My Kid Could Paint That

Frédéric Bazille, Summer Scene, 1869

Claude Monet, Rouen Cathedral Facade and Tour d'Albane, 1894

Édouard Manet, The Dead Christ and the Angels, 1864

My god what a mess.

The first of Manet’s only two religious paintings, The Dead Christ and the Angels was perhaps one of the most controversial of his body of work. Displayed in 1864, during the era of Realism, Neoclassicism and the new emergence of Impressionism, Manet’s The Dead Christ and the Angels represents both the passion of Impressionism and the tone of Neoclassicism.

Unlike the idealistic paintings of the time, Christ’s infamous cross-bearing posture has been diminished to a withered, powerless and overall just plain awkward slumping state. Reclining with his hands flopped to his sides, legs spread unceremoniously apart, and the look of just plain futility and angst, this version of the great and powerful Jesus Christ does not bode well for the countless devotees of our Lord and Savior. Manet’s representation of Christ depicts him as vulnerable, unheroic and overall... well, human. Additionally, the two angels behind him look too much like peasant women with huge elegant wings strapped onto their backs. A scene most certainly not worthy of worship.

Oh but wait - there’s more.

Known as the “bridge between realism and impressionism,” Manet’s ability to find the right balance became quite difficult, especially in this painting. It was almost as if Manet’s Neoclassicism side said “let’s paint a religious painting, and make it realistic,” and his young, enthusiastic Impressionistic side went on hyperdrive and went a bit too far with the realism. The lighting of the painting is dour by standards of both Impressionistic and Realistic paintings of the time. A soft light focuses only on Christ and the angel on the right. The shadows, paired with the mournful blacks, browns and whites, really highlight the bruises and transparency of Christ’s corpse. The Angel, positioned slightly behind Christ, holds him up as if he wasn’t strong enough to do so himself. Critics of the Salon felt the painting lacked any sort of “holiness and spirituality,” and, in general, Christ looked just “too dead” for their tastes. Although, Manet did include a thin halo, one of the only details to suggest any sort of divinity. Of course, this wasn’t the only mistake made by Monsieur Manet.

On a rock in the the lower right side of the painting, there is a small inscription that reads “Gospel according to Saint John, Chapter 20, Verse 12.” In that particular passage, Mary Magdalene has found Jesus’ tomb empty except for the two angels. In the painting, however, the two angels are with Christ instead of in his tomb waiting to greet Mary Magdalene. Furthermore, while on its way to the 1864 Salon Exhibition, Manet realizes that he had painted the wound on the right side, instead of the left. Frantically, he contacts Baudelaire confessing his inaccuracy. Baudelaire instructs him to fix his mistake so as to not “ give the malicious something to laugh at.” Unfortunately, Manet stubbornly kept the wound on the right and the critics, indubitably, had a field day.

When asked to pick a single painting off a wall almost 30 times my size, I chose this one. Not the Lichtenstein, not any of the Magrittes, nor the numerous paintings of naked ladies. I chose this one. When I looked at the title and the man who painted it, I was somewhat stunned at my own subconscious. I am not religious, nor am I a huge fan of Impressionism, especially Manet...but I’d follow this painting to hell and back if I had to. Manet’s jab at both religion and realism, and the softness and beauty created by the curved lines and muted color palette serves as a good reminder for me of how gloriously amusing and stunning art can be.

Camille Pissarro, The Boulevard Montmartre on a Winter Morning, 1897

The Impressionist style and soothing color palette used by Pissarro initially drew me to this piece. After considering the painting further, I realized that the work combines some of the most comforting memories of the past years of my life, somehow bringing me back to my own time in Paris on this boulevard. I place myself in this winter scene a few years ago, walking down the only lively street of Hanover, New Hampshire in the snow, getting a feel of college communities for the first time and realizing that I should not fear the future, but look forward to new and different phases of life. Staring at this work for a prolonged period of time, I act as though I am analyzing every line (and getting it, too), when really I simply watch the movement, how the snow seems to actually fall upon the busy Parisians on loop. I think about how Pissarro found a way to capture a moment and keep it alive as long as the canvas holds up. The Boulevard Montmartre on a Winter Morning is far more than paint on cloth, because it encompasses so much emotion and memory for whoever has the pleasure of spending some time with it.

Pissarro’s multiple depictions of Paris’s famous Boulevard Montmartre highlight everyday life using numerous human subjects represented in a realistic manner. The Boulevard Montmartre on a Winter Morning features the distinctive Impressionist texture, which adds to the work’s niveous atmosphere. Pissarro uses hues of orange and blue to complement one another and contrast the frosted winter environment, ultimately creating an aesthetically pleasing palette. The streetlights dividing the boulevard draw attention to the center of the painting and provide a balanced base. They also provide scale, emphasizing the pedestrians’ diminutive nature. Detailed buildings bring focus to the windows and roofs on the upper half of the canvas and lead the eye from the far right to the street’s vanishing point. Pissarro’s depiction of the boulevard, continuing to the horizon, not only adds depth and space, but it reinforces perspective. By making the street seem to fade away higher on the canvas, he creates an aerial view of the Boulevard Montmartre that allows viewers of the painting to seemingly look down upon the pedestrians, dramatically changing interpretive perception from that of an eye-level point of view.

Marcel Duchamp, Bride, 1912

Subtle beauty is a main theme in this painting. Upon first encounter, I saw a bunch of pipes and jars oddly assorted on a canvas with the words "Bride, Duchamp" underneath it. However, after a long period of looking at the painting, I spotted the bride and I realized that the painter was not a nut job after all. He knew what he was painting and he masterfully executed it in a way that made me think about the painting. In Renaissance art, the painting is straight forward and one can easily spot the subject of the painting (usually a man or woman) and any kind of symbolism surrounding it. In Modern art and specifically "conceptual art" require a lot more thought to determine the focus of the painting.

Caravaggio, The Calling of Saint Matthew, 1600

I've always liked art. In fact, at 10 years old, I wanted to be just like Raphael. As a 5th grader I looked forward to my art classes every day, when I would become the artist/Ninja Turtle that I always wanted to be. But what 10 year-old me didn't understand, besides the fact that I wasn't a radioactive turtle, was that art isn't just about be able to draw well and throw ninja stars. Possibly more important is the way the scene looks. The way the light is cast, the shadows and the lines.

The main thing that attracted me to this particular painting was the realism. The shadows are perfectly done, and the line on the wall from shadow contrasts with Jesus's face, putting it in sharp relief. The two characters in the middle add balance while framing the man with the amazing beard, who may or may not be Saint Matthew. Art historians argue about which of them is Saint Matthew. I personally subscribe to the school of thought that a Saint should have a really cool beard. The bearded man may be pointing at himself as if to say "You mean me?" or he may be pointing at the young man with his head down. However, in the other two paintings done in this series, Saint Matthew is depicted with a really cool beard, lending credence to the former theory.While it was a religious painting, this painting was disliked by many members of the church for showing both Jesus and Saint Matthew in a bar.

The painting was commissioned by Cardinal Matteo Contarelli, who wanted art done about his namesake. Caravaggio stepped in to create a series of paintings of Saint Matthew, the other two being The Inspiration of Saint Matthew and The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew.

Max Ernst, Attirement of the Bride, 1940

Drawn to this painting by its whimsical, slightly jaded tone, I felt I was doing an injustice not to keep it on the wall. Originally, it was Ernst’s clever use of surrealism that held my attention. Surrealism has always been a technique I wanted to be good at in my own paintings, and because of that I really admire the absurdity Max Ernst creates. That being said, Max Ernst dabbled often in the absurdity as he claims in 1930. "Ernst was visited nearly every day by the Bird Superior, named Loplop, an extraordinary phantom of model fidelity who attached himself to [his] person. He presented [him] with a heart in a cage, two petals, three leaves, a flower and a young girl." This bit of information inclines me to feel overwhelmed with the symbolism behind these characters and this painting.

Not knowing where to begin in this absurd conundrum I resort to analysing the title, leading my attention to the attire of the bride in the center. Her get-up could be seen as a luxurious cloak transformed to look like a bird. Fashioning this bird cloak, the bride's nakedness peeks through, mirroring the picture on the wall. However, the fantasy characters around her fail to appear in the picture. Almost as if Ernst is taking a "normal" picture in the background, and inserting his own surrealist twist, proving to the world his possible verge on insanity.

Andre Masson, The Kill, 1944

There’s a certain impression a picture can establish into one’s mind the split second they see it for the first time. For The Kill, that impression was frenzied. Perhaps that was the reason I chose this picture, in my hurried attempt to find a picture I could write at length about. So why not something abstract? That's fancy, right?

Truthfully, there's only a little known about Andre Masson. However, you can infer a lot about him through his art. For Masson, an ex-soldier, feelings of distress and hysteria are known well. Enlisting in the military during the first World War, Masson craved the "ecstasy of death" that he would surely experience on the battlefield. Whatever satisfaction or ecstasy Masson had hoped for was null after truly participating in the fray. Later in life, Masson was far from a pleasant man. He had erratic and violent tendencies that were often reflected through his gory and/or erotic art. His gruesome surrealistic style was hardly appreciated by the aesthetically-challenged Nazis.

The painting is defined by the red streaks that are scattered throughout the canvas that are joined by the various organic shapes of yellow, green, and blue. This creates a busy, abstract piece of art that can easily confuse you. The middle allows for some breathing room between the shapes, while the sides become more clustered. The more one looks at it, the more jarring the piece becomes. Taking the title in context, this picture illustrates an act of violence.

The Kill is most certainly one of Masson’s lighter pieces. The pale background, bright colors, and free shapes, allows us to perceive this picture as more lighthearted than it actually is. Perhaps the contrast between The Kill and Masson’s other artwork is to illustrate his earlier perception of war and death to his current understanding.

Unknown, Garbhadhatu (Taizōkai) mandala, 9th Century

On the first day of Art History class, the students were told to walk across the room towards a wall consumed by pictures of art and tear off all the pictures except one that caught our attention the most. Initially, as I tore at the pages taped to the classroom wall, I was caught by the rich reds and cobalt blues that echo the repetition within the Garbhadhatu (Taizōkai) mandala -  translated as Womb World. However as I looked closer at the 9th century art piece, it became strangely familiar, drawing me back to my childhood memories.

From what I can recall, my mother had dragged me along to what seemed like the fifteenth furniture store as she tried to satisfy her obsessive redecorating phase. We stepped into a local oriental shop overwhelmed by Buddhist statues and golden gongs, and before I knew it I was scrambling for my mother whom I had lost a few seconds before hand. While I was searching, my eye caught this Womb World mandala that stretched from ceiling to floor. Alone, I stared at the piece in confusion and awe, trailing the shift in colors and interactive pattern until I was awoken by the familiar sound of my mother's scolding as she bargained with the owner for a cheaper price on a Buddha head.

The Womb World mandala represents a metaphysical space within Vajrayana Buddhism. In the center sits the Vaicrocana Buddha, and surrounding him are eight buddhas and bodhisattvas. Within the Buddhist ideologies, the Vaicrocana Buddha represents a concept of emptiness, more commonly known as selflessness and the act of liberation by learning from one's surroundings. While this piece meant nothing to my childhood-self, the Buddhist ideologies illustrated in the Womb World mandala now resonate with the start of my last year of high school. As I catch glances of the light at the end of this tunnel, I find myself looking at this ending the way I looked at the artwork when I first saw it: in confused and awe. Conclusively, I don't want to be awoken by the sounds of familiarity. Instead, I hope to achieve as the Vaicrocana Buddha does by becoming enlightened with selflessness, and rather opening myself up to unknown perspectives, people, and experiences in this finale.

Edouard Manet, La Rue Mosnier aux Drapeaux,  1878

Francisco Clemente, Water and Wine, 1981