Van Gogh's Paintings: Step a Little Closer

When my son Mack was three months old, our family had the opportunity to travel to Europe with a school tour. While I was taking a group of students through Versailles, just outside Paris, my husband, Jim, toured the Musée d’Orsey with the baby. Just as they came to the room featuring Vincent van Gogh’s art, Mack reached his limit and began to cry. Nervous about disrupting other museum goers, Jim tried to quickly calm him down but had no luck. A kind woman standing nearby commented as Jim took the crying baby out of the room, “Ah. I see he does not like van Gogh. Neither do I.”

I guess love of a particular artist can’t be transferred in utero because I love van Gogh’s works and I have for years. Perhaps the love began because van Gogh’s art is a prominent part of contemporary culture. I’m not sure if it is a compliment or insult to van Gogh that you can buy a mouse pad or coffee mug featuring Starry Night. But our society seems caught up with van Gogh’s works. Why do you think he is such a popular artist?

In the Metropolitan Museum of Art I was excited to see his Wheatfield with Cypresses, with its dramatic contrast of horizontal and vertical shapes. But there were two van Gogh paintings that particularly struck me because I had the opportunity to see them up close.

The first, Self Portrait in Straw Hat, 1887, is also displayed in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. From 1886-1889, van Gogh painted over 30 self-portraits. Check out this great video montage of some of these portraits. There are many fascinating theories as to why van Gogh repeatedly used himself as his subject matter. In his essay “Self-Portrait as Self-Image,” critic James Risser claims, “The unfolding image portrayed in these paintings seemingly parallels the life of the artist, Vincent van Gogh. We see in the portraits what we know all too well of this painter's life: the growing frenzy of an unfinished life more and more out of control” (151). Van Gogh, himself, said that he did so many self portraits because he couldn’t afford to pay models and he still wanted to work on his technique (van Gogh 3: 201).

The Met’s display of this painting is unique. The painting is fairly small (12 ½” x 16”) when compared to van Gogh’s other exhibits, and much of the other art throughout the museum. The painting is not displayed on the wall of the museum but set on a pedestal in front of van Gogh’s other works. This display invited me to step in close. The closer I came to the painting, the more powerful the painting became. The brush strokes separated, giving me the sense that I was part of the creation process . . . almost as if I were seeing the painting made right before me. Up close I noticed one small brush stroke of blue in the corner of van Gogh’s eye. Perhaps this represents a tear. Perhaps it simply repeats the blue that is woven throughout the painting. But that brush stroke both excited and haunted me. It excited me because I’d seen something in this painting that I hadn’t seen before in reproductions. Once I stepped a few paces back, I saw that most of the brush strokes in the painting point to this one stroke. How could I have missed it before? It also haunted me because it evoked a sense of pain within the painting that is paradoxically subtle and powerful. Pain, power, and creation came together in that simple stroke.

One of the last van Gogh paintings that I saw on this trip is probably van Gogh’s most famous painting, Starry Night, 1889. The painting is found at the Museum of Modern Art and is one of its most visited displays. It hangs on a divider in the center of a long room, and before I even came around the partition I could hear people exclaiming, “Starry Night. Ohh. Ahh. Oooooh. Starry Night!!!” Perhaps, this publicity, coupled with all the coffee mugs, mouse pads, posters, had built a reputation beyond what the painting actually merited, but I have to say I was disappointed when I rounded the corner and had my first glimpse of this painting.

Standing about ten feet back, with the rest of the crowd, I thought, “This is it?” I dutifully pulled out my camera and snapped a photo or two but more from a sense of obligation than wanting to capture my experience with the painting. I was just getting ready to move on to Kandinsky’s work behind me when I noticed that the crowd had also wandered away. Since I wouldn’t be in anyone’s sightline, I decided to get a little closer to the painting I was now thinking of as a dud.

About five feet from the painting, the brush strokes pulled me even closer. What looked flat at ten feet back, started to move as I did. I felt the roiling shapes of the sky. The fluidity and slight menace of the cypress trees. This painting gave me a visual representation of the scripture “All power is given unto me in heaven and earth” (Matt 28:18). And I stood up close as long as I could (until the next crowd rushed over), trying to absorb this painting. As I stepped back for a final look, and new pictures--trying to capture my experience--I no longer saw a flat painting, but a masterpiece. I walked away from the experience unsettled. Unsettled because of the . . . I can’t seem to find words beyond the cliché . . . power in the painting. But also unsettled by my experience. What if I hadn’t taken those five steps closer?

You see a Bicycle. I see Art.

Kyle asked me to visit Duchamp’s Study for Chess Player in the Guggenheim. But much to my frustration, this painting was displayed in a closed area of the museum. My initial response was “no problem” because I knew I could see the actual painting in the MOMA. But this particular painting is not on view at this time. Since his paintings were not available, I chose to visit one of Duchamp’s well known sculptures Bicycle Wheel. He originated this work in 1913, placing a bicycle wheel upside down on a stool, but that work was lost. The one on display at the MoMA was made in 1951.

This artwork falls into the category Duchamp called Readymades. The Abridged Dictionary of Surrealism attributes this definition of readymade to Duchamp: "an ordinary object elevated to the dignity of a work of art by the mere choice of an artist" (qtd. in Hector Obalk’s “The Unfindable Readymade”). Speaking of Bicycle Wheel, Duchamp stated that he liked to stare at the spinning wheel: “I enjoyed looking at it, just as I enjoy looking at the flames dancing in a fireplace. . . . It was a pleasant gadget, pleasant for the movement it gave” ("Bicycle Wheel," MoMA Collection website). How do you think this work accomplishes Duchamp’s desire to elevate ordinary objects to works of art? What do you think this elevation accomplishes?

Cinderella, Cinderella

Brian asked me to visit the Cinderella Table in the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA, to those on the in with the museum world). This table was created by Jeroen Verhoeven. Much to my disappointment, I have to say that my photography really doesn’t do justice to this artwork. The light in the museum, as well as the display—the table was crowded onto a platform with several other sculptures—made it difficult to get a good shot. You might want to check out some professional photographs of the table.

There were several things that amazed me about this sculpture. First is the size. It is approximately 3 ½ feet tall, 4 ½ feet long, and 3 feet wide. The top has a shape reminiscent of a grand piano’s lid. The smooth lines and curves kept my eye continuously moving, and I almost had to put my hands behind my back to obey the sign “Please do not touch.” The curves, texture, and wood grain called out to me to stroke this sculpture. The most amazing aspect of this piece is that it is actually created from 741 layers of plywood. Look closely at the cross section photograph and you can see how thin these layers are. They were glued together to create a spectacular wood grain that reinforced the lines of the table’s design.

First question for consideration: Why do you think Verhoeven titled his work Cinderella Table? Titles play an important role in the art. For example, Jackson Pollock, one of the most prominent American abstract artists, stopped titling his paintings so he wouldn’t impose his view/interpretation of his art on the audience.

This work also leads me to consider how technology is influencing art. According to the Victoria and Albert Museum’s website, this table was created using CAD-CAM (computer-aided design and computer-aided manufacturing). Objects are designed and cut out using this CAD-CAM system. “Because human intervention, interpretation of a design and handcraft are omitted, fault-free three-dimensional versions of digitally designed objects are possible. CAD-CAM would appear to negate the individualism of craft objects. But Verhoeven wanted to use CAD-CAM as (in his words) a 'new modern craft' because he felt it was 'hiding a craft' within it” (“Cinderella Table, Victoria and Albert Museum website). What do you think Verhoeven meant by this statement?

More and more artists are using technology in connection to their artwork. In a personal conversation with Leon Parson, he told me that he uses Photoshop when he creates his sketches and preparations for paintings, rarely sketching by hand. (Parson painted the murals in the Rexburg temple, as well as the portrait of President Hinckley hanging in the foyer of the Hinckley Building.) What impact do you think technology plays on art? Is there greater credibility/artistry to relying solely on the materials available to the early masters? How might technology change our perceptions of art? Can you think of any examples to support your ideas?

Looking through the Kaleidoscope: Fernand Léger and Cubism

Adam asked me to view Fernand Léger’s painting The Smokers, which is on display at the Guggenheim. Sadly, the Guggenheim is in the process of installing a new exhibit and has closed the bulk of the museum to viewers. While I couldn’t see The Smokers I did look for some of Léger’s work in the other museums. I found Woman with a Cat (1921) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Exit the Ballet Russes (1914) and The Baluster (1925) at the Museum of Modern Art. (Can you tell which title fits these three paintings that I've posted here?)

Léger’s work is known for incorporating the shapes of modern mechanisms into his artwork. One commentator said that he was fascinated with arranging elements in his artwork almost like children’s building blocks, using mechanical elements to construct a new machine age. Can you see this in his works here?

Léger served in World War I, which had a significant impact on many artists during this time. In World War I machines of war (aircraft, tanks, artillery) played a greater role than ever before. Some critics see Léger’s mechanism period as a response to the machines that he saw in the war. I also can’t help wondering if the order and precision (a stability, perhaps) of his painting might be in response to the chaos of the war itself.

How might World War I have influenced the artists of this time? J.R.R. Tolkien also served in this war, and his art (his novels) frequently vilifies machinery and argues for a return to nature. Is Léger taking an opposite approach? He had already begun to experiment with Cubism before the war, but after the war he begins his mechanism period. Why might this war lead to these two different perspectives?

Perhaps I shouldn’t admit that I didn’t know Léger’s work previously, but I didn’t. Before this trip my knowledge of Cubism was limited to . . . Well, to be honest, the only Cubist I could name was Picasso. But visiting these three museums and learning a bit more about this art movement has taught me to enjoy Cubism in a way that I hadn’t anticipated.

According to my trusty audio guide, a major tenant of Cubism is the artist’s desire to break down an object to its various planes or surfaces and to show the geometric patterns at play in these surfaces. They attempted to simplify the forms to their most basic shapes: cubes, cones, cylinders, and spheres. We will learn and explore these principles more thoroughly later in the semester, so I really don’t want to get into it too much here. But I do want to share my growing appreciation of this movement. Once I learned this basic principle, what seemed to be “nonsense” came into clarity. Now I get satisfaction and pleasure in looking at these paintings, trying to see the images, shapes, and planes created by these artists.

Since I’m already being confessional, I will also confess that I’ve never really liked Picasso. Or rather I should say that I’ve never really cared for his two-eyes-on-the-side-of-the-face, purple-skinned Marie-Thérèse paintings. But during this trip I found myself drawn to Picasso’s Cubist era. And through Picasso, I discovered his co-collaborator Georges Braque. Picasso and Braque are often credited with having the most influence on the Cubist era.

Here are two of my favorite Cubist paintings from this trip: Braque’s Man with Guitar and Picasso’s Girl with Mandolin. Can you see these images in the paintings?

What is Normal? A Musical Journey into Insanity

Friday night I sat in a room with 760 strangers and cried.

We had just seen the Broadway play Next to Normal. Making a musical about a woman’s 16-year struggle with bi-polar disorder and depression might seem strange, but I can’t imagine this powerful story without music. The music both intensified and distanced this family’s pain—drawing me into their story but also allowing me time to process the turmoil of this story.

A key theme that struck me was each person’s desire to hide pain and seek out numbness. Initially Diane manages her illness with many, many, many medications, but she despises the colorless life (blacks, whites, and grays) that results. Her song “I Miss the Mountains” nearly convinced me that going off her meds was a good thing. It wasn’t until later that I realized she relied on her manic episodes to dull, or at least drown out, her pain. In response to her plunging lows and highs, her family seeks numbness of their own through avoidance and drugs.

Mental illness has become a prominent, and yet still hidden part of the human condition (remember this focus of the humanities, and its three elements—cultural, social, and personal?). In this play, normal is exposed as a cultural construct, not an archetype. After all, what are the normal times to grieve, normal responses to stress, normal marriages, normal children? This play forces the characters to break away from this cultural definition and reject the myth of normal life in order to realize that next to normal might just be good enough.

It would take a better writer than me to write about music in such a way that you can hear it for yourself. Here are some of the songs that impacted me most throughout the play:

"I'm Alive" is a song by the brother Gabe. Although he died as a baby, he haunts his mother's depression and her fear that by curing her depression she will lose the only connection she has to her son.

"Superboy and the Invisible Girl" is the daughter, Natalie's, first attempt to explain how her mother's fixation on Gabe's death makes Natalie feel.

Listen to one of these songs and then explain how the lyrics or images within the song support the plot that I've outlined above or introduce another theme you see in the song.

When in Rome . . .

Chris asked me to visit the Roman Mosaic (ca 300 A.D.), found in Lod Israel in 1996, and brought to the Metropolitan Museum in 2010. It was mid afternoon when I visited the mosaic, and the light cast shadows on the floor, so I apologize for the poor photo. I could put in a better photo that I found online, but part of the fun of this project has been sharing the pictures I took and seeing these works for our class—hopefully bringing these masters closer to Rexburg, Idaho.

The mosaic was found in near perfect condition because no one knew it existed until a1996 archeological dig found the ruins of a Roman house. Scholars think this mosaic floor covering must have been in a reception room because of its size and motifs. These three panels (you will see the panels divided by geometric borders) combine for a total of 13 wide and 27 feet long. The exhibition only shows three of the seven panels found at the site. The images in the mosaic are deemed frivolous by scholars because they show land and sea animals rather than religious or governmental images. I’m not sure that something so painstakingly created (look at the detailing in these patterns) should be labeled frivolous. Perhaps that’s because we don’t know the story behind these animals. Does knowing or not knowing the story behind these animals diminish the mosaic’s value for you? Why/why not?

What struck me were the multiple levels of artistry in this mosaic. First, developing the design of these animals, fish, ships, and geometric patterns. Next, creating the design in thousands and thousands of tiles that are each less than an inch in diameter. Finally, laying this mosaic with such skill that it would stay intact for over 1,700 years . . . Wow!

A Thousand Pieces of Lights

Awe. Stillness. Peace. These were my first emotions to the leaded glass window Autumn Landscape--The River of Life.

Olivia drew my attention to Louis Comfort Tiffany’s stained glass piece titled Autumn Landscape--The River of Life (1923-1924), which is on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Some might associate Tiffany with beautiful and expensive jewelry (think Breakfast at Tiffany’s), and this would be appropriate since he was the son of Tiffany and Co. owner, Charles Tiffany. Perhaps best known for his beautiful glass lampshades, L.C. Tiffany belonged to the Art Nouveau movement, which utilized flowing, natural lines as found in flowers and vines. The Art Nouveau movement also emphasized art and artistry found in all mediums (architecture, furniture, crafts) and adhered to the “art for art’s sake” principle of the Aesthetic movement.

A focal point for Tiffany’s eleven-foot tall window “Autumn Landscape” is “the river of life,” flowing through the center of the piece. The window contains over 1,000 pieces of glass, and Tiffany created several different glass techniques to achieve the colors and swirls within individual glass segments.

This work is in the corner of the American gallery, and I had the opportunity to view it up close and from quite a distance. What struck me was how different lighting emphasized different aspects of the work. From a distance, and at a diagonal, the mountains in the background seemed to move to the foreground as they took on a rich purple shadow from the setting sun. Looking at the window straight on, the river’s greens swirl into blue and glimmer with the day’s fading light. Perhaps it is my age (am I in the autumn of my youth?), but the autumn in “Autumn Landscape” seemed inconsequential. I know how to interpret symbols, so I understand the symbolism of the setting sun and the fall colors throughout the glass. But the radiant colors in the mountains and river, suffused with a rich green did not evoke the coming winter. There is great life and beauty in this autumn scene.

According to the faculty traveling with me this was one of the most powerful and memorable pieces we viewed today. Thanks, Olivia, for sending us to a corner of the museum that we might have missed.