My Kid Could Paint That

Subterfuge in Art

The cheating in this work comes in Cotan;s ability to create overwhelming symbolic beauty and significance… with produce. Debate exists regarding this work’s specific desired meaning, but three arguments stand out.

1. An expression of religion

2. Celebration of nature/sexuality

3. A mere practice in painting

Now, my analysis of this work does not use either one of these possible descriptions exclusively. Rather, I’ll discuss how all three of these make sense, which that in and of itself is incredible. First, I definitely see it. Note the simplicity of these living and beautiful things shining with their curves against a stark black background. Heck, the beauty of the produce more impressive than the ornateness of the frame. The apple overhang implies the possibility of relgious undertones. Second, there is no denying the phallic-shaped fruits. None. Accompanied with the implied fertility from the living things, there is a definite sexual aspect that could be interpreted in this work. Thirdly, oh the detail. A still life itself was revolutionary and new for Cotan's time, and one this beautiful proves even more noteworthy. Each piece of produce is detailed and realistic, even self -contained. Brilliant, beautifully, and believable, Cotan's work draws emotional and spiritual connections with... fruit.

Subterfuge in Art

Van Der Goes’ loopholes are the least subtle, and least brilliant, but… the most hilarious. Nude art typically finds ways to cover the parts deemed unsuitable for common eyes. Sometimes the nude turns away, sometimes they have drapery coverage, and sometimes they just have conveniently long hair. But this is a beautiful coverage. A flower. An incredibly conveniently-placed flower. I could criticize the hilariously perfect bending plant forever, but Adam’s hand warrants even more mockery.

It’s literally not doing anything. Except existing to cover him. There is zero subtlety, his hand isn’t doing anything or serving any purpose, it’s just there. Clever, Hugo. Little do we know what's behind his delicately placed hand. An actual aspect of cleverness is Eve’s swollen belly. Before a bite of the apple has even been taken, she is already pregnant with mankind (ow) and the sins of humanity.

Subterfuge in Art
Curated by Tessia Phillips

Subterfuge in Art

Subterfuge in Art

Van Eyck,  The Wedding Portrait, 1434

Van Eyck always wins with the subtleties. Every mundane or simple object pictures represents something of sanctity. The mirror pictured behind the couple reflects the minister, or perhaps the artist, while oranges to the left of the groom symbolize fertility. Van Eyck does not need to paint the artist directly, because he finds his way around the conventions of the story with the mirror. He also does not need to explicitly announce the bride’s pregnancy, because though her oversized dress could be interpreted as simply the style of the day, the fertility fruit says what Van Eyck cannot.

Ability to symbolize the sanctity of marriage with clogs, a dog, and a broom, is a rare gift possessed by Van Eyck - and this piece specifically. The common dog name “Fido” derives from the Latin word meaning “to trust.” The small whisk brook symbolizes domestic care, while the cast aside clogs indicate that the marriage is taking place on holy ground. Van Eyck masters complexity in mundanity in order to achieve maximum impact with minimal, but precise detail.

Subterfuge in Art

Pieter Bruegel, World Upside Down, 1559

Pieter Bruegel spent the majority of his artistic career doing whatever he wanted anyway, but this particular piece highlights his ability to... make fun of proverbs, making them both artistic and hilarious. In a lovable and comic way, Bruegel, simply put, paints blasphemy. He uses this work to illustrate the absurdity of the literal.

My personal favorite example of Bruegel finding and capitalizing on a loophole is visible in the top left corner. Literally, the proverb says, “He pisses on the moon.” If finding an excuse to paint a man peeing out of a window isn’t impressive enough, Bruelel uses a moon sign outside a shop to serve as the actual moon’s replacement. "Putting a hood on the Devil" and "carrying a cauldron too hot" are also depicted proverbs. In his ability to mock the literal with the visual, Breugel finds the hilarity in preachy morality.

Sofonisba Anguissola, Self-Portrait, 1556

When people want what they want, and they want it badly enough, they will have it. Even the most tight knit systems have loopholes, and even the tallest gates have a way around. Intellect, creativity, and strategic thinking are often the keys to success in spotting the loophole, and capitalizing on it. While writers use objects and people to symbolize a larger idea or meaning, artists have the added luxury of creating larger- scale twists.

In the portrait above, Sofonisba Anguissola paints…herself. But women could not paint themselves. Portraits of women (especially by women) were taboo, and religious works took the front seat of artistic pursuits. Here, Anguissola finds the loophole. “Not allowed to paint a portrait of myself? It’s not, you see? It’s a religious scene (where the woman painted is obviously me), I just happened to expand the scale so you can see me creating this sacred work.” The creativity and skill in artists combine in works to dodge social bullets, technical struggles, and stick the eye of the needle through every loophole.

Sandro Botticelli, The Birth of Venus, 1432

The assignment said three minutes. Three minutes to talk about our assigned painting. You could hope your classmates would ask you-time sucking questions, or that you’d be charming enough that one would need to hold for laughs, and suck up the three minutes that way, but you can never count on it. So I prepared to speak for three minutes. Myth of the characters, symbolism of the colors, and division in the composition all were supposed to take about a minute, with each bullet point to mention carefully selected. So my name was called, and up I went. Not intimidated or nervous, but cautious. Speak too quickly and end to early, or speak too slowly and sound clinical. Three minutes. Go.

I spoke like I read the painting, left to right, pausing to notice quirks and brilliant details. I had hardly reached Venus when I heard the timer sound, but the “keep going” nod of approval was relieving, not intimidating. On I went. I had spent enough time with this work to get not just the bullet points, but the… stuff. The fun stuff. The art stuff. I noticed new things as I went, and it was a thrill to continue. It wasn’t scary anymore, or presentational anymore. It was fun. I learned as I spoke. Myths are fun, art is fun. And when a visitor came, and one person needed to present again for them to observe our class structure, it was fun even a second time. Seeing The Birth of Venus doesn’t fill me with the stress of having to rack my brain for the artist or title, because I know that painting. I have a comfort with it. Now every time I see it I am reminded of three things: the comfort that comes with preparation, the connection one can have with story even if it is not their own, and how convenient Venus’ hair length is. And if that isn’t artistic observation...

Editor's Note: The students were assigned to write about the painting that has impacted them the most. These pieces will run for  about two weeks. 

Annibale Caracci, Two Children Teasing a Cat, 1590

As artists battled and created in the 16th century, challenges were created from peer to peer to push these talents to their peak. Carracci and fellow painters discussed the impossibility of painting a figure in the act of laughter. From the lines on the face to the position of the features, the task seemed impossible. Harder still, suggested an artist of the time, was to depict a figure in the act of crying. Expression, color of the eyes, and painting of the actual tears themselves would be beyond difficult. Caracci, however, made up for in smarts what he lacked in artistic ability when she painted Two Children Teasing a Cat.

Two figures, most likely a brother and a sister, smugly provoke a cat with scorpions. The result is inevitable. Tease a cat, you will be scratched. Viewers can see the scene play out. The first child to be scratched will cry and wail while the sibling will likely laugh at the other’s misfortune, before being ultimately scratched themselves. There is little room for debate regarding the ultimate outcome. The child will be scratched, the child will cry. So, he did it. Without painting any tears, or laughs, or even teeth, we see the figures in these acts. By painting just one moment in the scene, Carracci has enough to play it display it in its entirety, an incredible artistic and intellectual feat.

The Shepherd Faustulus, Nicolas Mignard, 1654

When Mars, the god of war, saw Rhea Silva, he fell in love with her. Then, like most gods, he got his way. Except when she got pregnant. Two twin sons named Romulus and Remus were born, kin to the violent and powerful god of war. It would only make sense that they would eventually become shepherds.

…. Right?

Don’t worry, this gets weirder. The slave of Rhea Silva, after being commanded by Mars to send the twins down the river, wraps them in a blanket and places them in a cradle to give them a chance at survival. Now, what I want to know is, where’s that guy’s painting? He blatantly defied the wishes of THE GOD OF WAR. No disrespect to our friend Faustulus, but… who’s the hero in this scenario thus far? What’s worse, the myth is called The Shepherd Faustulus. I just wish credit was where credit was due.

But Faustulus does something relatively heroic, I guess. He sees the twins being raised by a she-wolf and rescues them. I have a problem with this too, however. As strange as it is, if I saw a she-wolf with some babies, and she hadn’t eaten them yet… I don’t know why I wouldn’t let her be. What makes me more qualified to raise kids? Opposable thumbs? Jungle book kid ended up just fine. Even in the painting we see the kid on the right looking at his brother like, what would modernly be translated as… “Are you kidding me? This guy?” Anyway, the annoyingly entitiled Faustulus takes the twins home to his wife, and she raises them as her own, as painted by Nicolas Mignard above.

The painting’s portion of the story stops there, but some more stuff goes on later down the road if we follow the mythology. Basically, Romulus and Remus do a whole bunch more weirdness, but stories vary exactly as to what. They get violent, build a city, fight each other, get arrested, all that good stuff. Blame bad parenting, or relation to the god of war, but I think it all would have been fine had they just stayed with the wolf. Ever heard anything bad about children raised by wolves? That’s what I thought.

Nicolas Poussin, Arcadian Shepherds, 1650

Rapping and writing. This piece by Nicolas Poussin highlights parts of the classic baroque style with new elements of storytelling. In the dead center of the composition are three shepherds and a woman. Only one shepherd looks at the woman, the others focused on the inscription on the stone. The written words “Et in Arcadia Ego” literally translate to “Even in Arcadia, I am there," with Arcadia being considered a Utopian land. Four figures see the words but search for the meaning, looking for their Utopia on a bleak hill amidst a mountainous landscape, Poussin's typical subject of choice.

Elements of myth do not alone shape the baroque style of Poussin’s early work. The newfound movement, pretentiously called dynamism, is prominent here with the draping of the cloths and placement of the figures. Bodies are angled and figures have a posture. Their leaning and body language draws viewers' eyes to the inscription on the stone, leading them to look for what the shepherds also seek. Also enhancing the sense of movement is the vertical tree trunk that contrasts the diagonal motion of the four bodies. One of Poussin’s introductory pieces, this work incorporates many classic baroque features and foreshadows the potential of the great artist to be.

Bernini, Bust of Cardinal Scipione Borghese, 1632

Statues cannot talk. Paintings cannot move. But while painters have access to multiple brushstrokes, color palates, and techniques, sculptors have one block, one color, and one chance. Sculpture cannot be salvaged. After his painting hiatus, Bernini took to revolutionizing sculptures. Instead of the stoic, one-tone depictions previously seen in busts, Bernini sculpts the Cardinal in action.

With a head tilted to the side, and a mouth just about to open, one can sense the impending action. The bust becomes conversational as Bernini involves the audience in the scene. Drapery on the robes of the Cardinal indicate motion, and propel his figure to the side. Though not correct, the folds in his garment represent a revolution in sculpture. Also worth noting is the subject’s regality. Bernini conveys confidence and self-assurance through sculpture, previously unseen.

Bruegel, Peasant's Dance,1538

Bruegel’s Peasant’s Dance makes a statement about the unholy practices and pursuits of the lower class. At least two of the seven deadly sins are portrayed in the painting. The lustful couple on the left of the composition, as well as the vain man with a peacock feather, turn their backs on the church as they dance together. Not a single face is turned to the muted hues of the church. The tavern banner, however, hangs prominently and brightly, accentuating the skewed priorities of the lower class.

Music, dancing, and gluttony consume the activities of the painting while the image of the virgin hangs on the tree behind the scene. Though Peasant’s Dance could imply Bruegel’s disapproval of second class culture, he was known for dressing up like a peasant to acquire first-hand insight for his works. These experiences allowed him unmatched access to varied social and political interpretations between the classes, subtly and bluntly worked into his paintings. Full of religion, iconography, and folk displays, Bruegel’s Peasant’s Dance accurately represents his typical subjects and themes.

Piet Mondrian, Composition with Red, Blue, and Yellow, 1930

That's Primary Colors and Lines: Confessions of a Futile Search for Appreciation of Mondrian

Upon first glance, my difficulty finding the significance of Mondrian is apparent. Any viewer without prior knowledge of the painter or history that says they find it beautiful and touching most likely said the emperor had clothes on. It's rectangles and precise angles and primary colors. But if one looks more closely, and studies the attempted meaning and depth of the work they will find.....

Rectangles, precise angles, and primary colors.

Mr. Mondrian, with all due respect, come on. I mean, I get it. I get the aim. Red, blue, and yellow, the formula for all other colors, are in their most reduced form next to white while the lines with different dimensions isolate the colors from one another, accentuating their purity. But to me, this meaning is not a diamond in the rough. It's a piece of quartz on the other side of the continent in an undiscovered cave under a mine-zone. And not worth the effort searching for the effort he put forth.

Maybe, having not studied it, I don't yet understand modern art. Maybe my young mind can't dive deep enough to appreciate the complexity in right angles. But for now, to my mind and my eyes, that's what it is. Right angles. And when an artist claims a right angle, a thing necessary to physics and engineering and nature since always, as a piece of his signature style, I don't quite buy that.

But what do I know? All I see is primary colors and lines.

Sofonisba Anguissola, Self Portrait at Easel, 1560

Unaffected by social constructs in her home, Anguissola's father stressed to his daughters the importance of developing individual skill as early as possible. By age 7, Sofonisba's gift for painting was evident beyond her immediate family. She left for Rome at 22 and was introdcuted to Michealangelo. Impressed by her young talent, Michelangelo informally became her master, enhancing her work and supplementing her natural gift.

Raphael, Marriage of the Virgin, 1504

Self-contained and certain, Mary’s marriage to Joseph by Raphael takes symmetry to new levels. Everything is crisp. The lines, the vanishing point dead center, the height of the wedding party, and the social event they depict, all collaborate in an appropriate composition with a clean border. Pregnant and a virgin, Mary’s depiction in a wedding scene represents the social stigma of Raphael’s time...and our time. A pregnant woman should be wed. Surrounded with decoration, the work itself does not send the eye beyond. All that is to be seen is seen, very rare in a biblical painting, especially one with an accompanying narrative.

Not pictured in white, though the purest of the pure, Mary appears in her classic blue robes with Raphael’s added red dress, representative of the blood of Christ. The priest, most directly in line with the church, symbolizes the value of those most closely related to God. Her left hand is placed on her pregnant stomach and right hand accepting her ring. Mary’s dual commitments are represented: one to bear the Son of God, and one to her new husband. Raphael’s signature in the Church also adds to the symmetry of the piece, refusing to make one side heavier with significance. Mary and unborn Jesus, the focal point of the narrative, are balanced in importance by the Priests tilted head to the left, presenting symbolic symmetry even when visually lacking. Sharp, straight, and proper, Raphael’s work appeals to viewers and socialites through centuries.

Raphael, Madonna in the Meadow, 1505

Exuding harmony and simple brilliance, Raphael’s Madonna of the Meadow packs fearful foreboding in elegant composition. Madonna is pictured classically in a blue robe, but a red dress appears form underneath, representative of the blood of Christ. A matched red, the two flowers of Mary’s right closely resemble the role and position of the boys at her feet. Young John’s flower wanes to young Jesus, already knowing him to be the redeemer and master. Pictured on one knee, John shows an understood subservience to Christ, allowing Jesus to take the cross from his own hands. One of the sole sources of tension in the painting, this act serves to predict Jesus and John’s toil in the future.

Madonna atop Jesus and John creates a strong pyramidal structure centered in the piece, and rooted strongly in the ground. A simple foreground contrasts the detailed background, hazy enough to be peaceful, but complex enough to represent the coming complications for Jesus and John. Positioned with one hand on his mother and one on the cross, Jesus stands with the help of his mother, and accepts his fate. Raphael’s body positioning, though not always biologically correct, creates visual harmony. Madonna’s foot for example, far from any comfortable position, serves as the brightness of the right side of the painting, balancing the left side’s eye-catching action. Carefully portrayed characters and no unnecessary features makes Raphael’s Madonna in the meadow visually simple and symbolically dense.

Masaccio, Tribute Money, 1427

A chronologically skewed narrative, Masaccio’s Tribute Money depicts the Gospel according to Luke, specifically, the catching of the dry fish and its aftermath. With Jesus’ forehead as the vanishing point, the eye is drawn straight to the center, where the initial miracle begins. Jesus tells Peter, a helpless fisherman amidst a drought, that with one more casting of his net, he will catch a fish. Following this miracle, a tax collector arrives, demanding the funds of Christ. To Peter, Jesus poses the question, "From whom do the kings of the earth collect duty and taxes—from their own children or from others?" Peter argues for the exemption from taxes for the son a God, but Jesus sends him to the river. Peter catches a fish, and from its mouth collects Jesus’ tax. Heeding his redeemer, Peter goes to the river once again (portrayed on the left side of the composition) finds a coin in the fish’s mouth, and pays the tax collector on the right side of the composition.

Though generally barren and indicative of the drought described in the book of Luke, the strong vertical trees behind Jesus show at least scant signs of life. The gothic architecture on the right serves to provide viewer with a structured, regal, setting for the tax collector’s portion of the narrative. Seeming to disappear into a mountain, the building creates a barrier for the only non-religious member of the story portrayed.

Evident in the shadows, lighting, and drapery, Masaccio’s mastery of character drawing proves almost detrimental, had he not added halos. So realistic, Masaccio’s figures seem almost too lifelike to be holy. The meticulous placement of halos keeps the beings realistic, but frankly indicates their religious status. Jesus’ half-circle halo has been interpreted by scholars as a mathematical tribute to Jesus’ wisdom and power. A three-part story, Masaccio depicts one of Christ’s most obscure miracles with a clearly separated composition.

Sandro Botticelli, Birth of Venus, 1482

Depicting the myth of the creation of the Goddess of Love, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus explores - in one of the first non-biblical female nudes - the use of body language in a work. A fresco technique on canvas, Botticelli’s methods resulted in brighter colors than seen in this time. The gold of Venus’ hair and radiant blues of waves and drapery highlight the achievement of Botticelli through an alternate approach. Contrasts in lighting depict movement, led by Venus’ nude body.

From the God of wind on the left to the Goddess of seasons on the right, Venus begins her transition from the divine to the worldly. Naked and with delicate force, Zepherus uses his wind to push Venus toward earth. Separation between the two places is created by Venus, appearing upright. On the left, blue vastness symbolizes the divinity Venus came from, contrasting the fertility and fruitulness of the earth on the right. At first glance, Venus stands firmly, creating a distinct separation between the two spheres. However, with closer examination as we follow the line of her legs, we see her sway more toward the right, already accepting and embracing her arrival in the natural world. A nude body, without the disruption of clothing and drapery made so popular in the Rennisance, more clearly accentuates the action of a body than did the flow and pattern of drapery in a work. For the first time, the flow of a body could be used to show movement.

Female nudity in this work, deemed sufficiently tasteful for a church setting, draws attention to Venus’ innocence and freshness upon being newly born. Pale skin, closely mirroring that of her "father" on the left, as well as a covering hand and elongated neck, assists the image of purity in the newborn. Sharp contrast between movement in Venus’ body and movement in Horae’s dress shows variation in methods of achieving movement and flow in a painting. The scantily clad bodies on the left, with arms, legs, and hair, behind the figure, show Venus’ transcendence to earth. On the right, with outstretched arms, and presenting a floral tapestry with which to swaddle her kin, the body of Horae welcomes and receives.

Born from a shell, Venus still manages to humanize her innocence, even being fully grown. The language of the figures, though without much support from detailed facial expressions, presents clear motion. Newfound accentuation of body lauguage through nudity allowed Botticelli to enhance motion and myth, while still allowing for enough modesty in his subjects to be displayed in a church for all of Italy to see.

I’d been to France before. By age 6, I was a platinum traveler. I’ve seen the Louvre, the Parthenon, Buckingham Palace. If you ask me about each one, I could probably rattle off a story. Probably involving how exhausted I was, or much my feet hurt, or how much I wanted to go to a European McDonalds. My parents, however, were relentless. They dragged me to sites I took for granted, reflected upon now with a proud, “I’ve seen that!” as teachers and presenters display photographs of the world’s most beautiful pieces of history.

Sick of my whining, but intent on my cultural exposure, my parents took me back to France at age 13 with my best friend. Tourist sights were only briefly visited on this trip, as I had seen them all, but she was leaving the country for the first time. Old enough now to acknowledge my ignorance, I explained to Brooke that I had climbed the Eiffel tower, but don’t really remember. But she wanted to, to say she had, so we did. When in Rome, I suppose… er… Paris.

Our venture to the Louvre held a similar purpose for us. You’re in Paris. You go to the Louvre. As we descended the stairs of the massive marble building, we were confronted by a virtual Nikon Camera catalog. “Why?” I asked my sister. “What are all these people taking pictures of?” “This.” She gestured behind her to a 6 foot, 2 inch mounted, headless statue with wings and pretty drapery. “But why, Taylor? Why this one?” “Because it’s the statue of Nike.” This explanation was not enough for me. She went on to explain that when it was a famous sculpture of Nike of Samothrace, sculpted in 200-190 BCE. First thought: that’s old. Next, okay, so how had I missed this? How was this universal knowledge for camera owners across the world, and I hadn’t known?

And then, I found out. They didn’t. At least most of them didn’t. The message, THIS IS IMPORTANT had been relayed to them by postcards, museaum memorabilia, and other camera owners. “When in Paris!” was the general international consensus.

When standing there, looking at this incredible statue that didn’t blow me away, I decided to transform my definintion of “When in Paris.” I stopped trying to make marble speak to me. I stopped feeling guilty for not being swept away by the 31 by 20 inch Mona Lisa. I allowed art to do what it would. Guiltlessly, shamelessly. France and art and culture became about the time I got lost in a subway station and got out with my discovery of a map, and application of my limited French vocabulary. In my 12 trips to the Louvre, I have yet to take a picture of Nike, or the Mona Lisa. Postcards do it better. They handle that for me. Being able to say, “I’ve been there!” is a privilege I hold less dear. I can however, tell you how many bakeries there are on the way to Shakespeare’s Books. Or how to avoid a Gypsy. And I’m thankful that, after all these years, my negligence of art came to contribute to my appreciation of real travels, real culture, and real art.