My Kid Could Paint That

Nicolas Sebastien Adam, Prometheus Chained, 1762

Boy howdy, wouldn't it suck to be this guy? Poor Prometheus here helped out humanity by givin' them fire, and Zeus turned around and chained him to a rock. That's a restraint against motion, dooming the dude to a sedentary life on a rock. We as human beings value freedom of movement so much that it defines the way we interact and live on just about every level.

Through body language, automobiles, dance, and travel we express our individuality with movement, geographically and otherwise. Even our penal system relies on the restriction of movement and related privileges by locking inmates in shared cells. Granted, we have to keep them somewhere, but  it certainly plays into the equation. Either way, the prisoners are damn lucky that they don't have the added unpleasantness of having their liver eaten by a giant bird day after day. Such is the cherry atop Prometheus' just desserts.

 Looking at this sculpture you can almost feel Prometheus' anguish as the giant eagle chows down on his liver, leading the titan to tug and pull at the chains that bind him, wearing the skin at his wrists raw and bloody while the wind blasts in his face and scatters the sheets behind his body. The violent movement of the wind to the right of the sculpture along with the pointed beak of the bird and Prometheus' right elbow all join together to force you off the cliff side, tumbling down, and down into the chasm below. It's all rather melodramatic, but that's how the gods play their game, and what gorgeous statuary it makes.

George Bellows, Stag at Sharkey's, 1909

We're at the halfway point now in our exploration of the motion of art. At this time I'd like to say that I struggled with the exact subject of this collection for a good long while. The idea came to me as I poured over the text book, preparing for a dreaded test that never reared its ugly head. As I studied up on my 20th century art, I spotted Bird in Space, and immediately began to plan out an elaborate series on Weightlessness. While that may have been a fun experiment, I felt increasingly limited by the specificity. Motion allows for so much more wiggle room.

Just for the sake of demonstration, let's bring gender into the discussion. What defines movements as inherently masculine or feminine? As cool as George Bellow's Stag at Sharkey's may be, it also happens to serve as a prime example of the distinction in society and art made between the two sexes. Up in the ring, two muscular ferocious men duke it out for glory as anxious gamblers and sports enthusiasts look on,  savoring every blow traded between the two men. The painting practically swings on it's mounting with the final collision between the unstoppable force, and the immovable object, their muscles tightened, their veins popping. It is no surprise that a painting depicting boxing in 1909 lacks a single woman in the mix. However, if the crowd and ring were peeled away, the gloves taken, and features removed from the remaining figures, the genderless forms would still appear to most to carry an air of masculinity.

The problem stems from an association with certain motions and poses with gender. Warrior paintings such as Antonio Canova's Theseus Fighting the Centaur and Stag at Sharkey's depict strong male characters lashing out violently, the beauty of the pieces lying in their brutality. If someone walked up to me and said, "Name the two baddest dudes you know from Art History," I'd immediately jump to those works, but just about anyone could come up with some heroic male figure. But replace "dudes" with "dudettes" and suddenly you've reached an impasse.

 You see, we associate females and art with Mona Lisa and The Birth of Venus, pretty faces that occasionally serve as centerpieces to the action about them. For this reason I hail the subverting force of works such as Munch's Death of Marat and Gentileschi's Judith and Holofernes, which place the power in the hands of the women, and challenge gender norms, as did the women they depict.

Winged Victory of Samothrace, 220 - 190 B.C.

What better way to segue out of a tragedy at sea, than with a statue commemorating a victory of the very same sort. But first, let's talk about intentions. Stay with me here: Let's say that Giacometti and Monet are each asked to paint the same woman. Both of these fine men have a penchant for creating motion in even the most stationary subjects, but the resulting images would likely have two entirely different  emotions behind them.

Monet's piece would likely inspire thoughts of summer afternoons and wind winding through the trees, while Giacometti's painting would leave viewers unsettled. It is not Giacometti's subject matter, but his violent and obsessive technique, that gives his sculptures and paintings such a haunting mystique. In the same way that a dog does not act as a static symbol for fidelity, motion  exists as an evolving motif of art, able to be explored through countless mediums and subjects and limited only by those who wield its awesome power.

Speaking of awesome power, I suppose you want to hear a bit about this statue commemorating that ancient Naval battle that I mentioned. As you may have noticed, this puppy dates way back to the GrecoRoman times, when the arts first began to blossom and togas weren't just for parties. Winged Victory of Samothrace stands proudly at the Louvre to this day, where art fans world wide can come and admire the beautiful handiwork of the ancient sculptors who will, sadly, never get the praise they deserve.

Every inch of the regal statue buzzes with energy, from the fabric that flows wispily in the salty breeze of the ancient Cretan Sea to the stock still legs and wings, poised and ready to launch the statue triumphantly into the air. The attention to detail in the piece remains absolutely astonishing, even by today's standards. Even in the clinging of the cloth to the figures stomach there is a clear movement, namely the stretching of the fabric as the victorious Nike twists and turns in a motion of pure ecstasy.  Not until Bernini would a sculptor again summon such a light and airy effect from the cold clutches of stone.

J. M. William Turner, Fire Aboard a Ship, 1835

As we proceed to the next piece you may find yourself wondering "What's up with this kid's theme? Art is Motion? Does he mean Art in Motion? No, I don't. Art moves, lives, and breathes. If it's good art anyway. I can't say much for the stick figure renditions of class field-trips that may adorn some of your refrigerators. But I could be wrong about those, as well.

Even if the subject in a work appears motionless, there is movement hidden beneath the image, harkening back to the work's conception. The true artist breathes life and motion into the canvas with every brush stroke, whether the strokes be violent or gentle, rough or smooth, clashing or flowing. My objective here is to capture that concept through pieces that express motion through their subject - though remember, we just decided that that's not a requirement - and capture the beauty of movement in oil, bronze, and stone.

Now, I have to be honest here: This one isn't nearly as fun as the last. Those of you not fond of the macabre might as well scout ahead of the group, take a look at some of the other pieces chosen by my compatriots here on the blog. You won't regret it, they're top notch writers. For those of you still here, welcome to the twisted world of William Turner. Shipwrecks and ocean storms appear throughout Turner's work, so Fire Aboard a Ship doesn't particularly stand out among the crowd through its subject. Instead its merit lies within the chaotic, yet calculated movement of brushwork and color within the piece. I'd like to invite you to spend a minute or two with the painting before joining me again in the next paragraph.

Horrific, huh? Those purples, browns, and blacks, contorting, congealing, and cavorting about the flaming ship draw the viewer into the center of the painting where the helpless castaways struggle to stay aboard the vessel. But look closely. The movement of the waves and the ocean has taken away the form of the ship, leaving only a sea swell, vaguely resembling a craft which the people clammer to board, even as they become one with the unforgiving ocean. Through violent and methodic strokes, Turner transforms the sea into a living breathing amalgamation of merciless waves, dragging the ship and her children into the cold depths of the deep blue.

Constantin Brâncuşi, Bird in Space, 1923

Dear reader - assuming that anyone actually reads my posts - please join me on a little adventure that I like to call: Art is Motion. Now you may be thinking, "I don't know about this, Bill. It sounds like one of them public broadcasting shows where they paint the happy little trees." Fear not anonymous reader and Bill, for there will be no such tom foolery in the highbrow - questionable - art analysis to follow. So, without further adieu: Art is Motion #1 - Bird in Space by  Constantin Brâncuşi.

Just look at that sculpture. Beautiful. Empowering. Exciting. I chose this as my first piece for the show for one simple reason: I look at it and my heart starts racing. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead. I feel invigorated. I feel like I can take off into the sky.

Every chance that I get to spend time with the work - and even as I am writing this - I witness the same series of events: The Bird stands there, silent, refined, flawless. Then it moves, stretching out toward the sky. Then it  flies, up and away from the wooden base, out of the sterile backdrop, into the blue sky above. Then it floats endlessly, soaring through the stratosphere at thousands and thousands of miles per hour, but appearing motionless all the same, no backdrop to give the viewer reference.

But that's just me. To some I'm sure it's just some phallic statue that would tie together a modern art-deco living room quite nicely if placed gently upon the end table of a favorite love seat. But time and time again, love seats prove a tad less interesting than their name suggests, while space travel retains the title of "Pretty Much the Coolest Thing Ever."

Water Graves 
Gericault’s figures in The Raft of Medusa are drowning. Not in their subconscious or any other metaphorical substance as discussed in prior analyses, but physically drowning. I have examined many illusions of this type of death in my previous posts, but none have dealt with the tremulous fear of an actual drowning. Confronted with cannibalism, rotting flesh, and fading hope on a life-sized canvas, the viewer himself feels as if he is struggling to stay alive on the condemned Méduse. This canvas is not an illustration of a piece of literature, a mythological interpretation, or a projection of the creator’s fantastical mind. Gericault, after months of intense research, recreated the historic wreck of the frigate Méduse. All of a sudden, the viewer is forced to grasp that Gericault’s shipwreck hanging on a red wall in the Louvre, a monstrous amalgamation of rotting flesh and salty water, happened. Drowning, and in a more general sense, death, becomes instantly palpable, as the eye moves across dismembered limbs and green bodies up to a wind blown piece of fabric floating in a dark and shadowed sky.

I have seen many disturbing paintings as an Art History student, but for me, Gericault’s Raft of Medusa is perhaps the most unsettling. I assume my fear of it comes from my own diluted aquaphobia. Who else would focus an entire collection around drowning? This collection has allowed me to investigate the cruel, yet at times forgiving, nature of the sea, and how artists and fictitious characters entrap themselves in illusions of drowning. The ocean can be a marvelous place, but with beauty always comes sadness.

The arms of the ocean, so sweet and so cold. All this devotion I never knew at all. And the crashes are heaven, for a sinner released, let the arms of the ocean deliver me.

Never Let Me Go, Florence and the Machine

Water Graves 

Frida Kahlo, What the Water Gave Me, 1938

"I am what the water gave me, a smoke-ring in a jar, the braided rope, my ladder-to-the-light, my shivering bird heartcaught." Pascale Petit, What the Water Gave Me: Poems After Frida Kahlo 

Frida Kahlo’s What the Water Gave Me renders simple child’s play in a bathtub into a grotesque scene with Bosch-esque miniature characters. Kahlo replaces toy boats and rubber ducks with skewered birds and nude women. The water supports floating memories of life and death, of love and loss, unable to stay permanently under the water. Images representing various periods of Kahlo’s past breech the surface and trap Kahlo in the tub. Every object appears solid and heavy, yet they all stay afloat—a volcano, a skyscraper, various flora and fauna. A miniature figure of Kahlo bobs in the middle of the tub, strangled by a tightrope connected to the other objects in the composition. Kahlo has become entrapped in the web of her subconscious, drowning under the weight of her own memories. This concept becomes more complex when we bring the Kahlo submerged in the bathtub back into the picture. These miniature bathtub scenes are projections of Kahlo’s mind. In this context, the image of Kahlo being strangled by her past becomes even more disturbing, as she is the one imagining this. This painting is ultimately an exorcism for the artist, a hope to escape from a haunting past by confining it to the canvas. Unlike Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, the undesirable experiences and memories once forced under the water have resurfaced, and the subject must encounter them again.

Water Graves 

Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus,  1558

“Proud of his success, the foolish Icarus forsook his guide, rising upon his wings to touch the skies; but as he neared the scorching sun, its heat softened the fragrant wax that held his plumes; and heat increasing melted the soft wax—he waved his naked arms instead of wings, with no more feathers to sustain his flight. And as he called upon his father's name his voice was smothered in the dark blue sea, now called Icarian from the dead boy's name.” Metamorphoses, Ovid

In another of Ovid’s myths, Icarus, son of the craftsman Daedalus, is given a pair of wings made out of feathers, wax, and leather, given to him by his father as a method of escape from the island Crete. Ignoring the warning from his father, Icarus flew too close to the sun, eventually melting the wax and leading him to his death.

In Bruegel’s Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, the farmer and plough seen in the foreground dominate the composition, a strange but effective choice on Bruegel’s part. The yellow-tinted light highlights the banks of the bay, drawing the eye away from the title character. It is only after the eye moves toward the right of the composition that the viewer sees Icarus. Well, part of Icarus. His flailing legs are the last to plummet into the cold green sea. Icarus will inevitably drown, a consequence brought about by his ignorance. But in a way, Icarus, in this depiction, has already drowned. He has drowned in the landscape of this chaotic composition, his existence forgotten. Such is the nature of the cruel sea.

His suffering will forever be ignored as the peasants of the foreground continue to wade through long days and short nights. In his poem, “Musee des Beaux-Arts,” W. H. Auden writes “In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away/Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,/But for him it was not an important failure” (14-17). It is a tendency for man to bury things he cannot withstand or cannot worry himself with. He buries them in work, play, and love. We all have memories, regrets, and losses condemned to the benthos of our subconscious. We just pray that they don’t resurface.

Water Graves 

Eurydice, Valerie Morignat, 2009

“So Orpheus then received his wife; and Pluto told him he might now ascend from these Avernian vales up to the light, with his Eurydice; but, if he turned his eyes to look at her, the gift of her delivery would be lost. They picked their way in silence up a steep and gloomy path of darkness. There remained but little more to climb till they would touch earth's surface, when in fear he might again lose her, and anxious for another look at her, he turned his eyes so he could gaze upon her. Instantly she slipped away. He stretched out to her his despairing arms, eager to rescue her, or feel her form, but could hold nothing save the yielding air.” Metamorphoses, Ovid

Perhaps the most tragic of Ovid’s myth, the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice encapsulates the strength, devotion, and misfortune of young love. Determined to resurrect Eurydice from Hades, Orpheus played his most cathartic music to gain access to the underworld. Even the bloodless ghosts themselves wept. He was allowed to take his wife from the underworld under one condition—he could not turn around to look at her. Inevitably he did, and she died a second death.

In Valerie Morignat’s photograph, water is the medium by which Eurydice reenters Hades. The disturbed surface of the water shows that the photograph has captured Eurydice mere moments after Orpheus looked back. Morignat interprets the young bride’s second death as a drowning. Not only does the water engulf Eurydice’s body, but it also consumes any memory Orpheus had of his bride. In stage productions that include the retelling of this myth, such as Mary Zimmerman’s Metamorphoses and Sarah Ruhl’s Eurydice, on-stage water is used as a symbol of forgetfulness. In both productions, Orpheus is doused in water as memories of his beloved Eurydice gradually wash away—a baptism. In essence, this is what Morignat captures in her photograph. Orpheus, unseen, reaches for Eurydice as she sinks deeper and deeper into the water, her reflective porcelain flesh the only visible semblance of her existence.

Water Graves 

Roy Lichtenstein, Drowning Girl, 1963

Roy Lichtenstein’s Drowning Girl is a tidal wave of clichés. Literally. Lichtenstein’s mastery comes from his ability to make an emotional scene feel impersonal and distant. In Lichtenstein’s panel, the subject seems to be drowning in her own tears, shouting “I’d rather sink than call Brad for help!” above the crashing waves. The death of the character is meant to be taken lightly, a mere vehicle for Lichtenstein’s dark humor. The clichés of heartbreak, young love, and old Hollywood damsels-in-distress are specialties of Lichtenstein’s, as one can deduce from this hyperemotional frame.

But in this scene, Lichtenstein subverts the conventional ‘victimized female’ complex and projects a feminist message. For the forlorn girl, enabling drowning declares her independence from her hurtful ex-lover, and in extension, from any semblance of male aid. What does this say about the ability of women to free themselves from their male counterparts? Must they resort to a premature death in order to escape? Well for Hamlet’s Ophelia (see previous post), it was the only option. Death meant escape, and drowning in a substance associated with femininity sends a message that is too clear. These women have drowned in their own stereotypes and stigmas, unable to livingly free themselves from their respective patriarchal cultures—sixteenth century England and mid-twentieth century suburbia. Lichtenstein’s usage of Ben-Day dots, typical in mass-produced images such as comic strips, gives the female character a certain universal quality. Anyone can be the Drowning Girl. So step back and ask yourself, “Do I need Brad?”