Tag Archives: art

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

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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)

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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.

Lawrence Alma-Tadema, “An Apodyterium” (1886)

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Lawrence Alma-Tadema, "An Apodyterium"

Lawrence Alma-Tadema, “An Apodyterium” (1886)

We are in public bath, where the woman on the right searching us is supposed to undress in order to bathe. The heart of this painting is her portrait; the ambiguity of her expression is a narrative unto itself.

Much builds to that portrait. The painting divides into quarters. The lower left quarter, which descends, is bordered such that it leads the eye to the upper left. There we see a fusion of exteriority and interiority. A servant and another look to be walking out; some parents are dealing with children near the colonnade? Light and dark are stark, right at the entrances. Clean classical marble and flowing robes attempt to keep sexuality – the obvious – hidden.

The nude woman at the lower right is out of sight of anyone else. She pays us no mind, her clothes will end up in the crevices at the upper right. She is not bashful at all. Perhaps we are not bashful either, and this has taken the young woman looking at us aback. She’s aware of shame – she’s a lot more reluctant to get in the baths than the woman next to her – but this painting isn’t really about her being modest and lovely or some crap like that. Of course she has a demure beauty.

The painting is more about the weirdness of beauty and its concealment. The interiority/exteriority of the upper left suggests we should be thinking about her inner beauty and the soft gaze, but again, that’s just part of the puzzle. The structure of the work and the structure of the building mirror the structure of her robes. The light and dark in arrangement conceal. But that’s the funniest thing of all: how is it possible to conceal when light and dark themselves suggest an inside and an outside? When light and dark actually involve going inside and outside? To truly conceal, something has to be a near-impossible thought, not fully naked right next to you.

The very means of concealing only lead to the object of desire. It’s like we train ourselves to avert our gaze so that way the everyday becomes that more appealing. Modesty is only part of beauty itself. I’m not saying this painting is a subversive excuse for lust. Something stranger is going on; we’re not exactly repulsed by shame or modesty. Nor does it look like this painting is a strictly moral exercise, locating “virtue” in reluctance to get in a bath. It’s something more like this: beauty is the concealment itself, as it is beauty alone which makes us ask who is truly beautiful. If there is a subversion, it has to do with the subordinate position of morality, but that is almost a technical point in this context.

Hendrick ter Brugghen, “The Incredulity of St. Thomas” (1622)

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With thanks to Catherine Volmensky

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Hendrick ter Brugghen, “The Incredulity of St. Thomas” (1622)

This is a really cool painting. Catherine emphasized its everydayness, as this could be right out of 17th c. Dutch life. That’s not a trivial idea: what if a man rose from the dead in the midst of believers? The whole scene is goofy. The older gentleman at the right is both happy and curious. He has some kind of glasses on and may be eager to try the wound himself. Thomas’ eyes are away from us, looking closed; it’s like he’s doubting his doubt while acting on it. The gentleman in the far left, between Thomas and the man looking to heaven, seems embarrassed by the whole ordeal. And then there is the one man whose eyes we see – could be John? – looking upward in a prayerful stance.

He’s the only man whose eyes are visible, but we would be remiss if we said his was the only true faith in the painting. Jesus’ eyes are not shown to us. He’s as eager as Thomas to see where the doubt goes and is not perturbed by the commotion. There’s a gentleness to this painting that says volumes about the various ways people work with belief and disbelief. Christ’s divinity is quiet, even as he is a man who rose from the dead.

John Singer Sargent, “The Misses Vickers” (1884)

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John Singer Sargent, "The Misses Vickers" (1884)

John Singer Sargent, “The Misses Vickers” (1884)

This was painted after “The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit” and has considerably more warmth. Does it have as much depth? The initial reviews of this painting were savage; the online John Singer Sargent gallery has a great discussion of them as well as the painting itself. For comparison, what the critics found far superior (worth a write-up, too).

This painting uses a lot of handsome, dark browns that can either be seen as creating a dramatic darkness or a more casual, familiar background. I tend to think there is heightened drama in the white dress, bright skin and background porcelain against those browns. Still, if I’m correct, the drama is being heightened for a trivial scene. One girl seems to be daydreaming, looking past the viewer. The other is flipping the page of a magazine with so much “flair” she cannot possibly be reading it. Finally, a chair is crammed next to the two other sisters, and that sister is looking square at the viewer with the look that Harrison Ford gets from that girl in class at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark. The scene is obviously staged.

I’ll go further than the online commentary I’ve read. Yes, these are three modern women who can do whatever they want; the women here are between 18-21 years of age and are incredibly playful. The key to the painting is whom they’re being playful toward. The art is so staged that we have to think of the painter as part of the picture. They’re teasing him in different ways. One is looking past everyone else, as if she has boys on her mind or something. The other is trying to strike a pose as she reads and might start giggling if provoked rightly. Then there’s one making eyes and leaning toward the painter. None of this is serious and that’s the point. This is a portrait that deconstructs itself, weirdly enough giving us these women at a moment that matters to them. They’re carefree and sisterly, and it is fun to behold.

John Singer Sargent, “The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit” (1882)

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John Singer Sargent, "The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit." (1882) - in the US public domain

John Singer Sargent, “The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit” (1882)

Lucky enough to see this in person some time ago; wondered at what is going on in it for years. I think I remember the curator – or maybe it was Paul – had a comment that the girl in red to the left is an outcast. The other sisters form a tighter, more conventional triangle in our line of sight. The Boston MFA site helpfully lists the ages of the daughters: “Mary Louisa (eight years old when Sargent painted her), Florence (age fourteen), Jane (twelve), and Julia (four).” It makes perfect sense the 12 & 14 year olds want nothing to do with their 8 year old sister. The 4 year old can obviously get whatever she damn well wants.

The background is not incidental. I confess, I didn’t pay enough attention to it before. The vases correspond to the girls. The two in the center have a big one of their own; the one on the right is set off by red and away from everything else, much like Mary Louisa. Directly behind Julia are two small vases on a dresser, but she doesn’t really need a vase to stake her claim. Her white dress is almost formal and she holds a doll that with its color stands out even in a room full of rich objects. She’s set off by a rug that probably costs more than Air Force One.

Those large vases are not cheap, though. Again, from the MFA site: “The two tall Japanese vases, made in Arita in the late nineteenth century specifically for export to the West, were prized family possessions; their unusual size in relation to the girls makes the interior seem strange and magical.” Not really sure about “magical,” but definitely sure about “strange.” This is Wonderland, with all the darkness of inanity. There are vases, markers of wealth, that are as big or bigger than people; there’s the casual holding of a doll as if it were just another puppet, like some servant that needs lashes for not cleaning the stables after mowing the lawn and fixing the carriage. These daughters seem to emerge from the house, coming out of its darkened corridors or from its sides. The key to the whole thing is that a sister is being excluded because. Nothing here makes any sense, except the territoriality of young girls with wealth. That makes even less sense because there’s nothing they have to fight each other for, unlike some families where one has to fight with siblings to eat. One is tempted to want to give the 8 year old a book and some encouragement, but having been around families like these, we all know better. There’s probably too much cynicism on her part to take any help or attention.

Rembrandt, “Self-Portrait” (1659)

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Seen in person at the National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.

Rembrandt, "Self-Portrait" (1659)

Rembrandt, “Self-Portrait” (1659)

This painting stood out when I wandered through the National Gallery with my limited time. The flesh of the face has expressive, rich detail and is by far the brightest part of the painting. The various browns seem handsome in the pictures online, but honestly, the whole of it seemed really dark to me in person. The expression from the picture online looks like it fixes you, like it expresses an “inner strength and dignity.”

That was not the experience I had. I knew, roughly, that Rembrandt painted a number of self-portraits. As he gets older, they show him more and more becoming undone. The expression still seems worried and nervous to me, like he wants to look past himself. An older line of criticism, when the painting had a varnish on it that made it much darker, holds that this is an incredibly sad painting. If you want to read more, Wikipedia has a lot of useful details.

I think it is worth playing with a reconciliation between two different thoughts, as this is a painting Rembrandt clearly put a lot of thought into. I do think we are supposed to be impressed that the brightness of the face will fade into darkness. The dark clothing, the charcoal and gray hair lead the eye to that conclusion. But it is also worth considering that one does not think about death only when one is about to die. We’re at different stages in life when we’re worried. Rembrandt is definitely worn out physically, but an “inner strength” is there – the question is why he may not know it, why he feels like he’s staring death in the face, why it may take a certain vigor to stare death in the face.

André Kertész, “On Reading”

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for Barbara Gazin, Mark Alonzo & Raj Luthra

Perhaps the strangest thing about the human condition is how one has to distance oneself from humanity in order to understand and appreciate it. The activity of reading can be emblematic of this distancing when it does not serve as its catalyst.

Kertész’s photographic essay seems to have this as its starting point. We seem to read for different reasons and we certainly do read under different circumstances. And yet, there’s some kind of convergence between those just looking at a book or relaxing, those studying or immersed, those struggling to read like their life depended on it and those who have nothing to do but read.

I can’t help but think that one of the first images of his collection presents the problem symbolically. Newtown, Connecticut, October 17, 1959: a beautiful, sunny fall day. The sunlight is vigorous and our view squarely faces a window with that light, with a small table in front of us and book upon it. Next to the book, also on the table, is a small sculpture of a bird in a basket. The window has a delicate, sheer curtain covering it almost entirely. The sun combines the tree branches behind the window and the shadows and highlights which fall upon the curtain to create a thick but beautiful weave. We’re left to wonder if our gaze outside the window will only be caught by a web; a bird is inside, after all, next to the book. Do we need books to represent a beautiful but inaccessible nature? To see anything outside?

That might be considered an over-the-top formulation, especially as Kertész purposely placed his camera to capture a certain design only. But then – and this is pretty much as far as I am in his book – consider his photos of schoolchildren, placed one after the other in the essay. Esztergom, Hungary, 1915 – 3 poor boys, barefoot and in torn clothes are huddled over 1 book, like as if they’re trying to get everything they can out of each page. This is followed immediately by Paris, 1929 – the schoolgirls all have neat shoes and stockings and coats, and each one is wrapped up in their book. There is no need to look at their faces.

Finally, beyond desperation and plenty, the proximity of boredom and wonder. New York City, April 23, 1969: the kid lounging, relaxed and immersed in his book while the other students look like they’d be anywhere else – my hero.

There are other photographs in this collection. The ones of the elderly struggling to see the text while life moves on around them are particularly heartbreaking. It is tempting to say that reading encompasses too much of a diversity – it’s the only way to do justice to those alone, with nothing to do but read, and those with the luxury of using books to not talk to anyone else. Kertész’s very scope, however, does not allow us that answer. We are continually watching them read. Whether they know it or not, all of them are looking for the same thing we are.

References

Kertész, André. On Reading. New York: Grossman, 1975

“No one can make or break you, but you:” An interview with Heather Bright of “Bright Lights”

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Many of you know I help run a classical music blog and I’m not averse to raving about how awesome, say, Faure is. While looking for new music recently, I encountered “Bright Lights,” which makes excellent electronic, dance and house music: check them out at wearebrightlights. Heather Bright was willing to take time out of her extremely busy schedule to answer a few questions about what it’s like being an artist and trying to make it nowadays. I was curious to hear about music school and reality tv as well.

Do give Bright Light’s facebook page a like and add them on twitter. I can’t thank Heather enough for the interview.

1. What was music school like? I imagine getting in isn’t easy and that when one’s in, life in a conservatory is rough. Since everyone’s good, is there an intense pressure to be the best? Any tips for budding young musicians?

Heather Bright (HB): Music school was a lot of fun! The best part was being surrounded by the best musicians in the world for nearly three years. A lot of the people I performed with every week went on to play for some of the greatest artists in the world. One of my former drummers is now Beyonce’s live drummer. Another bandmate tours with Cirque Du Soleil. Lots of friends from school have moved out to LA and have great careers playing out several times a week. I didn’t know any music theory before I attended Berklee. All my training was by ear. So that has helped me tremendously. I run into Berklee kids all the time in this business and there’s an immediate understanding and level of respect. We all speak the same language.

2. You’ve been on reality tv and seem normal. You’re definitely friendly, hard-working and eager to try new things. I guess your experience of reality tv was quite different from what I see on, say, “Rock of Love?”

HB: I don’t know quite what you mean by “normal” lol. I’m a good person with a good heart. I try to do right by everyone I meet, and that will always come before aesthetics and riches for me. I’m far from perfect like anyone else, but I think that’s what makes us all so uniquely beautiful… the imperfections. I was at a very strange place in my life when we filmed that show. It’s hard for me to talk about because it’s still kinda painful remembering how that made me feel. I was raised very strict as a child so I didn’t find out who I was until way later in life. Those kind of shows can be devastating to new artists who are trying to figure out who they are and light their own path. I felt like my entire career was over before it even began. The truth is, it’s television. You don’t have to be an artist to entertain. And no one can make or break you, but YOU. I almost quit after that. Good thing I didn’t :)

3. “Bright Lights” is described an “ever-expanding collective of artists.” I was curious about the challenges that are unique to collaboration. There are a lot of artists on the web who collaborate often and a lot more, I think, who don’t even realize how necessary it is. At least from my experience, I find it necessary just to say sane. I know I’ve said a lot, but thoughts?

HB: Collaboration is key for any artist. You can’t stay locked inside your black hole forever, though some of the best seeds of inspiration come out of those depths. We all need help to execute our ideas, whether that comes in the form of a great engineer, songwriter, producer, choreographer, etc. I help develop a lot of young, budding producers via Skype. It’s important to me and I love watching their growth. I don’t need to sign anyone to help them. We can all grow together. If you’re an 8 or a 9, I can turn you into a 10. I can help you make hit records, and what do I get in exchange for that… duh, a hit record! :) That’s what Bright Lights is all about.. it’s a platform designed to launch some of the greatest talent this world will ever see! All I want is better music, bigger stars, better shows… I want a revolution, and if it has to start with me, then so be it!

4. On a recent Facebook post, you talked about getting credit and paying your dues. I liked that post a lot, especially this part: “I had to believe that at some point my voice and writing style would be so undeniable and recognizable that people would HAVE to give me credit. I have to believe that everything I touch turns to gold. It’s not ego, it’s faith in nature. It’s about fulfilling a prophesy. How are you gonna change the world if you walk around worried about who gives you credit?”

I’m asking less about collaboration, I guess, and more about how one forms oneself as an artist. I know for myself I have defense mechanisms – to some degree, I have to take pride, I have to build myself up – because I have to get things done and worry about the result later. I was wondering if you had any advice on those lines, especially since I don’t know anyone realizes just how much self-doubt one encounters trying to do things independently until they’re in the thick of it.

HB: Question number 4 I will answer with a quote from another artist, one of my favorites, Andy Warhol… “Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art.”

5. Finally, some thoughts on what happens when you make it really, really big?

HB: Haha! Some thoughts on when I make it really, really big :) let’s see. The only thing I really try to keep in the back of my mind is staying humble. I’ve heard “no” a million times, that I’m not good enough, that I don’t have what it takes, that my ideas are too big, that I’ll never be able to do it all. My whole career I’ve had doors slamming in my face left and right. So when the fans make it clear to the industry that we’re here to stay and that this is a cultural phenomenon, it’s going to be very hard not to raise my middle finger and scream “SEE!! I told you so!!” LOL! I’m going to try not to do that :)

Tantric Buddhist Statue from the Crow Collection in Dallas, Texas

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From the Crow Collection in Dallas, Texas

From the Crow Collection in Dallas, Texas – photo: Mark Alonzo

The Tantric Buddhist statue pictured above (credit: Mark Alonzo) is sexual and symbolic. Saw it with Mark and Laura this past Wednesday when we made a trip to the Crow Collection. I don’t remember exactly when or what region it is from, but Mark took a beautiful picture that gleams.

The Tantric statues on display were meant for more monks of a more elite status. Like this one, they were meant to be contemplated, meditated on. Some of the statues were of figures that would wear chains made of human faces. You could see, say, on the Lord of Death a bunch of faces which seemed smug or vain or any number of related emotions. I, at least, thought that death as the end or “judge” of any human pride might have been part of the point.

Exactly why the statues are so erotic is an open question. The Crow Collection discusses Tantric practice as bodily ways to achieve a body/mind unification, where compassion can flow from one’s very grounding in reality (their phrase):

Tantric practices, unlike other Buddhist vehicles, explicitly use the body as the path. Visualization makes use of the power of sight to bring the outside in and the inside out, to dissolve the boundary of our body. Breath control, gestures (mudras), and positions of the body (yogic asanas) are tools to stimulate and direct the flow of energy, along with extensive ritual performances ordering and purifying space and summoning and dispelling energies.

Part of me feels this a bit too technical, though many of the statues feature some cosmic force personified trampling other bodies: a rejection of human form. And the practices described are obviously important. But to what degree are the statues simply about using one’s own erotic passions to pursue something higher? The statues are stylized and symbolic, but there’s a lot of sensuality on display.

The statue pictured above is probably the mating of wisdom (Buddha) and compassion (the girl). His hands, left over the right, are in a “teaching” gesture. While gold, it is relatively unadorned, instead focusing on their expression, their gestures, their unity. “Wisdom” is a bit distant, but “Compassion” seems to have warmth and joy. This is a cosmic tension represented.