation, Fresco in Scrovegni Chapel, Padua, 1304

A dark, brooding sky. A barren land, rocky, with little apparent plant life. A man is fallen to the ground, clad only in a cloth around his waist. He is wounded, his feet and hands bleeding. People surround him, tending to him, calming him, reassuring him, easing him. One woman tends to his feet, holding them. Another two women hold one wrist each. A fourth woman holds this man's shoulders up off of the ground, and a fifth woman keeps his head upright. His eyes are closed. Is he dead? There is little sign of life in him other than the attention he receives from these people. Two men stand back observing, discussing, as three other women react with anguish and pain. A crowd is gathering in the distance. Obviously this man is of some importance to the people who are trying so hard to make him comfortable. Their attention to him makes one wonder if they are doing it out of concern for him or out of concern for how they themselves will exist without him. Floating above, in various states of lamentation and observation are ten angels, their wings keeping them aloft. Some weep, some stare. All watch and wait. But one pressing question...why do only some who attend to this man's pain and suffering have halos? Who is determining which individual gets a halo? Is it the artist, Giotto, or is he working from the ideas of another? Is he depicting, or interpreting?

Art of Conflict


Some of the most powerful art in the world comes out of conflict. The Bayeux Tapestry is one such piece. I think this comes from a natural human instinct to report, record, and retell powerful and important moments to as many people as possible. It is easy to find inspiration to create such works, as conflict finds us every day everywhere. 

Consider the power of photography in war, especially since Vietnam. Vietnam was described as the first televised war, but that broadcast contained some images that could be considered art. Cameras were constantly shooting, capturing some of the most brutal moments of war. Those images spread across the world, and Vietnam is now known as a devastatingly brutal war, difficult to wage and difficult to endure.



What about WWII? I remember being taught about World War II in high school history classes, and even in some of my college history courses, and it was always regarded with some element of reverence, as if it were a noble war. Not to suggest that WWII or any of the soldiers fighting in it were anything less than heroes, but why might there be a more general understanding of WWII as noble and heroic than Vietnam. Obviously political differences have a lot to do with the perceptions of these wars. But I think that it also has something to do with media and art. Compare the image above, one of the most famous and important images of Vietnam, with the image below, one of the most important images of World War II, and think about how each one makes you feel.



This is especially present in my mind in regards to the riots in Oakland of the past few weeks. On New Years Day, an Oakland man was shot and killed by a BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) police officer. The man was being arrested, and was clearly laying flat on his stomach with his hands in plain view when he was shot in the back. Multiple cell phone cameras captured what's being described by some as an execution and the video of the event has been widely circulated on the internet. Riots have broken out in Oakland. I've been watching a lot of Bay Area photographers on flickr, especially Thomas Hawk, and some very powerful shots are being taken, capturing very well the tension that hangs in the air in the Bay Area right now.



Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Assignment for Jan 15

Myths of Perfect Circles...

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Mars Edit

So I tried to use an external blog editor called MarsEdit to edit this blog recently. It didn't work as well as I had hoped and so I lost some stuff I had. Hopefully I can save it...I know it's in the program somewhere.

If anyone knows of a good (and powerful) blog editor application for Mac, please let me know...

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Assignments 1 & 2


I tend to be a bit skeptical of organized religions, especially global entities such as Christianity. I respect and tolerate the belief of others (to an extent) but I do not wish to call myself a believer in God. I don't feel particularly comfortable in churches and cathedrals. I find them intimidating and oppressive. But perhaps that is the point.

Medieval churches and cathedrals seem to have been designed to impress and awe their patrons. Their design and construction is a testament to the power and glory of God, and consequently they are quite powerful structures. Therefore it's probably intentional that I, as a non-believer, find them intimidating. What better way to control the masses than with an elaborate, beautiful structure built by the grace of God? What better way to show everyone, including your enemies, that your religion is best than a place of worship that is bigger and better than the other guy's?
My skepticism of organized religion leads me to believe in some less-than-positive concepts regarding churches. My apologies for any offense... 

Design is powerful. The architects of these places of worship knew this. They also knew that design can be functional. The church is designed to awe the churchgoer at every turn and convince them bit by bit of the power of God. You might think that pulpits are elevated to make it easier for churchgoers to see the priest. It also conveniently places them higher than the constituents of the church, and places them closer to God. Cathedrals are purpose-built.

So let's say I want to design my own worship space. First, I would need to determine my purpose. How do I want patrons to feel? How do I want to engage them? How do I want them to interface with whatever is being presented to them? What is the content they are receiving, and how do I want them to receive it? How do I want them to interface with each other, if at all? Personally, if I were designing my own worship space for my own self-designed religion, I would want to encourage openness and a sense of community. I want "worshippers" to communicate with each other and interact with each other, to share ideas and thoughts and feelings, and hopefully to influence each other and prompt them to search deep for inspirations. Consequently, a large open space where everyone mingles would be important. This is a trait common with most worship spaces, but mine is based on togetherness and forced interaction rather than on delivering a message of worship simultaneously to a mass of people. So no pews. No seats. Only a floor, maybe cushions spread around. 

I think I'd be taking a page out of Pixar's book and designing a space similar to their building in Emeryville, CA. The building is designed with a large open atrium at its center. The building's only bathrooms and eating areas are attached to the atrium, and this is intended to create opportunities for spontaneous meet-ups between people from different departments, hopefully occasionally sparking some new element of creativity. This kind of mentality, beyond simply helping Pixar with its creativity, does a lot to make better people. The free-flowing exchange of ideas is something that is very important to me, and perhaps even we could consider that a fundamental tenet of this "religion" for which I'm designing a worship space.


How do I get multiple images to appear in a post, and how do I move them around? I'd rather have had the Pixar image after the paragraph above...

Thursday, January 8, 2009

First Blog












I really like the idea of this commonplace book...a place to collect my thoughts and ideas and respond to questions and assignments from class. I think it's a great idea and a fantastic way to encourage us as students to develop the incredibly beneficial habit of writing down and cataloging our ideas. I like it enough to really want to do this on my own without a specific through-line of art history. (We'll see if that works out...) Not that I find the assigned topic of art history (at least, an extension of our art history class) to be a burden. In fact, I've always wanted to start a place where I can catalog my ideas (especially a blog) but it would seem that my internal motivations for such a project periodically fade and nothing ever really develops to fruition. 


So hopefully this will work out, and I can include a few things that don't necessarily specifically relate to class, but at least to art and the concept of art in general. 


PS I love this picture, and this photographer. Thomas Hawk, based in San Francisco. Found his work on flickr. I love flickr. So easy to get lost there for hours...