Ora sono ubriaco d'universo. (Ungaretti)

Tag: art (page 1 of 4)

Maiko Shioda, “let me dream”

With thanks to Mark Alonzo and Coco Rico

Sharing one’s dreams is very risky.  It could be interpreted as an act of incredible shamelessness or bravery. Maiko Shioda’s reflections on her dreams are vulnerable and searching. They’re an invitation to reconstruct pointed pains and doubts, acknowledging how we’ve grown. They come towards the viewer, encompassing him or her; the web weaved has a tender strength.

Artist: Maiko Shioda. From her MFA exhibition "let me dream" (2014). Photo credit: Mark Alonzo

Artist: Maiko Shioda. From her MFA exhibition “let me dream” (2014). Photo credit: Mark Alonzo

Shioda uses her gallery space as a dreamscape. A dark forest composed of black sheer fabric, forming a path one can walk through, haunted by black bows resembling flying, nocturnal creatures. She uses it as a shop: gloves and mask and cards encased as if they would be in a curio shop. A museum: a dress stained, as if by blood, inviting confrontation. Everyday experience, purposely overloaded with meaning.

Artist: Maiko Shioda. From her MFA exhibition "let me dream" (2014). Photo credit: Mark Alonzo

Artist: Maiko Shioda. From her MFA exhibition “let me dream” (2014). Photo credit: Mark Alonzo

Her drawings on the walls attempt to see how we got here. They toy with narrative. A section she declares about forgiving and forgetting startles most – it may be a beginning. A snake-like head has features that resemble a dress. Another drawing features the same dress with what seem to be two snake heads emerging. The dress has legs and arms; it moves meekly and confusedly toward a picnic basket. It looks like there is an identification of the self with both snakes and mice. Later, a series showing a girl wandering through an ocean of hair. She both witnesses and dissolves into that ocean. A mouse that appears upon it is eaten by a snake. A “final” series shows a hand emerging, desperately reaching toward an overwhelming moss. The letters “grot” – a snide remark about growth and rot? – sit in a fabric flower beside it. A snake in a dress, crying, tearing apart a dress full of hair concludes.

Artist: Maiko Shioda. From her MFA exhibition "let me dream" (2014). Photo credit: Mark Alonzo

Artist: Maiko Shioda. From her MFA exhibition “let me dream” (2014). Photo credit: Mark Alonzo

The overwhelming feeling is of literally tearing oneself apart, but Shioda ends on what I think is a hopeful note. If I’m right about a narrative sequence, it seems the artifacts emerge from the drawings. The drawings are simply in pencil. But the stained dress shows color and a form that is not a mere representation like the drawings before. The color of the gloves and mask is lavender, a flowering of sorts.

Maiko Shioda’s “let me dream” can be seen at the Irving Arts Center in Irving, TX from Mar 08- Apr 06, 2014. Website with venue infornation,

George Romney, “Young Man with a Flute”

George Romney, "Young Man with a Flute" (c. 1760-1770). Viewable at the Dallas Museum of Art

George Romney, “Young Man with a Flute” (c. 1760-1770). Viewable at the Dallas Museum of Art

The cutest and saddest thing happened while I was staring at this. Some little girl was being led by her Dad past this painting. She slowed a bit and attempted to read the caption – got the name “George” said correctly, but struggled with “Romney.” Dad dragged her past and put her in front of another painting, which he proceeded to explain badly on two counts. First, given the girl’s age, his terrible criticism was over her head. Second, his terrible criticism. The girl would have been better off with a coloring book in the parking lot as opposed to being forcefed culture by someone who barely had any.

Anyway. There are a lot of painterly, technical virtues to the above painting. The texture of the wood on the flute and surface; the use of brown generally; the embellishment on the gold; the precision of the cuff; the folds on the coat and the quiet illumination of one side of the painting. I think the curators said this was an early Romney, and I’d guess that showing off a mastery of technique was crucial to getting more patrons.

Is there a theme? I’m not sure. It might be that the kid was accidentally captured a bit insecure, a bit overwhelmed by everything. His pose is more awkward than thoughtful – look at how his hand doesn’t really rest on his chin, how his gaze is that of trying to be relaxed. I’d imagine the boy’s mom said “omg you look so cute this is the best picture ever,” pinched his cheeks, put it in the dining room to be seen every day. But maybe this is a portrait of someone who really could do without the artifice, without the expectations, doing something else entirely.

Coco Rico, “Te Cantare Mis Recuerdos” (I Will Sing You My Memories)

The best art comes from the heart. Coco isn’t shy about saying “this is what I meant” when talking about her work. It’s not because she has an answer no one else has. Rather, just as books belong to their readers, art belongs to its audience, and she’s more than willing to be part of a larger conversation.

That conversation started in her recent exhibition Te Cantare Mis Recuerdos (I Will Sing You My Memories) a peculiar way. Her works are small, iconic windows into life as remembered. Their miniature size made the gallery’s whiteness, brightness, cleanliness loom large. It was a perfectly appropriate accent for recollections ranging from nostalgic to wistful, centered on family, growth, and loss.

I don’t want to say too much about the religious imagery and quiet spirituality attending these works. After all, Coco has said of Supersticion I that it concerns the idea of getting warts in your eyes if you watch a dog poop:

Supersticion I

Coco Rico, “Supersticion I.” Photo credit: Mark Alonzo.

Supersticion I reminded me of the Masonic imagery on a dollar bill. Something about it is elegant, creepy, fundamental – and yet it focuses on what might be considered silly and childlike. A bit more adolescent is Supersticion III. Yeah, it is inspired by the idea of not cutting a baby’s hair before it ages one year. But it also seems to speak about changing our appearance to fit the time. You can’t really see it below, but some of the hairlike threads are words. It’s like we cut our own thoughts depending on the phases of the moon, all while the clock ticks:

Supersticion III

Coco Rico, “Supersticion III.” Photo credit: Mark Alonzo.

Two works about her mother really hit home, no pun intended. Vestida Por Mi Ama (Getting dressed by Mom) reminded me of my own experiences. Mom wanted to sew everything I wore. I get the feeling that for Coco, every attendance at a school dance felt weighted with the traditions of one’s homeland, the sweat and blood of one’s Mother. Too much to wear, but a beautiful machine:

Coco Rico, "Vestida Por Mi Ama"

Coco Rico, “Vestida Por Mi Ama.” Photo credit: Mark Alonzo.

Finally, a thought on what it means to be a parent, La Independencia De Mi Ama:

Coco Rico, "La Independencia De Mi Ama"

Coco Rico, “La Independencia De Mi Ama.” Photo credit: Mark Alonzo.

The feather and branch are stark; one creates something which has to be let go. All that’s left is debris of a sort, but it is quietly beautiful. Someone else’s potential is your sacrifice; what that means is your imagination.

On the Etruscan Pair of shields with head of Acheloos, on view at the Dallas Museum of Art

Art discussed in this post:

Pair of shields with head of Acheloos. Bronze. Etruscan, 6th c. BC. Lent by the Republic of Italy to the DMA: 135.2012.5-6

You can view the art here: Pair of shields with head of Acheloos

These shields were found in Etruscan tombs. On the one hand, it makes sense that a river god like Acheloos would be invoked in the tomb. As water gives life in this world, it can symbolize whatever life one could have after death. But water also speaks to malleability, change, and terror. Death’s finality is a weird, terrible thing that maybe only a god can truly see.

On that note, I wondered about the story of Hercules and Acheloos, which the curators used to introduce these shields. They fought over a woman; Acheloos, as the river, changed his shape to become a bull. His horn was broken off by Hercules and he was beaten. In order to get it back, he gave Hercules another “magic horn” (the curators’ words). Hercules took that other horn, gave it away, and it became the cornucopia.

I really don’t like that last part, that the magic horn became the cornucopia. That detail, for me, wrecks the story. What I asked myself while looking at these shields: did the story of the fighting inspire piety for Acheloos? It probably did. There should be some connection between the river god, death, and the trading of horns.

My speculation: Heracles should die contesting a river god about to impale him. That he survives means he has temporarily put off perishing and death’s sting. The “magic horn,” then, is knowledge of a sort and a trap. But it also links Acheloos and Hercules. To be an immortal beaten by a mortal is to know death. Acheloos has our pain in some sense. In another sense, he doesn’t, because we don’t understand our own pain. We just broke a horn off once and then mindlessly accepted another horn. Acheloos is present at the tomb because he is sympathetic. That he looks like he might charge on one shield – he won’t, it’s a tomb, after all – speaks to our failure and his.

On a Bell Krater and Oinochoe from the Spina necropolis, seen at the Dallas Museum of Art

Art discussed in this post, on loan to the Dallas Museum of Art:

Red Figure Bell Krater, featuring Theseus and Sinis.
Greek: Attic, 5th c. BC. From the Spina necropolis; attributed to the Sini Ferrara painter. On loan to the DMA from the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Ferrara, inv. 3066.

Red Figure Oinochoe, featuring Polynices offering a necklace to Eriphyle.
Greek: Attic, 435-430 BC. From the Spina necropolis; attributed to the Shuvalov painter. On loan to the DMA from the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Ferrara, inv. 2509.

Not the best picture, but the Oinochoe is at the extreme left. You can see Eriphyle reclining and some of Polynices. The Krater is central, and Theseus bending the tree, about to execute the naked robber, is pretty clear.

Theseus, about to kill one of the robbers famed for plaguing a road, will earn his initial fame as a hero. This robber, Sinis, either threw unsuspecting victims into the air with a bent pine or tore them in two. Theseus appears a well-dressed man, almost a gentleman. He wears a sun hat and a diadem; the robber is naked. The inscription only calls Theseus kalos, though: noble or beautiful, not a gentleman (also known as kalos kai agathos, noble and good).

Justice might be the outstanding question. Apollo or some kind of established, noble figure crowned with a laurel watches the execution. Even though I didn’t see the other side of the Krater fully (it is turned to the wall), I was told it was two men talking, and I glimpsed that one of them was dressed more like Apollo. I suspect there’s no justice here, just reputation and civilization. Apollo, god of music, gives us stories without which we are frightfully naked. Those stories hide a certain darkness. The expression on Sinis’ face is pained, terrified, human.

What’s on the Krater may make narrative sense and have narrative depth. On the Oinochoe, which pours wine, we could be dealing with one half of a story. Three figures are presented. Polynices, who robbed of his kingship of Thebes by his brother Eteocles, tries to conquer the city with the assistance of six other leaders. He is offering a necklace to a reclining Eriphyle. He does bribe her into goading her husband to war with Thebes, even though she knows her husband will die. And there’s a servant holding an (the?) Oinochoe and a Kylix, a drinking cup. As these objects were found in a tomb, part of a funeral banquet before burial, one wonders several things. First, whether there is a Kylix meant to go with the Oinochoe, giving another story to go along with this one. Second, while the servant holding these objects foreshadows the death of Polynices, Eriphyle’s husband, and Eriphyle herself, it also connects with the burial of whoever was rich enough to have these objects at their funeral. Who on earth wants to be buried with such a morbid, awful story? Polynices is vengeful, unpatriotic, and totally justified in his cause. Eriphyle is greedy, reckless, and hateful. The servant depicted is female, and maybe the two women can tell us about the potential complementary Kylix. A matching Kylix perhaps features Antigone and Ismene, sisters of the feuding brothers. Both would be mourning. One because of crazy, Polynices-like claims about family and the identification of death with justice. The other in mourning simply.

On the Dallas Museum of Art’s “Alexandre Hogue: The Erosion Series”

To say Hogue was concerned with the Dust Bowl would be like saying Einstein was pretty smart – a gross, gross understatement. The curators note that the Dust Bowl wasn’t just a natural disaster. It was exacerbated to terrible heights by practices that didn’t make much sense except for making a quick buck. Long-term benefits and treating the land well were very distant considerations. The scale of devastation was something else to behold. Floods of sand that overwhelmed rail lines and buildings; swirls of dirt that blotted out the sun.

Hogue created iconic images to make these points. In Grim Reaper, the lines in the wood echo the torn landscape and turbulent ash that is the sky. The haunted face blows away, and the import is all too clear. We are the Grim Reaper unto nature and ourselves. Written into our very actions are the results.

Sometimes there’s a bit more subtlety on the artist’s part. Red Earth Canyon takes a bit of time to absorb, but one can’t help but eventually be disgusted by it. The colors make the landscape look fleshy and diseased. The human construction resembles a pox, a thoroughly unnatural condition.

Hogue overwhelms with lines. There are always repeating patterns of them, and it isn’t just a stylistic feature of the works in “The Erosion Series.” Rather, the immensity, scope, and awfulness of the disaster conveys itself to us in patterns. If we face a grave danger, we may see some kind of dark beauty, a semblance of order. There’s a reason why we can be deer in headlights, as we fixate on something.

Another thought I had about Alexandre Hogue while at the exhibit was the following. Ad after ad on television has candidate X proclaiming how much he fought Obama, followed by candidate Y saying how candidate X can’t be trusted since Y fought Obama more. There are Texas liberals, real ones, from generations ago. And if Hogue is any indication, they can be very thoughtful and talented. This state has some aspect of “blue” in it that’s of tougher stock than the cheap and thoughtless “red” I see at times nowadays.

On Museum Jokes

Andy Warhol’s famous “Brillo” box, made out of exquisitely crafted prints, makes the essential point. Credit to Paul Drozdowski (btw, happy birthday!) for talking me through it. Here’s an everyday piece of design that we all take for granted. But add a famous artist’s name and technique to it, and it’s in a museum.

The DMA is featuring a bunch of works that are “museum jokes.” I saw a bunch of them in one of the current exhibitions, Form/Unformed: Design from 1960 to the Present. Shiro Kuramata’s “Miss Blanche” armchair, inspired by a corsage of Vivien Leigh’s and presented to a woman named Rose, makes me think of being shot in a mob movie, falling back and spilling roses everywhere.

I laughed out loud and said “well played” at what might be a Robert Venturi Chippendale chair. I didn’t think anyone was paying attention, but someone asked me why I was laughing. I explained what I thought was the joke, that Chippendale chairs depend on slender proportions for their beauty. Here, the width of the chair distorts that beauty, and the result is that you get a chair that is probably way more stable (for bigger rears?) but looks like a cello has been splayed apart. I suspect the woman and her mother who listened to me walked away with the impression that I was some kind of Neanderthal incapable of serious critique. I did point at another work entitled “Chair” and said it was a file cabinet that had a hatchet taken to it, that the artist was like “woah man, I can rip the lid off a file cabinet and get a chair out of it.”

Honestly, I do like museum jokes. I don’t think they’re a waste of time. You can’t just go from Monet to Rembrandt to Michelangelo and do “higher” art all the time, for this reason: what we consider ridiculous now is what another age might find the most serious part of our culture. What ends up in a museum is in large part a matter of chance, a matter of arbitrariness. It isn’t wholly that, of course, but the reminder that we’re in a dialogue about art over which we don’t need to seriously obsess is very helpful. Sometimes, we don’t need to analyze as much as respond. And maybe we should be more attentive to work outside a museum. – Well, that’s if we’re actually there for the art. -

Gerald Murphy, “Razor”

Gerald Murphy, “Razor”

Was at the Dallas Museum of Art and this leaped out at me. As S.S. Fair notes in the review above, it features “a vividly rendered matchbox, Parker fountain pen, and Gillette safety razor.” They look “fresh and modern,” and yeah, in this age it looks like an “elegy to everyday tools beautifully rendered but quaint in today’s plastic, junk-tastic universe.”

I got a bit something different out of it. The theme is safety. In addition to “safety” matches and the safety razor, the background is composed of box and file-like shapes, boxes and files protecting and compartmentalizing their contents. The lid of the matches and the crossed razor and pen below resemble some kind of coat of arms. This is our flag, our declaration – oh wait, one of these things doesn’t belong. The fountain pen doesn’t really claim to be safe, especially when one considers what constitutes real writing. The “safe” world is that of design and marketing. The pen reminds of what truly lasts.

Hendrick ter Brugghen, “The Adoration of the Magi” (1619)

Hendrick ter Brugghen, "The Adoration of the Magi" (1619)

Hendrick ter Brugghen, “The Adoration of the Magi” (1619)

If you would like to see this in more detail, this link is very helpful.

The people in the painting gaze in three different ways: looking down, looking away, looking toward. Our attention is focused, like Joseph’s, on the Magi and their age. His eyes are toward, the only person really engaging the persons of the Magi. He, like us, has something in common with them. The white folds of their garments and turbans remind one of sagging flesh. They wear their age, like Joseph. They have come to see new life. The old one kneeling intently stares at the child, trying desperately to understand what he has journeyed for.

Christ does not look back at him, but his wrinkly flesh mirrors their concern. Ter Brugghen understands why Christ in icons was depicted a homunculus – he is the Son of Man, fully Man. He readies himself for the sacrifice in accepting the gifts. The wonder of the Magi is not satisfied; no one wants to see new life end or begin in tragedy.

Still, the bright colors and sunlight of this painting do not exist for irony’s sake. This is a majestic painting, and Christ is not the only one who understands us. Mary beams and focuses on her child. In loving Him, she sees humanity. I wonder if the silver and gold of the canisters is meant to contrast with her. She stands out, perhaps to show that God’s love for man can become man’s love for each other.

Hendrick ter Brugghen, “The Crucifixion with the Virgin and Saint John” (1624-5)

Hendrick ter Brugghen, "The Crucifixion with the Virgin and Saint John" (1624-5)

Hendrick ter Brugghen, “The Crucifixion with the Virgin and Saint John” (1624-5)

Please do read what the Met has to say about this painting
: this might have been done for a “hidden” Catholic church in an overwhelmingly Protestant city. There is a marked emphasis on suffering, but I think it is leading to a more expansive theme.

For me, the painting divides into two. There’s the symbolism at the foot of the cross. Skull, bones, broken wood and a sapling. There’s the matter of Christ’s flowing blood, His being the lamb. All of that leads to this question: how exactly does a triumph over death lead to new life? It’s a juxtaposition that doesn’t make a lot of sense.

The symbolism contrasts with the three figures above it. Mary is stunned at what has been done to her son. Her gaze seems to be on his body, his wounds. Her complexion is the same deathly color as his skin. She steps toward him, in a pose both pleading and ready to embrace. The Mother of God is not some ethereal, spiritual entity divorced from the world. To love the Creator is to love life, to be horrified at the evil men do against life, not just against some abstract concept of God.

Mary’s grief is not quite St. John’s. He’s stunned, too, and his feet are in exactly the same position as Mary’s, yet they are part of a radically different pose. He’s focused on Christ’s head, maybe the quiet glow coming from it. Looking upward, his hands are not in a prayerful position. He’s contemplating the sort of man the Son of Man was, even without seeing his face.

Mary’s and John’s are two aspects of loss, united in the figure of Christ. Christ’s body is pale and looks withered in a way. His blood is still pouring. The symbols at the foot of the cross don’t lead to the question the portraits do: What does it mean to triumph over death? It means you become death, you become the point of judgment. All of humanity is judged by the inhumanity of what occurred. Christ and Mary are divine in their pallor.

The only hint there is something good for us sinners in this moment of overwhelming tragedy is John seeing the glow. The beaten, worn body of Christ did suffer and now wears that suffering. New life was always within Creation. The question always was when we would see it.

Addendum: I should say something more, as I’m surrounded by people who think lashing themselves gets grace and others who think cursing gets people sent to hell. What’s amazing about this painting is how seriously it takes the human, how seriously it takes our suffering in this life. It acknowledges that life is hard: people lose their children every day. It does not do what we do, which is watch the news and then say outright that people could have done something to not lose their children. It does not promise resurrection or mana from heaven as solving all our problems if we follow a bunch of rules. It simply looks at a moment of utter horror and wonders how anything could be redeemed by it. It does not hint at an afterlife or anything in that afterlife. Now that I say that, I do wonder if other ages understood morality better than us. Probably, this much is true: ter Brugghen is a genius, and I’m privileged to view his art.

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