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.

Rene Magritte, The Unexpected Answer, 1933

"You see the dark rectangle, like a doorway, an aperture, yes, but it's also a gaping mouth letting out a silent howl of something feral and foul and primal and REAL. Not nice. Not fine. Real. A moan of rapture. Something divine or damned." – John Logan, Red

That gaping hole in what may have once been a doorway can either be seen as an entry or an exit, or even a acidic silhouette that has eaten its way through. Or it can be infinitely more complex, if you so choose. Personally, every time I have viewed Magritte's The Unexpected Answer I've always felt that it was more of a mirror than a hole. It stares back at me, but I am lost in the darkness. Either that, or I'm a vampire.