My Kid Could Paint That

Kazimir Malevich, Suprematist Composition: Airplane Flying, 1915

At about this time last year, I wrote a blog post that I feel is very dissimilar to this one. I wrote about growing up, about my first day in art history; all with a distinct tone of fear, excitement, and naïveté. The piece I chose was a colorful, but dark Van Gogh with trees extending like prison bars and a couple dissolving in the center.

This piece, on the other hand, is meant to be nothing but what is seen. Kazimir Malevich's Suprematist theory and goal was to find the "zero degree," or the point where art cannot be viewed as anything but what is on the canvas. Where it cannot be interpreted as a picture of the world, but rather a world in and of itself. Malevich's goal was to separate the viewer entirely from the world around them, painting the piece over so much that even the texture of the canvas vanishes and only the colors and shapes exist. These shapes are given to the viewer and the viewer must exist with them or look away. Much like Rothko's works, the piece is meant to be viewed up close, with only the piece within their sights.

The change from the Van Gogh to the Suprematist work is a dramatic one - as growing up always is. It involves, for me, whiting out the Van Gogh and putting flat shapes on top of the restraining trees. This year was one of clean slates and violent color, one of painting over and of breaking apart. When I spoke of the year ahead what seems like so long ago, the barring trees felt like a preview of what I was about to do, the struggles of the year ahead.

At the "zero degree," this year can be viewed as a transition, as the last period anywhere always is. I'm preparing to take a step into the real world, whatever that may be. But, also at this degree, all of the darkest moments of the year fit within the shapes of the airplane flying, even the most painful memories blending into just another shape on the canvas. John Logan's play, Red, started this year of Art History class for me. One line encapsulates my senior year - mostly because I have never felt closer to Rothko than when he states that "the only thing [he fears] in life... is that one day the black will swallow the red."

There's quite a bit of black on this canvas.

John Singer Sargent, Madame Gautreau Drinking A Toast, 1882-3

Preceding his famously controversial portrait of Madame X, John Singer Sargent painted this far more intimate and gentle piece as a gift to Madame Gautreau's mother. One of my favorite parts of this piece is what Sargent coins, "the unpaintable beauty and hopeless laziness of Madame Gautreau." This work was actually a simplistic sketch for quite a while, but Sargent decided to finish it and add more life to his subject.

It's a delicate piece. Gautreau's skin seems to glow against her dark background, the lines of her dress and body not completely clear; instead smokily fading into the darkness. She cheers either to herself or someone separate from the scene; separate from her hazy nonchalance.

Mark Rothko, No. 7, 1964

Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines
By Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, ‘The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Editor's Note: Students were asked to match a poem to a picture. They could do so with or without comment; they could be serious or playful, profound or goofy. We will leave it to our dear readers to make their own connections.

Alfred Sisley, The Church of Moret, 1893

I never had any strong feelings for or against Mr. Alfred Sisley. Actually, whenever I heard his name I assumed I should be a bit more... excited than I acted. One word came to mind when I heard his name, and that was "landscape." Boy, oh boy, were there landscapes. Actually, there were over 900 landscapes. He spent his entire life painting them, with what I'm guessing is a dozen or fewer works of any other genre to his name.

But then, I stumbled upon The Church of Moret, the namesake and inspiration for a series of no less than six pieces all of the same church, even at the same angle. The incredible thing he does is make one building seem like it's in a whole different world. His landscapes clearly demonstrate technique and skill, but this series of paintings, specifically Rainy Morning, shows that Sisley may have had a lot more up his sleeves than just landscapes. These are some of his latest attributed pieces and the viewer can notice his changed style, especially in the harsher brushstrokes and deeper contrasts in this second piece.

After seeing this series of paintings, I found plenty of the appreciation for Sisley that I thought I should have had in the first place. It may have come from a different place, but I have found that the artists I enjoy the most have revealed themselves to me in that way. I always enjoyed Van Gogh, but I did not rave about him until I luckily stumbled upon the right piece. With Sisley, I was clearly lucky in that way as well.

Alfred Sisley, The Church at Moret, Rainy Morning, 1893

Pierre-Auguste Renoir, La Promenade, 1870

It's a fleeting moment.

Even the technique itself seems blurred, the motion of the piece drawing the viewer up the hill with the lovers. The leaves around them mix into their clothing, making it difficult to discern where the bodies end and nature begins. They dissolve into their surroundings, with the nature around them just as important as their journey up the hill. Renoir draws all attention directly towards the woman. Her companion fades into the greenery, the angle of his body only serving to direct the movement of the piece. She glows through the stretching branches and leaves, the white of her dress striking the viewer immediately. The most important part of this to me is her face. It is lit up as if by its own private sun, her expression gently coy as if she's trying to make her companion think she's shy or even nonchalant about their little climb.

It is such an approachable piece, one where you can almost hear their footsteps on the ground, bodies pushing past crinkly leaves and feet snapping branches. Renoir exhibits an amazing ability to create an entire scene with his work, from the part that can be viewed to the part the viewer can feel, smell, and hear in their own minds. In many other Impressionist pieces, the work is beautiful and moving but also very confined. Here, the piece extends beyond its boundaries and encourages the viewer to look beyond their own as well.

Gustave Caillebotte, Man at His Bath, 1884

Caillebotte is most known for his scenes of urban life with strong perspective such as Paris Street, Rainy Day. In this piece, Caillebotte changes his style drastically. The rainy blue palette is quite similar to his other works, but this piece is far more intimate than the others. Viewing it has a distinctly voyeuristic feel to it, mostly due to the view from behind the man as if we had come through a door and interrupted him.

I love this piece because of the delicate vulnerability it has. There is an air of voyeurism, clearly, but it doesn't feel very naughty at all. On the contrary, it feels rather intimate. Caillebotte's attention to detail, from the wet footprints on the floor to the tension in the towel, amplifies the emotions of the piece instead of distracting from them. The stark white curtain highlights the man, almost cutting the piece in half; one side is him and the other side is his bath and some strewn towel on the ground. He is separate from the small space, though I can't place my finger on how.

Roy Lichtenstein, Brattata, 1962

When I first saw this Lichtenstein, I immediately thought of Archer. The show's just returned for its new season, changing the entire plot and introducing a whole new point of the show: sell an actual ton of drugs and retire for life.

Of course, there wouldn't be an entire season devoted to that if the plan actually worked.

The thing I love about this piece is the written caption on it along with the written, worded sound of missile fire. Instead of being even anxious or afraid of the additional fire aimed at him, the pilot talks about getting more planes to aim at and how he wants to shoot down a certain number for bragging rights. At least for me, I can't imagine that level of comfort in that sort of area, especially with my life on the line. But I think Lichtenstein is trying to evoke that sort of shock with this piece, with the nonchalance of the pilot hitting just as hard as his missiles.

Archer does the same thing. Through the entire show, the shooting and violence and complete mayhem combine into something that is absolutely hysterical, though little of it should be. One of the actual workers in ISIS is shot in every single battle there is on site, actually (spoiler) being killed off in the first episode of this new season. Mixed with witty banter and hot female spies, the show could be a complete mess. Instead, exemplified by Archer himself, it becomes a smart show, opening a whole different world than other spy shows. I'm not saying it's enlightening, but there is something in its dark comedy that says quite a lot about its viewers and what they are interested in seeing: chaos.

Goya, Mujeres Riendo, 1819-1823

There's this moment in every senior's life, whether at the very end of high school or just throughout the year, where they realize the finality of everything they do. From the last first day of high school and picking your last new locker to the last class with your favorite teacher and turning in your very last exam, it all seems so... incomplete.

Maybe what I'm trying to get at is that high school - and life afterwards - isn't going to be wrapped up with a ribbon and put away nicely. Things aren't going to be simple. Not every single person in my class is going to know their exact plan for the next four years of their life. I know I won't... and that's scary. We go through our day to day lives, counting the months until graduation while simultaneously wishing we could just go back to kindergarten and not have to take this next step.

Goya, The Third of May 1808, 1814

Honestly, the part of this piece that truly gets to me is the building in the background. This horrific scene occurs just around the hill Príncipe Pío, one of several places where executions like this happened, very close to what seems to be a small village. The horrors of war hide in plain sight, it seems. Between the hill and those buildings, barely distinguishable, is a mass of bodies and torches. Maybe they are onlookers, maybe they are more captives and soldiers, but clearly more people are coming to this spot; a spot which seems to have only one purpose.

The strong, straight line of French soldiers directly contrasts the chaotic mess of their targets. Each rifle points straight forward, their pointed ends looking like teeth ready to devour. On the other end, the group of captives cover their eyes and face towards the one man brave enough to stand tall in the face of these soldiers. These captives are dressed in dark garb, not uniform at all, some lying dead on the blood-stained ground. Only this one man, dressed in glowing white and yellow, stands just as tall as those ready to kill him. His arms stretch open in a gesture clearly referencing the crucified Christ, opening himself to his fate.

Illuminating the scene is the huge lantern in the middle. Its light spreads to each captive, but engulfs the soldiers in shadow. These soldiers are faceless and uniform, their cruelty stretching to the ends of their guns, while the illuminated faces of the rebels are brutally emotional, their fear almost palpable. But the beautiful aspect of this piece, one Goya created so artfully, is how reactionary it is for the viewer. Immediately, I felt horrified and sympathetic. But, after looking upon the martyred rebels and those about to join them, I felt respect for those captives sacrificing their lives for their cause. Goya artfully mixes historical fact with dramatic effect into one horrific event. He makes it all seem far too real.

Antonio Canova, Theseus and the Centaur, 1805

Reasons not to fight Theseus include: he fights mystical creatures with ease, he will absolutely beat anyone, and he fights naked. Otherwise, come at me.

Canova's piece captures the raw aspect of this battle, putting so much detail into the strain of the centaur's muscles and the dominant stance Theseus takes over him. There is a perfect triangle formed between the two, starting with Theseus's outstretched leg, continuing to his curly-haired, still-helmeted head, and ending with on the centaur's arm, pushing against the ground in a futile attempt to keep himself from being smashed into the ground.

The piece fascinates me much less because of the subject matter and more because of the interaction of the two bodies. They aren't intertwined, but there is so much connection between their two forms. Theseus has his foot firmly placed upon the centaur's leg as he shoves his knee into his ribcage, which is even sunken in from the pressure. His other hand grips the centaur's neck, making me feel even a bit out of breath. The real effect of the piece is that it feels all too real. It's not this "pretty" piece that you enjoy from afar and admire the technique, even though there is plenty. It draws the viewer in, making you feel all too close to their conflict.

I've actually never looked at Canova before. I am very glad to have remedied that, because I am rather blown away by his work. Sculptures do not capture my interest nearly as much as paintings do - not counting Bernini - but this one is both unsettling and intriguing at the same time. It is deeply human, rather than just a scene in marble. I am definitely a Canova fan now.

Jacques-Louis David, Madame Récamier, 1800

Madame Juliette Récamier, the jewel of high society, was the Gatsby of her time. She threw parties that no one could deny an invitation to and had an entourage of only the most important men,  including Lucien Bonaparte and, later, the Prince August of Prussia - each a good friend for a 23-year-old socialite to have. Surrounded by adorers of both her beauty and wealth, Juliette got a bit of a big head. She commissioned a portrait from only the most famous painter of the time: David. Even though he found it a "lesser genre," he was damn good at it, and Madame Récamier was not one to be denied.

Then the story gets a bit blurry. There are theories about why this piece, one to immortalize Juliette in her prime, was never completed. They range from slowness of completion to actual criticisms from Juliette as to the resemblance. All that's actually known is that David said, "Madame, women have their caprices; artists have theirs too. Allow me to pander to mine; I shall keep your portrait as it stands." Ouch.

To add insult to injury, Madame Récamier commissioned another artist, François Gérard, to paint her instead. Completed in 1805, his piece (shown below) is dramatically different than David's. Knowing the drama surrounding David's work, it is easy to see the little signs of his disdain for her. Specifically the giant bald spot he left, immortalized forever just like she wanted. David's piece has a sickly palette with minimal furniture, the only distinct piece being the chaise lounge Juliette sits stiffly upon. Unlike most other portraits, David creates significant distance between his subject and the viewer. Her bald spot takes up all of the attention anyway. Gérard's piece is brighter and warmer, with much more movement in the clothing and a much tighter focus on the beautiful Madame Récamier. She looks like a completely different person. Maybe David just showed a different side of the socialite that she didn't want everyone to see.

François Gérard, Portrait of Madame Récamier, 1805

Velazquez, Las Meninas, 1656

The Infanta Margaret Theresa monopolizes the piece, without a doubt. Taking up barely any space in the huge, busy room, she still strikes the viewer and stands proud in the center, gazing directly forward. Other characters look forward as well, like the tall painter and the small girl near the dog, but they are in darker colors and do not command the attention the little girl demands. Almost completely in white, the sunlight illuminates her entire form, from her angelically light hair to the hem of her ridiculous dress. She holds such power in such a tiny container, doted on by every single person in that room from her maids of honor, chaperone, and bodyguard to the two dwarfs and the dog. Reflected in the mirror are her parents, completely separate from the space but watching over her nonetheless.