American Infamy

American Infamy
Roger Shimomura, American Infamy, 2007
by LISA MAEDA

At our core, we are just people, regardless of our skin tone, ethnicity, or culture.

Roger Shimomura spent a considerable chunk of his childhood sitting within the confines of the Minidoka internment camp in Idaho. There, Japanese-Americans lived out their lives as best they could, boxed in by barbed wire and watched by soldiers. Their housing quarters were less than sanitary, and their food practically inedible. Many of the internees had mentally removed themselves from their home country entirely, so the prospect at being held hostage because of their ethnicity naturally came as a huge betrayal. Still, despite the inhabitable nature of the internment camps, very few skirmishes were had overall.

American Infamy depicts a shadowy, anonymous soldier watching over the community of Japanese-Americans. Unlike the edgy, anti-Japanese caricatures that Shimomura often reprises from the past, the people below are, for the most part, a normal community of people. There’s no fishy business to be had and no spies in sight (except for the American soldier, ironically), just an overall sense of community. The prisoners are dealing with the reality of their internment in all sorts of ways. Adults chat and walk about like normal, perhaps to ease the children who have taken to their new life by idly playing. Some, however, stare out past the fence with longing. An elderly woman collapses by her window.

Much like Shimomura’s other pieces, American Infamy is a deeply political painting. It criticizes American mistakes of the past, and recollects a shared human experience that we have since forgotten.
  • 7:00 PM

Hands

Alfred Stieglitz
Alfred Stieglitz, Hands, 1918
By LISA MAEDA

Hands are integral to the artist.

Alfred Stieglitz met Georgia O’Keeffe at the age of 52. His photography had propelled him to fame in the art world, and his work is still considered to be the best of the best. Georgia O’Keeffe was 28 years old at the time, teaching art at a quaint school in Texas.

Despite their 24 year age gap and their tremendously different positions, the couple fit together. Stieglitz took no time in divorcing his wife to move in together with O’Keeffe, who he loved to photograph. Naturally, their relationship developed significant strains, but the initial passion between the two was unmatchable. The portraits of O’Keeffe that Stieglitz had photographed were intimate and erotic. Yet, sometimes, they exhibited her beauty in ways unrelated to her sexual body.

I’m particularly fond of Stieglitz’s series of Hands. He photographs O’Keeffe’s hands in various positions. They are graceful, interlocked, and sometimes violent. In this photograph, however, O’Keeffe’s face also makes an appearance. Her slender fingers compliment her stern face. The solemn expression does not detract from her raw beauty. Stieglitz’s publishing of these photographs are a testament to the love he felt for her. Despite their ups and downs, the work created from their love is undeniably gorgeous.
  • 7:00 AM

The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit

John Singer Sargent
John Singer Sargent, The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit, 1882
By LISA MAEDA

Who knew that a painting with so many people, could feel so lonely?

Influenced by Diego Velásquez, John Singer Sargent painted the four daughters of Edward Darley Boit with the intention of documenting their lives and their lavish household. Instead, Sargent paints a black hole in the Boit’s apartment, which the girls fade into. The painting was positively received, but viewers couldn’t help but criticize the void at the center. Why was it so sinister?

Perhaps Sargent had some insight into the personalities of his subjects. After all, the girls standing in the back, swallowed by the shadows, were the problem children. Florence, on the left, simply rejected the ladylike ideals pressed upon her. She didn’t care to attend any social events, and immersed herself in golf. Her sister on the right, Jane, was a different story. Unstable, physically and emotionally, her outbursts brought her to various mental institutions. The younger girls who stand in the light, Julia and Mary Louisa, lived fairly normal lives, contrasting with their spinster sisters.


Truthfully, this painting makes me feel like an adult. The days of my childhood have long passed, and I’m in a darker, lonelier world than these four girls before me.

  • 7:00 AM

Fêtes and Follies: The Roses of Heliogabalus

Lawrence Alma-Tadema
Lawrence Alma-Tadema, The Roses of Heliogabalus, 1888
By LISA MAEDA

Oh, the glory of spring time. After months of coating-wearing and heater hogging, Nature gently reminds us that the world outside can feel, well, just right. 'Tis the season for animals (and people) to withdraw from their confined existence, and revel in their new found sunlight. For the average squirrel, this means going out, eating a bunch of food, and finding a mate. For the average teenage Roman emperor... well, it's essentially the same.

Elagabalus (Heliogabalus) was elected emperor at only 14 years old, and was assassinated only four years later. His reign was, to say the least, interesting. Like most youngsters with too much power, he frolicked in worldly pleasures. Wild rumors surrounded him throughout the empire, accusing him of freely prostituting himself to other men. He frequently sought out the company of the most attractive, well-endowed men he could find.

This painting is a testament to Elagabalus's short reign. He lays on his stomach, relaxed and draped in gold with a pensive, yet content smile. Behind him, a woman plays music and dons leopard fur around her hips, a tribute to the lusty Dionysus. A statue Dionysus, the Greek god of all things party, embraces his lover, a satyr boy named Ampelus, referencing Elagabalus's bisexual nature.

Roses seep through the bottom left of the painting, like incoming ocean waves onto the shore. It grows into the crowd of people, seemingly hiding their erotic ventures. Yet, they are drowning. Only the royals are safe from this public smothering. Yes, Elagabalus's rule may have been opulent, but only for him. This painting, though initially gay and full of life, enshrouds people below Elagabalus in flowery restrains. They are dazed, sinking further into their own pleasures. Rome needs a leader, and yet their ruler, though young, seems to care more about who he command to be his next lover, rather than commanding a country.

*** Editor's Note: Students developed the topic of Fêtes and Folly to chronicle elegant celebrations, bad dates, late nights, or other things related to that time in Spring where barbaric yawps can be heard from backyards, beaches, or the more familiar rooftop. Enjoy their revelry, cheeky overstatement, and occasional tales of ribaldry over the next couple of weeks.

  • 7:00 AM

The Wave VIII

August Strindberg

August Strindberg, The Wave VIII, 1901
By LISA MAEDA

Powerful. Violent. Somber. Meaningless? 

"What does it mean?" asks the average gallery visitor, stumped by the eccentricities of modern art. What kind of statement is the artist trying to make?

Richard Brettell argues: "That there is a very strong and literary-charged subject here, the crashing sea, is undeniable. Yet Strindberg conveyed that subject in ways that have little to do with standard illusionism, and removed any sense of internal narrative from the canvas" (189).

So, essentially, it means nothing.

"Really?" I ask, doubting Brettell's roundabout logic. Don't get me wrong, Brettell is a fun read — but I couldn't find myself agreeing. Strindberg was an author at heart, and to say his paintings were without narrative seemed like an utterly ridiculous assertion. Surely Strindberg, writer of intense dramas that bit into social roles and norms would paint with a storyteller's hand. I believe that the internal narrative remains preserved, a rich element of the cardboard canvas in which Strindberg painted.

The Wave VII is a self-explanatory title. This wave is not Strindberg's first, nor his last. Despite the chaotic focus of the ocean and clouds, the horizon takes its place as the heart of the painting. Surreal, yet gentle, the pale orange light continues to shine past the wave's attempt at extinguishment. Like sunrise over a battlefield, it signifies a peaceful future.

I wonder, if I had a closer view of this painting (18 inches away, to be exact), if it would feel like a Rothko. Strindberg emulates Rothko's double rectangle formula before Rothko's time, and yet the distinct presence of a subject breaks that illusion. And while Brettell acknowledges that subject, he doesn't at the same time, simply by attributing The Wave VIII to his concept of "anti-iconography." 

Perhaps, rather than following vague explanations about how some art doesn't mean anything, we can define art on our own terms.
  • 7:00 AM

Mont Sainte-Victoire

Lisa Maeda
Paul Cezanne, Mont Sainte-Victoire, 1902
By LISA MAEDA

She was the love of Paul Cezanne's life. They grew up together, in the small town of Aix-en-Provence. Time and time again, she would model for him at all angles, never shying away from her beauty. Decades passed, and he would still visit with paints and a canvas in hand. Though the years had aged him, she never did. Perhaps he found her timeless charm irresistible. Maybe it was her height (3,317 feet tall) that enraptured him so. What about her gentle, quiet demeanor? After all, mountains can't speak.

Cezanne was born moody. He simply couldn't stand it whenever his little sisters or mother bossed him around, but was glad to let them do all the work. Even when painting his mistress, later wife, she appeared cold, stiff, and homely. It's probably pretty clear by now that Cezanne had a hard time with people, and he wouldn't hesitant to break ties over pettiness. With his hostile attitude and hermit-like tendencies, of course it makes sense for Cezanne connect so emotionally to Miss Mont Sainte-Victoire. No backtalk, no bossiness, no human feelings. She was "his" best model.

What makes Mont Saint-Victoire so special? There had to be something great about her, considering Cezanne painted her about 60 times. The mountain served as a sort of experimental ground for the artist. He used all sorts of varying techniques, developing the concept of flat-depth. In many of Cezanne's landscapes, he uses space to indicate an understanding of depth. However, he denies his landscapes detail, and therefore giving them a sense of flatness. Only a master painter could so emotionally conjoin these two opposites into one piece.

The Mont Sainte-Victoire series is one of the reasons many artists title Paul Cezanne as the Father of Modern Art. His genius revolutionized the art world, and just like the mountain, his legacy will continue past his death.
  • 7:00 AM

Orpheus Leading Eurydice from the Underworld

Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot
Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, Orpheus Leading Eurydice from the Underworld, 1861
By LISA MAEDA

Ah, nothing quite like a trip to the underworld. Fiery pits, bone-filled deserts, and the cries of the dead — a truly unforgettable, inescapable place. Or not.

Only the most charming musician can charm Hades, and that musician is Orpheus. He had just married the love of his life, Eurydice. Unfortunately, not even hours after the wedding, she strays from Orpheus and gets bitten by a snake. Virgil's version of the story blames Aristaeus, keeper of the bees, for chasing Eurydice as she denies his affections. Pretty uncool, considering she literally just married another guy. Ovid's telling simply states she went to pick flowers with her bridesmaids. Either way, Eurydice dies tragically, leaving a brokenhearted Orpheus. Unable to cope with the death of his late wife, he decides to ask Hades, "Hey, can I have my wife back?" in song form, and it actually works. There's only one catch: Orpheus must lead Eurydice and cannot look back at her until they have reached the surface.

We watch the reunited couple as they ascend on their trek upwards. The scenery is lush, a harsh contrast to the blazing inferno that we usually associate with the underground. Yet, tension overpowers any semblance of hope.

  • 7:00 AM

Art History Hotties: The Floor Scrapers

Art History Hotties
Gustave Caillebotte, The Floor Scrapers, 1875
By LISA MAEDA

"What image am I trying to capture? Uh, you know. The toils of labor."

I like to imagine what sort of things Gustave Caillebotte must have said to his models. "Yes, your shirts have to be off for this." "Just bend over and pretend to scrape the floor." "It's not weird guys, it's art!"

With confidence, Caillebotte submited The Floor Scrapers, or Les raboteurs de parquet, to France's Salon with high hopes. He replicated the gloomy morning light as it shone onto the floorboard. Lean, characterless men hunched over, scraping away dutifully. Just a simple piece of workers in the early hours of the day. Seems innocent enough, right? Surely the Salon would approve.

The response: a solid rejection. Immediately, Caillebotte received his entry back thanks to its "vulgar subject material." It seemed that the Salon saw something different, something less earnest. Perhaps they were right to think that, but either way, Caillebotte took great offense. At the time, male nudity in art yielded to the female nude, which dominated interest. One critic remarked on the precision of the scene, claiming that the painting was optically accurate, but was limited because of it. Amusingly, another claimed that the models simply weren't attractive enough. If Caillebotte wanted to paint nudes, why not go all the way?

Perhaps unbeknownst to them, Caillebotte had indeed painted handsome male nudes, and would continue to do so. Notable works such as Homme au bain, and Man Drying his Leg popped up only a few years later, evidence of Caillebotte's refusal to deny himself the subject matter.

Never give up on what you love. Caillebotte loved painting naked dudes, and nobody, not even the Salon, could stop him.

  • 7:00 AM

Portrait of My Dead Brother

Lisa Maeda
Salvador Dali, Portrait of My Dead Brother, 1963
By LISA MAEDA

There's a certain Slant of Light
By Emily Dickinson

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are –

None may teach it – Any –
‘Tis the Seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –

Editor's Note: Students were asked to match a poem of their choice with a painting of their choice. The relationship between the two shall be determined by the viewer/reader.
  • 7:00 AM

Renunciation of Worldly Goods

Giotto

Giotto, Renunciation of Worldly Goods, 1300
By LISA MAEDA

Good to see you, Giotto. I haven’t seen your 28 fresco series, The Legend of St. Francis, since last year. I distinctly remember sitting in class on a late August day in 2014, starting at grainy black and white prints surrounded by text. I didn’t know what to make of this painting, much less any others featured in our assigned reading packets. “I don’t get it,” I’d think, “What is this supposed to mean to me?” The seniors around me, Art History veterans, articulated their thoughts beautifully. It was as if they were looking at a different painting — a stunning, more meaningful piece of art.

So then I wonder, as the Art History newcomers saw Mark Rothko’s paintings at the beginning of the year, did they think the same thing? We can’t compare Rothko’s abstract expressionism with Giotto’s early Renaissance frescoes, but they do share one thing in common. We probably didn’t “get it” at first glance.

Giotto, an Italian painter, spearheaded the early Renaissance movement. Successor to Duccio and Cimabue, he primarily painted for churches. Many other Renaissance artists continued this trend, painting unique visions of biblical scenes. At first glance, I saw a primal piece of work in Renunciation of Worldly Goods. False perspective, anatomically flawed bodies, and all around stiffness plagued my eyes. Only when our class started to discuss the painting did I stop to think about how this must have looked in the 14th century. Later, we learned about the period eye, conceptualized by Michael Baxandall. Cultivating an understanding through a circumstances of the time in which it was created is an integral part of appreciating historical art. 

Needless to say, Renunciation of Worldly Goods won me over in the end. St. Francis stares off into heaven, and a reply signals down with a gentle hand. Everything, even his clothes, has been renounced in the name of God. Surrounding him, displeased townspeople, glaring at the public display. A stern looking churchman covers St. Francis, and refuses to look at the true saint before him. Despite all that makes this painting funny, weird, or just uncomfortable, there are genuine elements of humility and purity.

Dear juniors and seniors, this painting is my gift to you. Stick with Art History, be it here or in college. Though I signed up for Art History on a whim, I consider what I’ve learned here to be deeply valuable.


Editor's Note: Students were asked to give a painting to someone or something they cared for. These are their moving responses.
  • 7:00 AM

Two Old Men Eating Soup

Francisco Goya
Francisco Goya, Two Old Men Eating Soup, 1819
By LISA MAEDA

With a title like Two Old Men Eating Soup, one would expect a picture of fragility, even peace. Instead, Francisco Goya paints us a scene straight out of a nightmare. The Black Paintings, a set of 14 murals painted on the walls of Goya's house, evoke horror created from both Goya's illness and sociopolitical views. Contrary to his earlier work, he explores the darkest creative corners of his mind and paints accordingly.

Before, Goya often favored to be passive in times of political strife, despite whatever views he might have held. Years later, he finds himself sick and dying, and the turbulence of the Spanish government only strengthens his distaste for mankind. He channels that distaste into the Black Paintings, a series never meant for the public eye. Twice had he fallen into severe sickness, and those near-death experiences loom over him as he paints. Violence, witchcraft, and corruption set the standard of these murals, derived from Goya's severe perceptions of those around him.

Two Old Men Eating Soup is the smallest of the series, sitting above the door frame to the dining hall. Like unwelcome guests joining you for a meal, they sneer and point to the paintings on their left as if to acknowledge their company. Some speculate that the pair may not be men at all, but witches. Directly to the left of them is Two Old Men, a painting similar in subject but different in nature. An old man grips a cane as another who resembles a pig-like monster, whispers into his ear. Like Two Old Men Eating Soup, Two Old Men features one "normal" looking man and one that could barely be called human, yet both are the same in their respective titles.

Our class took a day to indulge in poetry, and was told to apply a piece to our next blog post. William Blake's The Tyger stood out particularly for it's criticism of a creator. "What immortal hand or eye / Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?" asks Blake. Goya's Black Paintings are Blake's tiger. How could the same man who painted the Black Paintings paint gentle, quiet portraits just years before? 

Though Goya's Black Paintings never intended these murals to be seen, I believe they would be best viewed in the long lost house from where they originated. Unfortunately, rejoining these murals, which have been transferred to canvas, with their siblings back to their home would be a near impossible feat. We can only imagine Two Old Men Eating Soup watching the scene of Two Old Men together with devilish geniality. "Accept it. We are one and the same," they cackle. "Man and death."
  • 7:00 AM

Diana Leaving the Bath

Diana Leaving the Bath
Francois Boucher, Diana Leaving the Bath, 1742
By LISA MAEDA

Let's be honest. Upon encountering this scene, these ladies would make sure you would leave with a face full of arrows. Luckily for you, they won’t notice, as Francois Boucher has conveniently frozen them in place.

Boucher puts us in an awfully uncomfortable position. We peep in on an intimate scene meant to be shared by only Diana, an esteemed Roman goddess, and her assistant. Freshly bathed, they emerge from the waters to their repose on land. She poses, cross legged and relaxed. Her helper leans forward, examining the fair deity to assure her cleanliness. Remnants of today’s excursion hang off Diana’s bow – a not so subtle reference of her hunting excellence. Yet, even with that blunt reminder of the goddess’s ferocity, the Diana of the moment is unaware of our presence.

Though the two women are at the focal point of the picture, Diana takes precedence. She adheres to the bodily fashion of the times, an intentional gesture by Boucher to make the painting more appealing to collectors. It’s no wonder that his character was brought under scrutiny after he began producing paintings more on the bare side. Even more so, when he reduces divine women into vulnerable young girls. Diana Leaving the Bath is a prime example of this concept. Everything seems a smidge too perfect, especially from a man’s point of view. Her bow has been tossed aside to focus on her unblemished figure, a testament to her oath to remain pure. Rather than a goddess, she is reduced to an idealized symbol of virginity. Way to be gross, Boucher.

So why buy it? To show that you’ve tamed the goddess, of course. Sure, she’ll never take a man’s hand in marriage, but that doesn’t mean a man can’t own her. Put it up on your mantle and have a good laugh with the guys! Or, thoroughly upset your wife. Either way, this pervasive piece of art will make an unforgettable impression.

Editor's Note: The authors were asked to write sales copy for Edme-François Gersaint, the prominent rococo art dealer who offered a printed catalog of available works.
  • 7:00 AM

No.9

Lisa Maeda
Rothko, No.9, 1954
By LISA MAEDA

 Standing on the surface of the moon, I look out into the horizon. Greeted by a dark abyss above, the luminosity beneath me assures me that I'm still grounded. All this, surrounded by a frame of burnt orange — a gentle reminder that this bleak, breathtaking landscape exists simply as a painting.

 Mark Rothko's formula for abstract works seemingly allow for little detail, at least from a distance. An assortment of 3 or 4 colors, a few horizontal blocks, an unsteady hand, and voila! A bona fide Rothko, or so I thought. However, we aren't supposed to view Rothko's paintings as tiny thumbnails on Google. When asked how they should be viewed, Rothko replied, "18 inches [away]," most likely while rapidly smoking away at a cigarette. Considering his canvases ran just above the size of a regular human being, viewing a Rothko from 18 inches away would remove all distractions from one's field of vision. Now that's a different way of seeing things.

 Rothko sought tragedy in his work. Yet, in a world plagued with war and the threat of nuclear annihilation, the public desired to avert their eyes from exactly that. It's no wonder, then, that his paintings prompted many to tears at the sight of them. In Simon Schama's Power of Art, Rothko's scenes are often accompanied by a grim piano track and grey scale. His actor speaks slowly and sparingly. He is solemn faced and still, surrounded by little in his giant workshop. This lonely cinematic experience and Nietzsche's existentialist teachings honed my outlook on abstract art as a whole.

 Though the wars of the 20th century have passed, the existentialist concept of a meaningless world still remains. Still, if faced with insignificant lives and a feckless world, it is our responsibility to make something of it. Rothko's works, vague as they are, hold the same principle. Engage with the work, and discover your interpretation.
  • 7:00 AM

Bacchus and Ariadne

Bacchus and Ariadne
Titian, Bacchus and Ariadne, 1523

Poor Ariadne. What’s a girl to do when your lover deserts you on an island? Have no fear, for Bacchus is here.

Alfonso d’Este commissioned Titian to paint Bacchus and Ariadne, which would be placed in his camerino d’alabastro or the Alabaster Room at the Ducal Palace. The painting would be placed amongst works by other masters, such as Giovanni Bellini and and Dosso Dossi. Many consider the Alabaster Room as the most outstanding collection of art in this period. Accompanying Bacchus and Ariadne would be The Worship of Venus and Bacchanal of the Andrians.

Bacchus and Ariadne requires context of Ariadne’s history to be understood. Ariadne’s father, Minos, battled with hero Theseus who sought to protect Athens. Rather than siding with Minos, Ariadne falls in love with Theseus and aids him in killing her father. Theseus and Ariadne sleep together, but Theseus quickly abandons Ariadne on the island of Naxos. Distraught, she wanders the island searching for any sign of her lover. In the process, she crosses paths with Bacchus, otherwise known as Dionysus.

Bacchus and Ariadne captures Bacchus’s first glimpse of Ariadne. Though every figure flows with dynamic movement, the painting is seemingly frozen in the moment -- the moment Bacchus falls in love. He throws himself towards her, turning his head and gazing with a look of eagerness and intensity. In this fleeting second, Bacchus creates a constellation for Ariadne, visible at the upper left of the painting. The weight of the composition is equally split into two halves, one side represented by rich blueness and the other by earthly tones of Bacchus’s company and the terra behind them. Not only does this balance the painting, but it symbolizes the merging of two worlds: the ethereal and the ephemeral.

The tale of Bacchus and Ariadne is but one instance of intimacy between the celestial and mankind. It represents the close bond between the two realms, and illustrates how remarkably human the gods were, despite their divinity. Bacchus and Ariadne offers a glimpse of this humanity.

  • 7:00 AM

The Banker and his Wife and Evil Woman

Electric Light Orchestra
Quentin Matsys, The Banker and his Wife, 1504


“You made a fool of me,
But them broken dreams have got to end.”

Oh, evil women. In the scheme of female characters across the arts, they are not far and few between. Yes, lest we forget: they’re susceptible to sin. In fact, that disgraceful, unholy woman could be right in front of you. Quentin Matsys’s The Banker and his Wife reminds us that we can’t hide our bad points, no matter how hard we try.

“Rolled in from another town,
Hit some gold, too hard to settle down.”

Though this couple initially seems compatible due to their peculiar taste in headwear, in reality their relationship seems to be based on more than personal attraction. The woman absently flips through the pages of her holy book, her attention stuck to the valuables her husband counts next to her. A single glance carries into substantial interest and she leans in, destroying her devotion in favor of avarice. This business of temptation ties back to Eve’s original sin, hinted at by the fruit that sits in the back shelf behind them. Those darn, greedy women.

“Ha, ha, woman, what you gonna do,
You destroyed all the virtues that the Lord gave you.”

I can’t help but think of Electric Light Orchestra’s “Evil Woman” while looking at this pieces. Besides the fact that it’s an excessively catchy song, the lyrics are quite fitting. Though this woman may not be hopping from guy to guy, she certainly has her eyes on her man’s material wealth before all else in her life.
  • 7:00 AM

Adam and Eve

Adam and Eve
Albrecht Dürer, Adam and Eve, 1507

Though contemporary ideas about the "ideal figure" has changed radically throughout history, our fascination with it has hardly faltered. Albrecht Dürer sought to identify this body, immaculate and supreme, in his portrayal of the first humans: Adam and Eve. Though Dürer’s competence for painting takes its place in other Dürer artworks, the above happens to be an engraving. As Adam and Eve are often depicted as the paradigm of human perfection, Dürer’s undertaking of this subject called forth his knowledge of proportion, symmetry, and other artistic techniques to accumulate into this engraving. Dürer believed that an artist could achieve a higher understanding of their creations by expanding their field of knowledge to other subjects. Naming this artistic notion kunst, Dürer applies his self-invented theory to Adam and Eve.

Scouring through Adam and Eve at close proximity, one can’t help but marvel at the sheer amount of detail hidden in every millimeter. Dürer’s intention to capture the quintessential man and woman did not fall short, but to ignore the rest would be an injustice. Accompanying the two humans, various creatures crowd around the two. Yet, despite their animal instincts, they sit in peace. The cat, settled comfortably between Adam and Eve, seems to pay little attention to the mouse near it. Even nature is involved in the parity between all living beings, as the middle tree acts as a split between Adam and Eve to symbolize their balance. Only the deceitful serpent exists as a partial being in this idyllic sanctuary.

Dürer’s primary goal for Adam and Eve was to capture the intricacies and shape of the principal human figure. For starters, he seems seems to channel Apollo as a point of reference for Adam. This is evident in Adam’s highly precise muscle definition, especially noticeable in his torso and the darkened areas of his legs. In contrast, Eve’s legs are soft and untoned. Additionally, their arms are meaningfully positioned to juxtapose one another. Adam’s left arm grasps onto a branch, while Eve’s right hand discreetly cups around a fruit as her left hand reaches out to receive the snake’s apple as well. Impressively, Dürer details their arms with realistic, striking veins, highlighted by the medium in which they are presented in. Eve’s exaggerated hair flows back and weaves together in a braid-like motion. Adam’s curls spiral about his scalp with a peculiar neatness. In seemingly every way, the two are distinguished as opposites.

So, has Dürer achieved his goal of interpreting the ideal figure? Even if he hasn’t, he’s certainly worthy of applause. No piece subsists without its flaws. The fingers on Adam’s right hand may be at a slightly wrong angle, and Eve’s right leg bends oddly — still, does it matter if he’s truly captured anatomical perfection? Dürer’s achievements with this particular engraving almost certainly outshine his slight mistakes.

  • 7:00 AM

Know Your Chapeau: Woman with Flowered Hat

Jean Dupas
Jean Dupas, Woman with Flowered Hat, 1940

Jean Dupas, an artist of many trades, achieved fame through his success two stylistic movements: Art Noveau and Art Deco. By fusing these two concepts, Dupas created paintings depicting elegant women in abstraction.

The woman below the absurdity of her flowery chapeau wears an absent smile that speaks levels about the probable discomfort she feels. Perhaps it’s the heaviness of the hat, or perhaps it’s the sheer ridiculous nature that weighs on her mind as she stares off into the distance. Her beautiful, yet giraffe-like features compete with the hat’s elevation in an attempt to not be completely dwarfed. Yet, the blossom-covered headwear remains proudly undefeated. Zero points for giraffe neck. No, not even her soulless alien eyes may distract from the hat’s magnificence.

In a way, the hat resembles a layered cake. At the top, white anthurium flowers (or something which resembles them – I’m no botanist) bloom healthily at the top. If we proceed with the cake metaphor, the anthurium flowers would be the icing. Below, a yellow rose and a pale camellia rest together. Camellias and roses aren’t too similar, but they’re similar enough in petals and color that the two together are rather jarring. Color contrast is a wonderful concept, and Dupas may have dropped the ball here. Thankfully, the scarlet flowers beneath provides enough pop to save the arrangement, despite their gaudiness. Admittedly, I have no idea what they’re called. My impaired knowledge of flora terminology aside, even I know that this leaning tower of flowers makes for a mediocre bouquet at best.

In a sense, perhaps the giraffe alien lady makes the perfect match for this oddity. Hats off to you, Dupas.
  • 7:00 AM

Know Your School of Athens Philosophers: Aristotle

Aristotle
Raphael, The School of Athens, 1511

Aristotle, a renowned Greek philosopher, accomplished a multitude of feats throughout his life. His genius for intellectual and creative discovery remains a pristine example of innovation. To that end, it’s no surprise that Raphael features Aristotle and Plato in the center of The School of Athens. The painting's flow streams outwards from the two, as they are surrounded by many great scholars and artists. Juxtaposed, they walk and indicate their philosophical stance by their hand gestures. Plato’s philosophy centered around the concept that the true reality is an outlier, and what we can perceive within our unstable world is merely an abstraction of the truth. Plato’s raised hand demonstrates his belief that his ideal, stable reality exists above. In contrast, Aristotle’s reality simply exists in what we can sense. His outstretched hand moves in a downward motion, emphasizing the idea that reality exists in human experience and life. The contrasting colors of their robes, red and blue, also mark their differences.

Thus, Aristotle shares the spotlight with Plato as one of the greatest Greek philosophers in Raphael's The School of Ahtens.

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Saint Augustine Reading Rhetoric in Rome

Benozzo Gozzoli
Benozzo Gozzoli, St. Augustine Reading Rhetoric in Rome, 1464

Benozzo Gozzoli's uniqueness stems mostly from his absurd yet flowing depictions of nature. His affinity for the Earth was unparalleled, crowding his art with trees, rocks, and animals. However, what do we end up with when all but the latter remains absent from his paintings?

Of course, that's not entirely true. Gozzoli sneaks in windows in the back to draw some buildings and a single tree. Yet, Gozzoli has no choice to divert from his adoration of topiary to focus on the primary subject of this painting. St. Augustine teaches rhetoric to his students gathered around below him. Some are enthralled, others are not. It's your typical classroom, with all but the exception of the presence of a small dog.

Amusingly, the tiny pup diverts most of the attention to itself, rather than St. Augustine, who we should be focusing on. The dog's position, being squarely in front of St. Augustine and settled comfortably in the middle, acts as the core of the picture. Does it ruin the painting? Maybe. True, we lose ourselves in the oddness of the dog's appearance rather than seeing the painting for what it is: Saint Augustine teaching rhetoric in Rome. Nonetheless, the painting remains pleasant. In fact, the dog only strengthens the shape of the painting, a neat triangle leading from St. Augustine down to his students.

Some could speculate about the dog's meaning. Loyalty, innocence, or any by the book canine symbolism could be fair game.

Or, alternatively, Gozzoli could have simply wanted to paint a cute dog, because that's what Gozzoli does.

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Journey of the Magi

Benozzo Gozzoli
Benozzo Gozzoli, Journey of the Magi, 1459

The acme of Benozzo Gozzoli’s career, the Journey of the Magi serves as the accumulation of all of Gozzoli’s skills and admirations.

Gozzoli, pupil of Fra Angelico, is often overlooked in the assemblage of Renaissance artists. Little is known about Gozzoli, past his student-mentor relationship with Angelico. He boasts no awe-inspiring achievements or scandals. Thus, we see Gozzoli only for his art, rather than his life. His style is infamous for changing and many of his pieces fail to match stylistically when compared. However, Gozzoli did retain a style of his own, of which is displayed wholly in the Medici commissioned Journey of the Magi.

Gozzoli, enthralled with nature, featured sloping cliffs, tall trees, and a slew of animals in many of his paintings. The structures of rock are graceful and smooth, simulating drapery rather than stone. The impracticality of his favored painting subjects is imminent in his art, signaling that Gozzoli did not aim for a realistic approach. Rather, the Journey of the Magi is meant to depict the Medici family’s progression and glorify Lorenzo de' Medici, drawing the most attention out of the crowd of people. He sits on a white horse with adorned clothing, symbolizing one of three Magi traveling to visit the Christ child. Gozzoli gratuitously paints himself concealed in the crowd, recognizable by his gaze.

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