Compendium 2015

Compendium would not be possible without the Kansas City Art Institute’s fabulous faculty. From both studio classes and liberals arts alike, we never cease to be inspired by our professors. The class of 2015 thanks you all. A special thanks is due to Reed Anderson, Michele Fricke, Phyllis Moore, and Illona Bernard for all of their dedication and hard work.

A stupendous thank you is also due to Janelle Ketcher for the design of this year’s Compendium.

Last, but certainly not least, a thank you to all of the contributors to the 2015 Compendium: Good work, and do keep it coming. As double majors in art history and creative writing, the following writings are evidence of the dedicated years put forth towards our studio and liberal arts practices, enjoy!

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FIBER AND CREATIVE WRITING What the Mystical Crackhead Wearing the Paint Caked David Bowie Wig Said While I Checked My Hair in the Mirror in the Bathroom of the First Gay Bar I Ever Went To, or At Least What I Remembered He Told Me That Night Upon Waking the Following Morning, Alone, in My Own Bed, Thank God

Look away, Golden Boy! Son of Cephissus! The bubbling waters of your father’s home-land are calling so forget the Phoenician spring and that tired old alphabet and fuck the slackers who sip their reflections like a glass of Pinot Noir on a Manhattan rooftop! Koons, Pollock, Ros-encrantz and Guildenstern! Slide on in, boys! All of you sailors! Fighting in the dance hall! The stars are out tonight!

Press your space face close to mine! Read me a poem but do it quick now! Shout it out! Scream if you have to! Dreamt I was winged but snakes can’t fly! Hey, you’re kinda cute, how old are you anyway?

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ILLUSTRATION AND CREATIVE WRITING The Actaeon Complex

For thousands of people, seeing Paris is one of the main goals of their lifetime. It’s the top of their bucket list. They spend decades dreaming of the decadence and lusting after its luminescence through their televisions. They’ve seen all the movies- they break the sugar on their crème brûlée like Amelie, they’ve been swept off their feet at the Moulin Rouge, they’ve danced with Fred Astaire down the cobblestone streets. They watch all the travel shows, too, to the point where they know the city of Paris better than most Parisians- where all the best cafes are, the secret museums tourists never go to, the cheapest hotels, the finest wines. They pinch pennies and scrimp and save for years, stalking airline prices, piece by piece assembling the trip of their dreams, their trip to Paris that will finally change their life. Some of them get to actually go. Some don’t.

I did.

Paris became my dream when I was in the third grade. I was enchanted by the art first, thanks to a couple coloring book images of Monet paintings, then fell in love with the city’s tumultuous history, its bedazzling society, its architecture, its fashion, its food, and then in back in love with the art all over again. Everything happened in Paris; all the great writers lived there, all the great painters fought for space on the walls of the Salon, all the great sculptors decorated its facades. It was the epicenter of art and literary history for no less than three centuries, and has been the catalyst for Europe’s military conflicts from the time of Charlemagne till World War II. Paris is a city you couldn’t ignore if you tried, and I never tried.

I got my parents to promise me that when I finished high school, my family would take a trip to Europe together so I could see Paris. I was never much of a “bad kid”, even at heart, but that promise was a major motivator to me to keep my grades up and keep myself out of trouble. But that trip never happened.

Some major financial struggles happened to coincide with my graduation. I was supremely disappointed at the time, but relinquishing the trip was much easier than watching my parents fight about money. Those issues cleared up in a couple

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of years, and to make it up to me, my parents sent me on not one, but two study abroad trips- one to Florence, and one to Paris. And just like that, my dream came true.

It was then that I realized just how many other people had that same dream. The whole time I prepared for the trip, getting teacher recommendations, setting up taking my break from work, finding and moving into a new apartment, all I heard was “I’m so jealous” and “I’ve always wanted to go” and “go see this for me” and “you’re so lucky.” Mentioning luck struck a particular discord with me. It was just luck that let me go. I just happened to be born to two people who overwhelmingly valued getting to travel, who were pretty good at making and sticking to budgets, and were also both PhD’s and had a fair amount of budget to work with. I wasn’t one of those people who had to hoard their change in a jar and buy airline tickets at two in the morning on a Wednesday to be able to afford it. People say that I earned it in other ways, like getting scholarships for my tuition, working part-time, finding a cheaper apartment and setting aside the extra money from rent, but it feels different. Ultimately, my parents paid for the trip, which not everyone’s parents can do. Sometimes it felt like the people who had to work so hard for so long to get to go deserved it, and I hadn’t worked hard enough.

Deserving or not, the trip was phenomenal. Paris was everything I had dreamed it to be and more in every sense of the word. I saw what I and everyone always dreamed of seeing. I climbed the Eiffel tower, despite my fear of heights.

I walked beneath the Arc d’Triomphe, walked the grand boulevards in the rain, walked until my pinkie toes folded under my other four and didn’t mind a bit. I saw the bookstore Shakespeare and Co., the birthplace of Henry Miller’s writings and many other masterpieces of the English language. I saw the greatest art the Western world has ever produced. I was amazed to see that the museums of Paris are as beautiful as the pieces inside- from the famed pyramid at the Louvre down to the carvings topping its columns, the arched glass ceiling and massive clock of the Musée D’Orsay, the domestic decadence of the Gustave Moreau museum, the industrial fervor of the Pompidou. I saw garden after garden that that Adam and Eve would have felt at home in- the sprawling promenades in front of the Museums of Natural History, Rodin’s rose gardens, a day trip to Monet’s house at Giverny that made biking two miles in the rain worth every drop. I saw that Paris really is the City of Light, of every light the human eye can perceive- street lamps and window fronts, illuminated bridges, the soft glow from corner cafes at sunset, the brilliant blues and reds of stained glass dappled across the floor of a cathedral.

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The Parisians’ eyes glow the same way. You see it when you’re cramped up against them on the subway, whether they’re texting on their phones or reading a book or looking through you in that way wolves do. They seem unafraid to be whomever they choose to be, just like the city in which they reside. Whether it’s a man in a suit or a woman pushing her baby’s stroller on the metro, a lady wearing a lime green and black Dutch-Wax dress that burns like absinthe against a rainy day, a couple kissing each other like they’ll never see each other again, a Romani grandmother in her magenta skirts and headscarf walking between the subway cars asking for your change, you see and you feel what Paris is inside them. I don’t think I ever became that way. The whole time I was in Paris, I never quite realized I was in Paris. Paris is still a dream, and never ceases to be.

While in Paris (even though regrettably, I was in my dorm room on the internet at the time) I rediscovered the story of Actaeon from Greek mythology.

It’s one of my favorites- Actaeon was a great young hunter who became separated from his friends during a chase one day, and came into a clearing where the river swelled into a pool. Artemis, virginal goddess of the hunt, was bathing there with her escort of nymphs. When they saw Actaeon, the nymphs scream and try to cover their lady and she, in rage, splashed the water of the pool at him. The water turned into a stag so he could never speak of what he’d seen that day. His friends then saw him transformed and pursued him, and he was killed by his own team of hounds. It’s about the most textbook examples of a tragic, ironic Greek legend you can find.

Lately, I’ve found myself able to relate to it.

I haven’t seen a naked goddess recently and I hope I don’t get ripped apart by dogs anytime soon, but I do feel as if I’ve been cursed into silence. I have seen some of the most beautiful things in the world, housed in the most beautiful city in the world, I achieved one of the biggest goals of my life so far, but I feel like I can’t tell anybody about it. Now that I know that so many people have so passionately wanted to go to that city their whole lives, and I got to and they didn’t, I feel a sort of shame anytime it comes up. I want to tell them about the trip, how unbelievable it was, but I don’t want to make anyone jealous. I don’t want to sound spoiled or snotty. There’s also as much danger by not saying anything too, though- I don’t want to sound ungrateful or like I didn’t enjoy the trip, either. When people ask me how France was now, I tend to just shrug and say “Ah, it was okay,” pause for their reaction, then laugh a little and say it was “great” or “wonderful, except for getting food poisoning.” Sometimes I tell the food poisoning story, and then the

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conversations tend to change topic after that.

Once I started seeing myself censor how much I said about Paris, for fear of others’ emotional repercussions, I started seeing that I do it all the time. I wouldn’t tell the happy cute stories about my boyfriend to my roommate, because I know her relationship is a lot more stressful than mine. I don’t ask for help at work when I’m cleaning or on the floor alone and feeling a little overwhelmed. I try to not complain about the little anxieties and frustrations in my life because it feels like everyone I would tell about them has something even worse going on, and I should let them talk about that instead. Even on the Paris trip, I downplayed the pain from my food poisoning and other little maladies because I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s good time by worrying about me.

The most important thing I’ve realized since noticing I have the censorship habit, the Actaeon Complex, is that my self-imposed silences don’t actually make anything better. When I don’t talk to people about my problems, I get grumpy and irritable and emotionally bogged down, and then end up snapping at someone or just talking about them anyway. My roommate is constantly fed up with my boyfriend because she sees him as just the loud guy who’s over all the time, not as the wonderful, sweet, loving guy I know him to be. I survived the miscellaneous ailments in Paris, but looking back, I know I would have been a tiny bit happier if I had asked someone to help me more often, even if that just meant spreading peanut butter on a rice cake and breaking it into bite-sized pieces. I probably would have gotten better a little faster too, by being less stressed and scared, just having someone there to tell me it would be okay. The help I did receive those days meant so much to me, but I wish I had been able to speak up when I needed more. I’m not like Actaeon in that I literally cannot speak and that causes me to be killed by my own dogs, but I’m starting to see that by not speaking up for what I need and trying to evade my problems, they end up finding and hurting me anyway, probably worse than if I’d addressed them from the beginning.

I went to Paris. I saw the most beautiful city in the world. I saw everything I’d ever dreamed of, and so much more. I learned so much from its wealth of art and writing, and experienced a lifestyle I could never find anywhere else. But that was the easy part of the trip. The hardest part was learning something about myself and having to work to improve with that in mind. That may be a process that takes quite a while and may never quite be finished, but it’s somewhere to start. I won’t let myself repeat the tragedy of Actaeon.

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Whistlejacket

I first saw Whistlejacket when I was seven or eight, in The Encyclopedia of Horses and Ponies that my equestrian-obsessed self had received as a birthday present. George Stubbs’s masterpiece, he was there tucked in the “Horses and Art” chapter, among Uccello’s Battle of San Romano, and Rubens’s Perseus and Andromeda, and the ephemeral steeds of Delacroix’s and Gericault’s works, rearing from brushstrokes that flickered and flashed like fire. At that age, I had none to no forms of understanding what great art was, so naturally I considered Whistlejacket to be the greatest painting of all time. All there is to it is a horse rearing up on his hind legs, looking wide-eyed over his shoulder at the viewer. The background is a flat, muted green. But even though the thumbnail in the book was maybe only two inches across, that horse was so perfectly painted you’d swear you could see him breathe. He was life-sized and rendered in such detail, when the horse’s owner displayed the painting to the actual racehorse it was modeled from, the stallion panicked and tried to attack the artwork. I read that story in that chapter over and over. To think that any human hands could wield that kind of creative power fascinated me- to freeze one moment, one creature, so perfectly for the rest of time. I started drawing not long after, attempting to achieve that.

The first art gallery I have any memory of going to was to see Whistlejacket.

I was in seventh grade. There was a big collection of George Stubbs’s work travelling through Ft. Worth at the time. I don’t remember if I found out about the exhibit or if my mother did, but she and my equally horse-crazy aunt pulled me out of school to go to a “doctor’s appointment,” and we went. Whistlejacket was the first painting you saw when you walked through the doors. He was huge and perfect and staring right at me. Maybe it was because I was still so young, but I remember him towering over me, the whole gallery wall consumed in that greygreen, his sorrel body erupting from it like he was trying to escape the canvas. I had been taking horseback riding lessons for a couple years at the time, and so I understood from tangible experience the level of detail Stubbs had achieved in this portrait- those veins running down from his eyes towards his nose that only racehorses get, how the brushstrokes on his muzzle were so much softer than the bolder ones on his fur, since horse noses have that velvety texture the rest of their bodies do not. There was that swirl where the fur changes direction right in front of the hind legs that you’re not supposed to touch, since it’s so ticklish, right underneath the pronounced hipbone. That was the exhibit where I learned

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about Stubbs’s intense studies of the equine anatomy; the exhibit featured dozens of his drawings of horse skeletons and muscular structures, the products of his dissections. It was a striking dichotomy, to see the very pastoral, pleasant scenes of foxhunts and steeplechases, portraits of aristocrats and their favorite in their stables, displayed one room away from alien animals that looked like they’d pull Death’s chariot. But they were serene and objective in their death, merely scientific.

I did not find those drawings disturbing. My mother and aunt did.

I began taking art as a class in eighth grade, and slowly started to learn the ins and outs of composition and concept and technique. Over the years, my interest in highly-rendered, photographically-perfect images like Whistlejacket faded. My art became less about capturing a moment exactly as it happened, and more about delving into my own mind to the confusion and nightmares I couldn’t express otherwise. My love of horses never faded, but I stopped riding, and felt somewhat embarrassed over my childhood zeal for them. I always turned to them in art, though- my sketchbooks were littered with them, and I jokingly said that you could always tell the quality of an artist by how well they drew horses. Except I was only half-joking. My passion for Rubens and Gericault and Delacroix and Degas and Lautrec and Daumier and Dali all stemmed from seeing their works in my horse books growing up, and realizing how masterful their art was later in life. Those were the artists I found myself wanting to emulate as I pushed my art further, to take an image and form everyone knew (like horses) and to show it to the world in a way that had never been done. It never occurred to me that goal was not unlike what Stubbs achieved in Whistlejacket, except that the new way in his era was in a scientifically-analyzed, photographic, life-sized, life-like rendering of the animal, like a still life painting, but of a living thing.

When I went to London this summer, I knew I would be going to the National Gallery. I doubt it even occurred to me that I had a choice- it’s one of the Meccas of the art world, after all. Its collection is comparable to the Louvre’s, but not nearly as sprawling, so one can almost digest it in an afternoon. I was going partly to find the panel of The Battle of San Romano that it housed- achieving the bucket-list mission of seeing all three pieces of the painting (a quest inspired again by that Encyclopedia). I knew Whistlejacket was there, but seeing him wasn’t necessarily a priority to me. I had already seen him, after all, and technically perfect though he was, he was really just a good painting of a horse.

When I got to the gallery, my first goal was to see the Impressionist collection, since I figured it would be harder to work through that section as the day

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went on and it got more crowded. The layout of the National Gallery is a labyrinthyou enter through one door, walk through an entry foyer into a main gallery of some nice but non-descript post-Renaissance pieces, and then have to choose one of three wings of the gallery to work through. After getting turned around a bit and getting caught up in the Caravaggios, I ended up back where I’d started and heading down the correct of the three galleries to get to the Impressionists.

When I turned the corner he was right there.

This wing was set up as a long corridor with galleries branching off on each side, with the big collection of British painters’ artworks at the end of the hallway. He was perfectly framed behind the glass doors. My heart jumped and pounded. I forgot the Impressionists and everything else. I don’t know how many masterpieces I rushed by the reach the end of that hallway. It was like running to meet an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. Actually, I guess that’s exactly what it was.

I pushed open the glass doors and he greeted me with that blazing eye I had seen in the Kimbell years ago. He was just as flawless as I remembered. Nothing but a horse rearing up against a flat grey-green background. Anatomically perfect, so lifelike you’d swear you could see him breathe.

The greatest painting of all time.

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SCULPTURE AND CREATIVE WRITING At a Young Age

At a young age I noticed my mother’s scalp. No, it was never exposed as if she were sick, or prematurely balding, which I’m surprised never happened. It was never anything dramatic, as you’d probably think after reading the word ‘scalp’.

No, it was nothing like that.

Everyday after school, my mother and I would retreat to opposite ends of the couch. Her left arm would recline on the maroon plaid armrest, as her right hand dug viciously into her ruby-twisted cushion of hair. We kept silent, her eyes fixed on the daytime t.v show and mine on her crooked fingers deep within her frizzed locks. I could hear the cake-faced actress confessing her love for the neighbor man. My mother didn’t seem phased. Her cragged knuckles were kept tense as a lone index finger navigated back-and-forth along her hairline and back towards the center of her head as if searching for something to complain about. I was captivated by her, constantly maintaining a steady rhythm and a well-coordinated scratch-per-area ratio. She’d probably run her finger along her scalp a dozen times before calling it quits. I had a hard time believing she was actually relieving some deep-rooted itch but instead picking at her scalp for pleasure, opening scabs to let them heal again.

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Neighbors

The summer of 2004 was a terrible year for our neighbor’s grass. Walking from the bus stop I noticed the distinct, yellow color the grass had become. A tan sea of fried grass spanned from behind their house, past their dirt garden, all the way to the dried up kiddie-pool. The children didn’t play in the grass for fear of their feet becoming impaled by the smallest, most delicate knives each time they went to chase a Frisbee. I thought the neighbors would be better off pouring sand in their front yard, forgetting grass all together. I watched the grass struggle between growing and dying, just waiting for the day it’d catch fire. The scorching July sun that once celebrated their ever-there grass had become the assassin of all summer fun. Even the grass around their cement-block of a patio clung for dear life, practically begging the clouds for any sort of ‘any help here guys?” It sucked for everyone involved; those poor blades of life, envious of the flourishing foothaven that was everyone else’s yard. For the entire summer, their poorly-managed hell-scape stayed a shade of yellow reminiscent of Aunt Ollie’s teeth- she smoked all her life. I’d have to say, looking back, that even though the neighbor’s yard was a threat to neighborhood aesthetics, the most unfortunate thing about that summer wasn’t their yard at all. It was that neither myself, the Breckensons, our mailman Chuck, neighborhood president Laura Thompson, the neighbors across the street who threw Mary Kay parties, Phil’s parents, or any other resident of Oak Leaf subdivision didn’t even bother to ask if there was anything we could do to help.

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Roof

For some reason unknown, pieces of our roof, our ceiling, our insulation, our drywall, and materials alike, materials that protect us from the elements, materials that keep the sky from seeing our privates, materials that are stronger than us, have been falling and crumbling, and making it hard to live. One morning, a crashing blow echoing from the guest bathroom startled my partner and me, awakening us from an already uneasy sleep, a sleep of tossing and concern about the roof, a sleep of move over you’re too close and a sleep of light eyes. As if a large cookie cutter had pressed its hard ridge against our textured ceiling, and just like that, a clean break of house had removed itself from the rest of the interior walls. What caused the break? We’re not sure. Perhaps the foundation got exhausted and when exhaling from its long run of keeping itself up, lost composure and dropped. Or maybe, just maybe, the contractors had ripped us off and rather than committing to the “lifetime warranty” brand drywall they settled for the “only a few months into our relationship” drywall. We knew, however, that the diminishing structure wasn’t collapsing because of an outside force, like weather or termites.

On a Sunday, a day when we rest, a day meant for sleeping in and a day meant for running errands that Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday wont allow, we witnessed an abnormally large portion of insulation foam plummet onto the kitchen table. The cotton candy colored dust-sponge fell with a thud and immovable force. It dropped, resembling a seven-layer strawberry cake, unwavered by its own weight. We stood there, watching the residual dust settle, nodded towards one another, and left the kitchen and to settle back into bed.

For months, our ceiling collapsed. It is not to be mistaken; we did try to cure the architectural wounds with duct tape, masking tape, painter’s tape and glue. We also tried patching the fractures with cloth, or the broken piece itself, repositioning the fragment into the vacant hole, like a slightly skewed puzzle piece. We attempted to maneuver a net underneath the entire ceiling in case any pieces fell, which we found to be least effective. At times, we even tried catching the breakage before it happened by walking with our arms up at all moments of the day in anticipation of a large collapse. We found that nothing worked.

As time passed, we became used to stumbling over missing drywall, or parts of the roof. We became comfortable among the fallen insulation and we became comfortable not seeing each other once the piles had gotten too large.

When waking up in the morning we would call for one another, our voices getting

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trapped in debris. In the afternoon we would call for one another, and our calls would exit through a large hole in the kitchen. And at night, while saying our goodnights and goodbyes, our calls got trapped in a broken 2x4.

Architects and contractors, building specialists and realtors came by to examine our property and no one could figure out the cause of such damage. Of course, we never spoke to them, having been trapped so far beneath the collapsed faรงade. But we heard them. We heard them outside of what would be our living room, and we heard them while they walked over a large chunk of roof, oblivious to our being under them. Nothing they said reassured my partner and I, so we tried our best to continue living as normal. Although cooking came to a halt, laundry came to a halt, cleaning came to a halt and showering came to a halt, we put most of our efforts into breathing and counting, two things we could do without much room.

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PAINTING AND CREATIVE WRITING Field Notes I. Before you enter the woods, there is a cabin. In the cabin, my grandfather collected tools-- rusty clamps, a toothed saw, an old claw hammer. The cabins’ paneling was cedar, furry and rotten, but still standing.

II. Outside, there are acres of trees that form thickets and tower above you. Some lean on each other and rip the ground, resting like fallen monuments. Their roots are lifted for you to see a collection of mushrooms, shelf fungi, oyster fungi. If we take a walk, I will step forward only on moss and stone, no sticks, to let you hear the sound of your own breath. Is it deep or short or steady? Do you feel comfortable? At your feet the frogs will be snapping from leaf to leaf- but if you want to find one, you have to stalk it. You stalk with logic-- you find the single deadened leaf that is rustling but should not rustle when your foot touches the ground. Bend down and pick up a frog from the underbrush. It will not be bigger than your finger.

To walk in the woods is to dance, to be the wandering camera making the long take. You travel quietly, stepping over logs or onto them. They either splinter beneath your feet from years of decay, or hold steady and firm. You pass under the shade of a red oak and into a beam of fresh, blinding sun. Look at the things that grow in the sun, and the things that don’t. The sun has shaped the rhythm of the forest: young trees struggle in the shade, while the great spread their limbs over the canopy, sucking in the sun. The tourists lay on the beach far away, but in the woods there are pileated woodpeckers hiding in the trees. To a child, they are monsters, hammering at the trees, the size of cranes. In the leaves are earthworms, large black beetles, pill bugs, ground birds, moths, chipmunks, gray squirrels, garter snakes, brown snakes, crickets, spiders, ants, termites, and stones.

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III. Nothing will hurt you here other than the spiders and the black flies. The stones you trip on, the poison ivy. “In Oklahoma,” my mother would tell me with southern flair and a serious look in her eye, beginning with the music of an old folktale “There are six snakes to be afraid of: the diamond back, the cottonmouth, the coral snake, the copperhead, the water moccasin. My brother and I were lucky if we got away with running around barefoot.”

IV. A few feet from the cabin stands a terribly crafted log fort my cousin made when he was young. It looked like two deer standing next to one another, drawn with clumsy charcoal lines. He tried to cut joints with a hacksaw, but stopped halfway.

When I was younger I climbed it, carefully placing my feet on the nail and board ladder, stuck my hand in the soft yellow flesh of young sulfur shelves.

V. I imagined my scrawny cousin raising a hammer above his head. He was Vulcan of the forest, wielding his weapon, shaping the trees, smashing nails into flesh.

VI. If you move to the edge of the forest, past the gravel road, there is a witness tree. This part of the island stinks with algae—the lakes are close by, along the private estates filled with the elite folk drinking coca cola and lounging on daybeds, waterskiing in the afternoon. It is caged in wire mesh and a plywood frame marked with a makeshift plaque. Here, some guy, probably with a beard and a plaid shirt, has scribed “Here is the witness tree.” The witness tree is a surveying marker tall enough to act as a measuring point, but in my younger days I thought it was watching the forest so it could be a witness. Nick Carraway, the silent observer.

It would only see tourists with inflatable whales and orange floaties for the kids.

VII. If you travel twenty feet you will reach lake Michigan. Its beach is covered in algae and stone. There, you will pick up a stone and hold the fossils of brachiopods and ancient coral. A man told me about the time he went out west and picked up a big stone, cracked it open and for the first time in millions of years laid his eyes on a perfectly preserved fossil of a fish. He held out both hands and felt the weight in

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his arms.

VIII. If you find a stone that is round and flat, put it in your pocket until there are many.

Then, skip them. If the first one breaks the water and sinks, curve your finger around the next as you shoot the stone across the water. Your finger is a simple machine, a lever. Watch the stone skip two or five or fourteen times. Be like David.

Don’t tell anyone.

IX. One spring, the alewives died in mass numbers and covered this beach with silver bodies, like leaves glistening in the sun. The lake smelled extra foul. Hundreds of cold dead eyes bobbed up and down with the waves.

X. My grandfather told me about the last bears that lived on this island. The island was covered in black bears. He showed me the caves in the center of the island where they lived. They would eat the fish and hide in the brambles and climb the trees and roll around on the forest floor.

“One day,” he said “They all just walked into the water.”

But my grandfather also told me to quit slurping the last of the milk in my cereal and to be quiet when adults talked.

XI. There is a married couple on the island that stays here year round. They built their own home, and in the winter they burn logs to stay warm. They watch the deer from their windows, and leave a salt lick in their yard that blends in with the winter snow. The wife collects teapots and runs an antique store, the husband builds fine shelves and doors and tables and chairs.

If you listen to their stories, eventually they will tell you about their daughter who is an artist and is an engineer. She invented a polymer that she casts into the shapes of baby dolls and dung, meant for medical students and biologists. The medical students could practice surgery on the baby dolls without using real babies. The

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biology students could study the different types of dung, dissect them, and find whatever it is that they are expecting to find.

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ANIMATION AND ART HISTORY Dye, Stain And Paint: The Veil Paintings Of Morris Louis And Their Relation To Fiber Art

Renowned critics such as Clement Greenberg and Michael Fried have championed Morris Louis as an influential color field painter and abstract expressionist. His seminal work, particularly his Veil series, is recognized for its original and innovative use of paint. Louis’ works are often compared and related to other painters, both his contemporaries and prior -- namely Jackson Pollock, Helen Frankenthaler, Kenneth Noland and Henri Matisse.

It is impossible for a viewer to dismiss their pre-conceived cultural and art historical associations upon seeing a new work of art. Morris Louis is, and has always been, considered a painter. It is not my intention to argue this fact.

However, it is my opinion that this cultural and critical precedence – rather than Louis’ techniques, process, material or final product – are the primary reason his works are categorized as paintings. In their formal and procedural qualities, I will contend that Louis’ Veil Paintings are much more closely related to fiber and textile art. This essay not only aims to prove the validity of this context but also to argue that Morris Louis could be reconsidered in a different artistic lineage – that of the fiber arts’ critical progression from “craft” to “fine art”.

I would like to preemptively reiterate that my thesis is not suggesting Morris Louis should be reclassified as a fibers artist. I understand that he was a painter, and that in the context of the 1960s and 70s, his work could only be understood as painting. However, I endeavor to reframe his work, and consider Louis’ paintings in the more expanded sense. I will present an argument stating that when Louis is not critically confined to the Greenberg’s concept of medium specificity, he could be considered to have an integral role in the breakdown of painterly painting, the evolution of fiber arts and therefore, the integration of different types of media within fine art.

To form this argument conclusively, I would like first to discuss the original criticism of Morris Louis – particularly that by Clement Greenberg and

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Michael Fried. This will then lead to a discussion of their critical rhetoric, and how painting terms failed to accurately describe Louis’ process. I will then assess their terms, such as “stain” and “dye,” in their original relation to textiles and fabric. Once I have established the re-framing of Morris Louis, I will begin tying him into a lineage of progression from painting to fiber art. To establish a formal basis for this, I will analyze Yad, a Triadic Bronze Veil painting from 1958. This will lead to the Drape Paintings of Sam Gilliam, a second wave Washington Color School painter, to argue that Gilliam was a necessary sculptural link between the two mediums of painting and fiber arts. I will complete the lineage with Sheila Hicks, an abstract expressionist weaver and contemporary fibers artist, who began creating work in the 1960s and still actively does so today.

Clement Greenberg describes Morris Louis and his Veil Paintings in his 1960 essay “Louis and Noland”: Louis spills his paint on unsized and unprimed cotton duck canvas, leaving the pigment almost everywhere thin enough…for the eye to sense the threadedness and wovenness of the fabric underneath. 1 Greenberg applauds Louis for his emphasis on opticality and eradication of figure/ground relationships within painting. It is through this formative criticism that Greenberg, and then Fried, establish not only Louis’ career as a painter but his place in art history. Because of this, it is important to understand Greenberg’s and Fried’s critical essays before re-contextualizing Morris Louis.

Although Louis lived and worked in Washington, D.C. and is usually considered a member of the Washington Color School, he had strong connections with the New York School of painting.2 It is widely accepted that Louis first became interested in dyeing/staining techniques when Greenberg introduced both him and Noland to Helen Frankenthaler’s 1952 painting, Mountains and Sea.3 (Fig. 1) Under this new influence, Louis begins to incorporate dyeing/staining techniques into his paintings. His new aim was to create complete flatness and eradication of shape -- a “revulsion against the sculptural”.4 Louis, by soaking paint directly into the canvas, refuses any “painterly” aspects in his paintings.5 In his 1965 essay “Three American Painters: Noland, Olitzki, Stella,” Fried notes that the dyeing/staining technique is inherently in opposition to intentional shape and outline, and therefore “resists being read as drawn”.6 This, in relation to Pollock’s use of line, is particularly exciting for Fried. In the era of Abstract Expressionism,

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where process and innovation were valued over precision and representation, this “undrawn” quality of Louis’ paintings garnered critical attention and appreciation.

Greenberg also notes that “the more closely color could be identified with its ground, the freer would it be from the interference of tactile associations…”7 As the tactility of paint dwindles, the tactility of the canvas is emphasized. By eliminating the physical substance of paint, Louis addresses the formal roles of figure and ground. Greenberg was left with no physicality on which to base figure and ground, and instead expands his ideas with color. He states: It is a gray-white or white-gray bareness that functions as a color in its own right and on a parity with other colors; by this parity the other colors are leveled down as it were, to become identified with the raw cotton surface as much as the bareness is.8 In this statement, Greenberg acknowledges that paint and canvas have become indistinguishable through figure and ground. Fried agrees, stating that “the stain image and its raw canvas ground are indissoluble from the other….the stain image may be regarded as nothing more than the ground itself under different conditions of seeing, and vice versa.”9 In this sense, Louis has achieved total flatness. The paint, historically considered the life source of figure, is now creating a different type of ground.10 As the preceding discussion reveals, the same specific nomenclature keeps cropping up in the criticisms of Greenberg and Fried. “Dye,” “stain,” “weave,” “fabric,” “spill,” and “cotton” are terms often and widely used to describe Louis’ painting process. These words are employed because painting terminology fails to accurately describe Louis’ work and process. Words such as “dye” and “stain” aid the reader in visualizing Louis’ act of painting. As successful as these terms are, Greenberg and Fried overlook their origin. These terms are appropriated from a different medium that, in the 1960s, is just transitioning from the realm of “craft” – fiber arts.

Clement Greenberg describes the Veil Paintings in “Louis and Noland”: “The fabric, being soaked in paint rather than merely covered by it, becomes paint in itself, color in itself, like dyed cloth.”11 I would agree with Greenberg, Louis’ Veil Paintings are indeed remarkably like dyed cloth. But what are the differences?

How does a Veil painting distinguish itself formally from dyed cloth textiles in the eyes of critics? To discuss the difference between painting and fiber art, I would like to distinguish between two terms that Greenberg and Fried seem to use

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interchangeably – “dye” and “stain”.

First, it is necessary to achieve a technical understanding of the term “dye”. According to Stefania Holt, author of Painted and Printed Textiles: From A.D. 800 to 1961, dyeing is specific to submerging fabric within “liquid pigment.”12 Verla Birrell, from her book The Textile Arts, embellishes further to explain the difference between painting and dyeing in relation to the final product rather than the process. A dyed piece of fabric will be a physically changed material -- the pigment fully bonded within the fabric. A painted piece of fabric will not innately change the physical material, and will only leave a layer of pigment resting on the top surface.13 To simplify those terms, I reiterate: the process of dyeing changes the entire material, while the process of painting only changes one side of that material. Morris Louis’ process clearly affects both sides of the material. His works always have a reverse image -- even if it is banned from the viewer’s sight as soon as the canvas is stretched.14 However, if the viewer were allowed to remove Louis’ painting from the wall, or if Louis’ paintings were hung in the center of the room, like Sam Gilliam’s paintings (who will be mentioned later on in this essay), they would be able to see the exact image in mirror reverse on the back of the canvas (Fig. 2). In these terms, Louis’ paintings clearly relate more closely to the dyeing process than traditional painting.

Louis works on unstretched and unprimed cotton duck, and dyes his canvas with Magna acrylic paints.15 He thins his paints with either turpentine or Acryloid F-10, then adds a “water-tension breaker” which allows him to stack many layers of thin paint on top of each other while still retaining a luminous quality.16 17 He directs the flow of paint by folding, draping and pleating the canvas. In this way, he is also replacing the paintbrush with the physical canvas, allowing the material to directly affect the mark making.18 To further control the paint, Louis masked off parts of the canvas that he didn’t want the paint to affect with other scraps of canvas and masking tape.19 This is yet another fibers dyeing technique, known as resist dyeing.20 The canvas -- loose, flexible and not yet tautly stretched over bars -- is recognizably cotton fabric. Louis worked on parts of his canvas at a time and was not usually aware of its entirety until the end of his process.21 This is in direct opposition to the idea of an intentional composition. Louis’ act of unrolling cotton duck from a bolt of canvas and dyeing it in sections seems much more reminiscent of the creation of textile yardage. Only later is the canvas cropped

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down and compositionally situated for stretcher bars.

Next, I would like to achieve a connotative understanding of the term “stain”. Denotatively, staining is similar to dyeing in that liquid pigment permanently affects material. Like dyeing, a stain is bound to the fibers of the fabric, rather than layered on top of the material. (Therefore painting, again, does not relate to staining.) However, unlike “dye”, the term “stain” is usually used to describe an accidental, negative or unwanted marking. Where dyeing is an intentional, timeintensive process, staining is a quick accident. Louis’ Veil Paintings rest somewhere between the dominions of these two terms. On one hand, Noland has described the Veil Paintings as “one-shot paintings,” and “encouraged Louis to work quickly to abandon anything like a ponderous or precious attitude toward his art.”22 On the other, Elizabeth Baker, in her 1970 article “Morris Louis: Veiled Illusions”, emphasizes the arduous effort spent to make “subtle and extremely meaningful variations, which elucidate the degree of finesse involved.”23 From the above information, it seems clear that Greenberg’s and Fried’s interchangeable use of “dye” and “stain” is problematic. In my opinion, Louis’ Veil Paintings could more accurately be considered an “anti-stain” in connotative meaning. Jenni Sorkin, a feminist art critic and fibers historian, wrote about the meanings of stain in her essay “Stain: on Cloth, Stigma, and Shame”. She describes it as “common…[and] mundane…the ritual and expectancy of stain is such that we allow for it.”24 Stain shows a lack of control. This is in inherent conflict with Baker’s emphasis on intention and finesse in Louis’ process. Stain also relates to the body -- blood, sweat, and food are common materials that cause stain.

Yet Louis is celebrated for the removal of the artist’s hand in his mark making.25 Stain is unwanted. Sorkin describes stain as “a negation of an area of fabric… destroy[ing] the continuity of the cloth.”26 E.A. Carmean, Jr., when describing Louis’ Terranean, views stains as “underscor[ing] the unity and the interpenetration of Louis’ various color zones.”27 (Fig. 3) This comparison shows “dye” to be a more fitting term when describing the intention of Louis’ paintings. For further illumination, I direct attention to Winged Hue II (1959). (Fig. 4) Winged Hue II clearly doesn’t belong to any series and is most likely a transitional painting between two styles: the Veils and the Florals.28 Winged Hue II employs all of the same pouring and dyeing techniques of Louis’ Veils, but with a more notable emphasis on the shape and edge of the forms. I will call this edge the true stain of Louis’ paintings. Extending beyond the vibrant color of pigment is a ring of muted tan (probably about 1 to 2 inches

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in thickness, although it is hard to tell from reproductions.) This tan hue, only a few shades darker than the canvas, is the same color around all forms despite the differing tonality of paint, and therefore, most likely an unintended effect from the residual medium (either acrylic medium or turpentine).29 This is the aspect of mark making that remained beyond Louis’ control, and can therefore be accurately described as a stain.

It is not my intention to dissect every term used creatively for exact meaning and “truthfulness”. However, by examining the denotative and connotative aspects of the words “dye” and “stain,” it is my hope that the reader will understand Louis’ critical dependency on fiber art terminology. Greenberg and Fried littered these words throughout their analytical writings of Louis without bothering to fully understand their original meanings or implications. It should also become clear that Louis’ paintings and fiber art terminology are inseparable because of how similar (I would go so far as to say exact) the two processes are. Painting terminology failed because Morris Louis was acting as a fibers artist.

However, after providing both formal and procedural evidence of Louis’ relation to fiber arts, I would like to capitulate and restate my understanding of Morris Louis as a painter. I am not denying his painterly lineage -- Matisse, Pollock, Frankenthaler, Noland -- but merely suggesting that it may be enlightening to establish Louis in a lineage not restricted to painters. In the 1960s and 70s, the art world was on the cusp of embracing interdisciplinary and multimedia artwork.

In 1969, Wall Hangings, the first major showing of fiber arts, was presented at MoMA.30 Mildred Constantine, co-curator alongside Jack Lenor Larsen, approaches “the consecration of fiber art [with] a logic rooted in a belief in formalism as democratic, legitimating discourse capable of transforming any work into an object of pure, aesthetic contemplation.”31 Similarly Lucinda Gedeon, in her book Fiber Concepts, states “the revolution in fiber arts shares antecedents with that of the revolution which occurred almost simultaneously in the fields of painting and sculpture.”32 Keeping these two synchronous revolutions in mind, I would like to suggest that Morris Louis’ fiber-based techniques of applying paint, as well as his method of addressing canvas as fabric, have supported and furthered the elevation of fiber arts from craft to fine art.

To bolster my contention in reframing Louis’ work, I will next present a longitudinal progression of artwork over the span of twenty years. To begin, I will analyze Yad(1958), a Bronze Triadic Veil painting by Morris Louis. Yad’s stylistic and formal qualities inform Sam Gilliam and his Drape Paintings of the

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1960s and 70s – specifically Carousel Merge (1971). Sam Gilliam, in his sculptural consideration of the canvas, serves as a helpful connection in the transition to weaving. To finish the progression squarely in the realm of fiber arts, I will conclude with Sheila Hicks and her 1978 weaving, Fissures.

In his book on Morris Louis, Michael Fried states: It was Pollock who first removed the canvas from both stretcher and easel. Louis clearly found this liberating; but there is a difference between these two men that must be noted… Pollock… needed, he said “the resistance of a hard surface. Whereas Louis seems to have needed nothing more, but nothing less, than the resistance of canvas itself. 33 Out of his four main series, this embrace of fabric and canvas is most clearly seen in his Veil Paintings. Yad, from 1958, is 91 x 140 inches in size. (Fig. 5) It stays true to Louis’ process as described previously, made with Magna acrylic resin on cotton duck. It displays all the usual markings of a Veil painting, in which the act of layering thin washes of paint is obvious in its opticality. Yad, due to its rich, earth-tone hues, is classified in the subcategory of Bronze Veil Paintings.

Formally, the viewer first sees the three color-zones of the composition.

This sectioning could further categorize Yad as a Triadic Veil.34 The two outer panels are a mostly uniform navy, warmed by the pale red washes layered underneath -which the viewer can distinguish at the edges of the shape. The inner veil, double the size of the two outer veils, commands the most attention. It is the most dynamic of the three in color and mark making. The viewer notices the lighter colors (seen in the yellow, sage and burnt orange near the top of the dyed shape) as reminders of layers of color and true depth of the seemingly unresisting surface.

While considering Yad, I am intrigued with the inflexible, masculine terminology Fried and Greenberg chose to describe the Bronze Veils. Fried describes this work as “flame-like”, “stalagmite-like” or “mineral” – terms that imply impenetrable, aggressive, and unyielding forces.35 These words seem dissonant with the soft, ductile feminine connotations of the series’ title. The dark navy and teal washes, layered over lighter sages and yellows, result in vertical flowlike formations. These are Fried’s “stalagmite-like” marks, which appear to be due to their verticality. It is my opinion that these could just as easily be compared to exaggerated warp threads, due to the relative uniformity and regularity of their markings. The layering of colors resulting in a unified opticality is similar to the

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warp and weft of a weaving – two colors, still separate, mixing in the eye to create a new hue. Far from mineral or rock-like, Yad is more relatable to a sheer, dark curtain (or veil) – with light shining through. These dark vertical lines could also be interpreted as pleats or folds of the curtain. Kenworth Moffett, in his book Morris Louis, states: The Veil contrasts sharply with the raw canvas in value, heightening the sculptural implications, which are, however, undermined by this same opposition: the continuity of the canvas weave through painted and unpainted areas that throws up the identification of the illusion with the flat material surface.36 This issue – the opposition of optical depth and sculptural flatness -- becomes resolved in the work of Sam Gilliam. Morris Louis has begun to consider canvas as woven fabric and sets the stage for Gilliam to further this work.

Sam Gilliam, a member of the second wave of Washington Color School painters, held Morris Louis in high regard “for having perfected the brushless painting technique.”37 Of all Louis’ works, the Veil series especially resonated with Gilliam, and, in 1965, he began the process of pouring, folding and dyeing the paint into his canvas.38 39 Gilliam, whom I consider to be primarily a formal protégé of Louis, was using similar processes and, therefore, the previously discussed and deliberated terminology of “dye” and “stain” relate to Gilliam in much the same way as they did to Louis. However, Gilliam further extends Louis’ experiment and relates even further to fiber-based techniques. After dyeing the canvas with paint, Gilliam would leave the canvas bundled on the floor, allowing it to dry in a heap.40 Much like Louis’ appropriation of resist dyeing, Gilliam’s process is very reminiscent of tie-dye techniques.

The experiments of dyeing culminate in Gilliam’s Drape painting series.

Reaching further into the influence of material and fiber, Gilliam chooses to free the canvas from its stretcher bars completely. Jonathon Binstock, in Sam Gilliam: A Retrospective, states that Gilliam’s “paintings get their look directly from the unique properties of canvas, specifically its pliant character and the way it behaves when handled in its relaxed state, without the aid of a stretcher.”41 This decision continues a progression Louis set into motion. Unlike Yad’s taut surface tension disharmoniously matched with the optical pleating and draping, the sculptural freedom of Gilliam’s Drape Paintings allow for a more congruous viewing of image and form. Gilliam’s three-dimensional canvas allows the viewer to feel

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the gravity and action of the poured paint – expanding the color, materiality and tactility into sculptural form.42 The unified dimensionality of dyed cloth is now celebrated. The viewer is invited to see the back of the canvas -- no longer hidden away like something to be ashamed of, as it is in Louis’ Veil Paintings. Gilliam announces to his viewer and his critics that canvas is formally just woven fabric and is capable of being dyed, treated, draped, and manipulated like such.

Carousel Merge (1971) is arguably the pinnacle of his Drape Painting series, and provides a nice formal transition from Louis’ Yad to Hicks’ Fissures.

(Fig. 6) Carousel Merge is approximately 120 by 900 inches on install. (The reader should note this refers to its installation in the Walker Art Center – dimensions change at every new installation.) On this large scale, it is more obvious that Gilliam’s process is similar to the creation of textile yardage. Gilliam skips the compositional cropping device Louis employed when situating his canvas as a painting.

There is something messy and unsophisticated about Carousel Merge – stained rather than dyed. Although beautiful, it reminds us of a painter’s drop cloth. As Gilliam moves further from the recognizable intention of easel painting, the viewer starts to associate connotatively with the functionality and use of cotton material. This connection would be glaringly obvious if Carousel Merge was shown flat on the floor. However, it is made elegant and polished by its means of presentation. Based on the documentation of its display in the Walker Art Center, I believe its grandeur and prestige to be located in its scale and height of display.

The viewer, standing beneath it, has to literally look up at it -- which immediately removes any connotations of a soiled drop cloth. Its final display is dramatically different from its form in process (a soggy pile on the floor, like dirty laundry).

Sam Gilliam’s Drape Paintings show us that the prestige of fine art has less to do with classification of medium or method of process, but rather the way in which it is ultimately displayed, void of all function.

The viewer no longer has to imagine the process of the artist in studio; we clearly see the Drape Paintings as a length of canvas that originated off a bolt, hung in ways that remind the viewer of curtains or skirt pleats. There is undeniably painting/dyeing there – executed similarly as Louis – but now the viewer is lost and overwhelmed in the materiality of the work. While Louis related to textiles on a small scale, in the cotton weave of the canvas, Gilliam relates on a large scale.

Carousel Merge places the sculptural aspect of fibers work above the importance of optical painting. Gedeon observes:

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[In the 1970s,] artists were exploiting all media, including those used in traditional crafts in unusual and untraditional ways… mainstream painters and sculptors worked with materials not usually associated with the fine arts, including fabric. Woven linen canvas was stained and took on odd shapes, or, in the case of Sam Gilliam’s work, was painted and left unstretched. 43 Although still usually classified as a painter, Sam Gilliam began to be considered in the realm of fiber artwork, specifically his role in elevating fiber art from “craft”.

Not only is his work mentioned in Lucinda Gedeon’s Fiber Concepts, Carousel Merge is also showcased in Mildred Constantine’s anthology, Beyond Craft: the Art Fabric.44 Although scholars are wont to compare Sam Gilliam to makers of “soft sculpture” like Robert Morris, especially his Untitled draped felt pieces of 1970, I would argue that Gilliam has a similar place in the connection of painting to fiber arts.45 His consideration and experimentation of the sculptural abilities of fabric have created a “fine arts space” for fibers artists to do the same. Sheila Hicks, a formative figure in the Fiber Arts revolution, was one of these artists whose work was elevated by this revelation.

Seven years after the creation of Carousel Merge, in 1978, Sheila Hicks creates Fissures. (Fig. 7) Fissures was only one of a series of small-scale weavings that Hicks created, and in all critical aspects, no more or less important than the others in the series. Hicks graduated from the Yale University School of Art in 1955.46 Her initial forays into weaving were small ventures from her painting practice. In fact, her first weaving was made using painting stretcher bars that were just “absent the canvas on which to paint.”47 Nina Strizler-Levine, in “A Design Identity”, comments on the formal concerns of the 1950s: “…traditional craft materials were increasingly used to make nonfunctional objects, a change that brought a shift in identity for craftspeople from “artisan” to “artist”.48 That shift, it seems obvious, has been brought about from two opposing sides. Not only were “artisans” making objects that are non-functional, “artists” (such as Morris Louis and Sam Gilliam) were appropriating the functional processes of artisans in their inherently non-functional work. Without this duality, the elevation of fiber arts would not have been successful. It was in their relation to painters and sculptors that fiber artists began to be understood as fine artists.

Hicks was intimately familiar with the aesthetic and intellectual concerns

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of abstract expressionist painters. These small-scale weavings have many of the same formal qualities of Louis’ Veil Paintings. This is often overlooked, I believe, because of the vast difference in scale. Hicks addresses large scale in works such as the Four Seasons of Mount Fuji, but since this essay is not particularly interested in scale, I would rather address formal connections in color, material, and function.

(Fig. 8) It is through the comparison to Sheila Hicks that we can really press the idea of “wovenness” (a Greenberg-ian term) and its role in painting and color.

Sheila Hicks took Sam Gilliam’s emancipation of material a step further -- allowing it to be created by hand. Instead of affecting industrially woven cotton duck, she weaves her own material and color relationships from hand-dyed fibers.

Her work starts on the painting stretcher bar frame, and like Gilliam, “removes the skeins from the frame, releasing the tension, so that they can be further manipulated.”49 According to Joan Simon, in Sheila Hicks: Weaving as Metaphor, Hicks states: “the idea of a reversed image was not new to me, but the ‘texture’ and depth of color of interlaced linear filaments was something I have never observed.”50 Fissures is slit woven with both cotton and wool. It is approximately 9 by 5 ½ inches in size, reversible, and with all selvages finished. It is in this weaving, as well as others in the series, such as Maize and Moitie Doux, that the viewer can see Hicks as a true colorist. (See Figs. 9 and 10) The subtle blending of color in Fissures -- ranging in tonality from tan, sage, burnt orange and deep brown -finally show a complete ingratiation of color and material. The success of Fissures’ coloration reminds one of Louis’ Bronze Veil series (Yad included), for which Fried states: “the coloristic richness of the strongest 1957-59 veils consists…in the binding together in a single darkish tonality – often brown, bronze, or green -- of the comparatively few…hues they comprise.”51 Hicks describes a similar “binding together” in another weaving of the series, Upright, stating that “the widely spaced warp encourages the slippery burnt orange, chestnut brown, royal purple and dark red silks to converge slowly.”52 (Fig. 11) Hicks achieved similar depths of color in her weavings that Louis did in his paintings.

Fissures vertically oriented purple runs relate to Yad’s navy stalagmite/ pleat marks, and provide a similar, yet less pronounced, sense of weight and gravity within the eye of the viewer. It is also interesting to mention the slits of negative space in both compositions. In Yad, this is the bare cotton duck separating the three veil forms. In Fissures, this relates to the physical slits in the weaving. (Her weaving style is called “slit woven” and refers to the intentional disruption of the

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weft.) As Hicks’ work is normally shown flush to a wall, unlike Gilliam’s, this physical space is filled in with the white of the gallery wall, not unlike the off-white of Louis’ cotton duck.

It is my opinion that Hicks has undeniably resolved the problem of figure and ground that Louis first presented. Color and material are now so intimately united that they are unable to be even conceivably separated into figure and ground roles. In Hicks’ material description, she labels her weavings as reversible. Like Gilliam, she is acknowledging what Louis did not – that fabric has two equally optical sides. Although Fissures is likely to be shown against a wall, therefore denying the viewer of its whole presence, she acknowledges Gilliam’s advances in her later works, such as May I Have This Dance? (See Fig. 12) However, through small scale, she acknowledges the full materiality of fabric – building her color relationships through weaving hand-dyed fibers, rather than dyeing industrially woven canvas.

Morris Louis wrote to Clement Greenberg in 1954, the same year that he began his series of Veil Paintings, stating: The more I paint the more I’m aware of a difference in my approach and others. [I] am distrustful of over-simplifications but nonetheless think that there is nothing yet new in any period of art: what is true is that it is only something new for the painter [and] that this thin edge is what matters. 53 This statement suggests Louis knew what Greenberg and Fried ignored – the appropriation of fiber art techniques within his seemingly innovative painting style.

He defines the “thin edge” to address the sense of originality -- although there is nothing new for art in general, there can always be something new for painting.

For an artist of so much historical significance, it seems absurd to think that Louis’ work didn’t influence artists beyond the medium of painting. It is true that as a painter, Morris Louis can be interestingly considered alongside other painters such as Jackson Pollock, Helen Frankenthaler and Kenneth Noland.

This lineage has already been thoroughly discussed in Michael Fried’s 1970 book, Morris Louis. This essay does not mean to refute the validity of that lineage.

However, the 1960s and 70s were an art historical period potent with revolutions.

Alongside the vast changes taking place in painting, there were similar changes in the critical discussion of fiber arts. Rather than reiterating the points of Fried and Greenberg, this essay builds on their formative opinions -- bringing new understanding to Louis and his works as an artist in the expanded sense. It is my

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opinion that Louis plays an influential role in deteriorating the formal structure of painting and expanding the possibilities of mixed media art. This is the basis that suggests figure/ground, materiality, color theory, and opticality are issues not restricted only to painters.

By employing a process not native to the history of painting, Louis begins unpacking Greenberg’s theory of medium specificity. Through his appropriation of dyeing techniques within his paintings, Louis allows fiber art a foothold in the critical art discourse usually reserved for paintings and sculptures. Although I’m sure Greenberg would scorn the correlation to which I’m using his criticism, there seems to be an undeniable link between the terminology Fried and he used and the growing relationship between painting and fiber arts discourse. Greenberg and Fried’s use of “dye,” “stain,” “wovenness,” and “threadedness” allow critics and viewers to think of fiber art’s relation to painting, expanding the realm of “fine art” into interdisciplinary contexts. The platform Louis establishes allows for artists, like Sam Gilliam and Sheila Hicks, to reach further into the realm of fiber arts. This new and open structure, along with Louis’ consideration of paint application and material, are formative gestures towards acknowledging fiber art beyond craft, and considering it critically with the same prestige as painting.

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Fig. 1: Helen Frankenthaler, Mountains and Sea, 1952

Fig. 2: Morris Louis, Dalet Aleph (back),1958 and Yad (back), 1958

Fig. 3: Morris Louis, Terranean, 1958

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Fig. 4 Morris Louis Winged Hue II, 1959

Fig. 5: Morris Louis, Yad, 1958

Fig. 6: Sam Gilliam, Carousel Merge, 1971

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Fig. 7: Sheila Hicks, Fissures, 1978

Fig. 8: Sheila Hicks, Four Seasons of Mount Fuji, 1992-1993

Fig. 9: Sheila Hicks, Maize, 1978

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Fig. 10: Sheila Hicks, Moitie Doux, 1979

Fig. 11: Sheila Hicks, Upright, 1969

Fig. 12: Sheila Hicks, May I Have this Dance, 2002-2003

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Endnotes 1 Clement Greenberg, “Louis and Noland,” in Modernism with a Vengeance, 1957-1969, ed. John O’Brian, vol. 4 of Clement Greenberg: The Collected Essays and Criticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 97.

2 Greenberg, “Louis and Noland,” 95-96.

3 Ibid, 96.

4 Ibid, 96.

5 Kenworth Moffet, Morris Louis in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (Boston: The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 1979), 5.

6 Michael Fried, Three American Painters: Noland, Olitzki, Stella (Cambridge: Fogg Art Museum, 1971, c1965), 19.

7 Greenberg, “Louis and Noland,” 97.

8 Ibid.

9 Fried, Three American Painters, 19.

10 Mark Godfrey, “Morris Louis’s Charred Journal: Firewritten Paintings, 1951,” in Abstraction and the Holocaust (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 26.

11 Greenberg, “Louis and Noland,” 97.

12 Stefania P. Holt and Eugene I. Holt, “Introduction,” in Painted and Printed Textiles: From A.D. 800 to 1961 (Pasadena: The Castle Press, 1961), 9.

13 Verla Birrell, The Textile Arts (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1959), 421.

14 Diane Upright, Morris Louis: The Complete Paintings (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., Publishers, 1985), 52.

15 Upright, Morris Louis: The Complete Paintings, 50.

16 Ibid, 53.

17 Jonathan P. Binstock, Sam Gilliam: A Retrospective (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), 29.

18 Moffett, Morris Louis in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 6.

19 Ibid.

20 Holt and Holt, “Introduction,” 10.

21 Moffett, Morris Louis in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 6.

22 Ibid, 5.

23 Elizabeth C. Baker, “Morris Louis: Veiled Illusions,” Art News 69, no. 2 (April 1970): 62.

24 Jenni Sorkin, “Stain: On Cloth, Stigma, and Shame,” in The Textile Reader, ed.

Jessica Hemmings (London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2012), 59.

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25 Moffett, Morris Louis in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 6.

26 Sorkin, “Stain,” 59.

27 E.A. Carmean, Jr., Morris Louis: Major Themes and Variations (Washington: National Gallery of Art, 1976), text with Figure 3.

28 Moffett, Morris Louis in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 22.

29 Upright, Morris Louis: The Complete Paintings, 55.

30 Elissa Auther, “Fiber Art and the Hierarchy of Art and Craft, 1960-80,” The Journal of Modern Craft 1, no. 1 (March 2008): 19.

31 Auther, “Fiber Art and the Hierarchy of Art and Craft,” 24.

32 Lucinda H. Gedeon, Fiber Concepts: Lenore Tawney, Ed Rossbach, Kay Sekimachi, Dominic DiMare, Diane Itter and Rebecca Medel (Tempe: University Art Museum, 1989), 4.

33 Michael Fried, Morris Louis (New York: Penguin, 2006), 28.

34 Moffett, Morris Louis in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 12.

35 Fried, Morris Louis, 24-25) 36 Moffett, Morris Louis in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 8.

37 Jonathan P. Binstock, Sam Gilliam: A Retrospective, 27.

38 Jane Addams Allen, “Sam Gilliam: Letting Go,” Art In America (Jan. 1986): 100.

39 Jonathan P. Binstock, Sam Gilliam: A Retrospective, 27.

40 Ibid, 31.

41 Ibid, 31.

42 Ann Eden Gibson, “The Logics of Color: Notes on Richard Anuszkiewicz and Sam Gilliam,” in Blanton Museum of Art: American Art since 1900, ed. Annette DiMeo Carlozzi and Kelly Baum (Austin: Blanton Museum of Art, 2006), 410.

43 Gedeon, Fiber Concepts, 5.

44 Mildred Constantine and Jack Lenor Larsen, Beyond Craft: The Art Fabric (Tokyo: Kodansha International Press, 1986), 72.

45 Jonathan P. Binstock, Sam Gilliam: A Retrospective, 62.

46 Joan Simon, “Frames of Reference,” in Sheila Hicks: Weaving as Metaphor, edited by Nina Strizler-Levine (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 43.

47 Simon, “Frames of Reference,” 43.

48 Nina Stritzler-Levine, “A Design Identity,” in Sheila Hicks: Weaving as Metaphor, edited by Nina Strizler-Levine (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 349.

49 Simon, “Frames of Reference,” 45.

50 Ibid, 43-45.

51 Fried, Morris Louis, 25.

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52 Sheila Hicks, “Catalogue of the Exhibition,� in Sheila Hicks: Weaving as Metaphor, edited by Nina Strizler-Levine (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), 178179.

53 Upright, Morris Louis: The Complete Paintings, 15.

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CERAMICS AND ART HISTORY Theaster Gates Theaster Gates employs the use of historical codes, contemporary craft, and art theory to create installations that explore many aspects of diverse cultural phenomena. These layers can be a challenge to decode. His use of material and its function are important. The art practice can be developed specifically in a studio and/or not in a studio at all. Contemporary art today is represented in an array of media and Gates is using them to express what is possible within a community. Part of his interest is to diversify what is included in Western Art and include diversity in the conversation of art today. He is determined to bring awareness to cultural diversity by connecting new developments in malnourished urban environments.

Some gaps in contemporary art are related to a lack of awareness and ignorance of diversity. Subject matter from world cultures is important and is sometimes missing in the documentation of the development of what has become in Western culture. Theaster Gates is generating installations, exhibitions, performances, and urban development projects to express a personal consciousness of where he lives and the world he sees in the future. Why is Theaster Gates described as a relevant contemporary artist? This paper will explore Gates engagement in history and incorporation of cultural diversity, interacting with urban environments, as well as combining a multi–dimensional practice to prove himself as a relevant contemporary artist.

As a child, Theaster Gates’ worked with his father on physical building projects. His mother wanted him to become a preacher and afforded him the opportunity to sing in the church choir (Austen, 1). Participating in a church choir as a child could explain why as a practicing artist he uses performance within his body of work. Spirituality and being an artist is very similar because one has to be devoted and desire to partake in ritualistic practices; Gates merges both.

This combination of skills and knowledge allows Gates to engage many different audiences. This relationship incorporates African American culture and Asian culture, symbols of the African American working class, and Christian churches.

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Gates capitalizes on these markers within his art practice to add another layer to his dynamic art practice.

Gates studied at Iowa State University and received a BA in Ceramics and Urban Planning. He also studied at the University of Cape Town and graduated with an MA in Fine Arts and Religious Studies (Gupta, 2014). Eight years later he graduated from Iowa State University again with an MS degree in Ceramics, Urban Planning, and Religious Studies (Gupta 2014). Theaster has a diverse educational background that is concentrated and sets a tone for the broad spectrum of what he will create.

In the beginning of his career, Gates made pottery for twelve years.

Pottery is made from clay that is mined, and then mixed together to make a material that is malleable. After making a form it can be put into a kiln that can be fired to high temperatures. The clay becomes hard like stone and porous to accept water, which can be a transportation device for glass materials to create colors and glazes on the surface. Later, Gates received several awards and a Loeb Fellowship from Harvard University, Graduate School of Design (Gupta 2014). He has received many awards that have allowed him to partake in many opportunities, and thus Gates is able to explore more diverse modes of working, which are the root of what we see expressed in his practice today.

He explained in a keynote speech that it is hard to be a minority in the United States of American but it is harder to be a Black Artist. Further in his lecture he combined performance and participation from the audience in order to explain why diversity and education are important. The presentation was at the National Council for the Education of Ceramic arts conference in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He explained how he had an opportunity to be a Harvard fellow, “I was awarded this opportunity to be a Harvard fellowship recipient; it changed my views of my practice” (Gates, 2014). He elaborated that the experience with his colleagues and explained how what they were doing was what he possibly wanted to explore within his own work. He continued to explain that if he would incorporate their way of thinking and how he created, something magnificent could come out of what he was working on as an artist (Gates, 2014). This information is a guide to the transformation in how he works with materials. He said “I want to have materials in the studio or outside the studio and reactivate them and add more worth to them.” (Gates, 2104). This may be the beginning of the way he starts to analyze the world, but reveal even more about how he started to work with materials differently. This change and/or epiphany helped to start a new

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development in Gates’ performances.

Theaster Gates has developed a system of exhibitions and presentations that set the pace for what makes his creative work so diverse. He created a group called the Black Monks of Mississippi (Gates, 2009). His exhibitions have spiritual aspects that combine Eastern and Western traditions. The Black Monks of Mississippi is an African American group of men that sing about life and their relationship to the world, especially about being black men in America. They sing and narrate their lives as Monks would sing in the monastery from ancient times to today. Monks are a congregation of religious men that live in a monastery and devote their lives to prayer and to “God”. The connection to Mississippi could be an hitorical expression, calling on slavery or the abolition of slavery. Although the music sounds like there are connections to Blues or Rock & Roll, it can also be related to many cultures. References can be made to meditational prayers, work songs, and underground music produced all over the world. Racial identity is a strong concept that Gates is trying to make very apparent within his work, in what he exhibits and presents in presentations.

Another expression of Gates combining concepts of East and West are in his exhibition “Forrest of Tea”. It is a combined idea of a potter’s custom to carry their wares on boards and the idea of tea ceremonies. As Gates uses physical objects that potters use and functional pottery that are used to celebrate function and ceremony this is a clash of traditions in one exhibition. The use of the references to eastern culture with tea and pottery and the development of western civilization of large vertical geometrical monuments are interestingly placed within the gallery. Gates used 1200 wooden boards and five ceremonial tea bowls on a monumental scale (Gates, 2008). For twelve years Gates was making pottery and he learned of these different practices of ceremony. Being a potter connected him to Asian culture but through his exhibitions he explored both traditional uses for objects and conceptual pursuits that add cultural capital to the importance of the handmade.

In 2010 Theaster Gates installed an exhibition in the Milwaukee Art Museum (Gates, 2011). The title of his exhibition was ‘To Speculate Darkly”. This exhibition was a complex experience where Gates employed aspects of history, performance, and mixed media. This exhibition is expanding the idea of what is contemporary art and what is shown in the museum setting. To unpack this exhibition and deliberate on what makes this exhibition so active requires analysis.

To start, the title is complex. To speculate means to hypothesize, contemplate,

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reflect on, and or think. Gates combines speculation with dark, which means, threateningly, mysteriously, and gloomily. In the combination of these words Theaster Gates is creating a platform for what the exhibition is about before even addressing the art.

Although, there is a limited amount of knowledge about African American craftsmen in the early history of the United States, artworks created

by David Drake, Thomas Day, and Henry Boyd are available to the public. In the combination of works created by Theaster Gates, he himself decided to include works created by David Drake. Within the galleries Theaster presents his own works with an unknown craftsman to explain an aspect of American history that creates a relationship between him and the past.

The slave David Drake is a craftsman known for making large vessels for the storage of meat, water, and vegetables. Now centuries later after creating these objects for a specific purpose they are fetishized, bought, collected, and sold for large amounts of money. Also he is now noticed as an artist in his own right. In the past he was overlooked and now he is exhibited in museums. Does this truly mean David Drake is an artist? Why does it take hundreds of years for someone to be recognized as important?

Theaster Gates emphasizes this exhibition around a dialogue between his research and art objects, David Drake, and American Craft and industry. Gates explained in a presentation that he gave at the opening of this exhibition that he wants to allow a new audience into the museum and learn about American Craft (Gates, 2010). Artists can diversify the information present in the museum, and that brings in a more diverse audience. Theaster Gates is bringing more awareness to the lesser-known ceramic craftsmen but also immigrant craft labor. He worked at the Kohler manufacturing company to create his own objects that relate to a new narrative of history. This was made possible with the help of the Milwaukee Art Museum, Kohler Manufacturing and the Chipstone Foundation (Gates, 2014).

In “To Speculate Darkly� there are manufactured ceramic objects that Gates made while working at the Kohler Manufacturing Company. Gates also developed performances that engaged the communities of Milwaukee. All these different aspects make up the whole conversation that Gates is trying to create to allow a more diverse audience to have a relationship within the museum setting and also in art.

Theaster Gates worked at Kohler Manufacturing Company. This opportunity presented the chance to work with a historically producing factory.

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Both the factory and Drake create objects for a functional purpose. Gates presents functional objects that have an added layer behind them and he does not show them in the way they would be originally viewed for use. He hangs sinks on the wall, labeling them with gold, and this can be read as a painting. He is relating art works in ceramic material that can connect different people. He is elevating the practices by bringing more awareness to their existence. Also, he shows another way of using these materials and greatly forces his concepts to be more direct and indirect.

He has also turned the gallery experience into a temple and a history museum by making; the audience has to read and become more aware of what has been presented to them within the museum. He has enveloped the audience in different sensory engagements (Gates, 2010). The audience had to walk through a dark narrow walkway. He illuminated images of what he learned about the history of ceramics on the ceiling. The images were of pottery that came from Greece, China, Greece, India, and Rome. The placement of these images was above, black walls flanking the viewer; this resembled what slaves may have seen being being below the deck of a large transpiration ship across the Atlantic Ocean. A gospel choir singing about pottery and David Drake echoed throughout the exhibit. These multi-layered experiences add more contexts to the exhibition. In ‘To Speculate Darkly” Theaster Gates is trying to show a part of history that no one can really explain, so he is interpreting these different symbols and concepts through multi media.

There are combinations of codes that are at play within the layers of the experience. Racial slurs, cultural performances, singing, and the dim lights possibly resemble the environment of a slave shack that they held early church services.

The words that were used within the choir’s lyrics were actually relating to the exhibition. Gates is capitalizing on transformations of materials and spaces. In all of this material there are religious aspects to the work.

With his use of the museum as a temple, the content of clay and its history, and activating space with sound, he is expanding the idea of what is contemporary art. Art has been written by the European point of view and African Americans did not have a voice in the history of art until the 1910 to 1920. Terry Barrett’s book Why is that art?: aesthetics and criticism of contemporary art gives an explanation of new possibilities in art.

“The artistic pluralism that accompanies the decline of orthodox Modernist Formalism offers artists tremendous freedom of what subjects and styles they

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would like to pursue without fear of retribution from a narrowly focused critical community of caretakers of the art world� (Barrett 2008,196).

This quote aims to present a definition of contemporary art. This quote is important because Theaster Gates is creating art that is pushing beyond modernist theory and creating multifaceted work that is combining so many aspects of contemporary culture. This is explained through examples of pieces shown at the Whitney Museum of American Art in 2010 and his response to Gorda Matta Clark’s exhibition in Saint Louis, Missouri. Gates is creating large thrown or shoeshine sculptures with wood that relate to the original place of the wood (Gates, 2011). Also the Dorchester Projects is an area that Gates lives in Chicago; he bought buildings to redevelop the environment in which he lives in (Austin, 2014).

The redevelopment and appropriation of different parts of urban life plus history create a complex narrative that greatly relates to contemporary art.

He is creating an environment that an audience has to experience from many facets. The different facets really are the complex background or basis for his practice. He combines history, current events, identity, painting, and cultural forms of expression, Asian aesthetics, architecture, urban redevelopment, and optimistic thought towards space.

Theaster researches topics from all angles and is aware of what he must do to create a solution to some problems in contemporary society. Gates focuses on ghettos, projects, or neighborhoods that have many abandoned buildings. He said he wants to create a different cultural program that can engage the community.

This product can influence a different way of thinking towards a specific identity of a place and how it works because of all the things he is claiming and bringing into the work. Theaster Gates is engaging and embodying transformation no matter what he is working with is more important than the output of just a painting or sculpture (Marlow, 2012). The way he engages space and material at a wide array is what he is engaged in (Marlow. 2012).

I feel that this engagement of transformation takes the artwork and experience to contemporary art. Through researching his work and his practice I can view and see all of the layers of subjectivity that are present. The layers are intense and the motifs, symbols, and craftsmanship are very impressive. I feel Gates has a wide reach on how he is engaging the world within his work. The ability to interact with him is also enlightening. What interests me is how he is written into the history of art. Where will the person who is writing or documenting art

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history place Theaster Gates? He has used abandoned buildings, wood, clay, toys, cultural structures, established his own organizations, and more to really assert his position in a world that he wants to live in and he wants to help others have that opportunity.

Theaster Gates creates a dynamic conversation that redefines contemporary art. I felt engaged when he was presenting at the National Council Education of Ceramic Arts conference because he was talking about racial diversity. The way he was projecting that to the audience was another aspect that I was really interested in and how others received the information. It was a performance. Even though he was presenting ideas, concepts, proposals and questions it felt like a performance.

I feel that contemporary art has been directed away from just the painting or it is the painting but the information is very prevalent to the current life or view.

Gates is embodying that within his personal interaction with others. This is a key component that makes Theaster Gates a relevant contemporary artist. He is interacting with communities in a very unique way, almost like it is his duty. With all these things, Gates is a very exclusive individual that is setting a strong vision or model for the future of American culture.

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Bibliography Austen, Ben. “Chicago’s Opportunity Artist.” The New York Times. http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/22/magazine/chicagos-opportunity-artist. html?pagewanted=all&_r=1& (accessed March 15, 2014).

Barrett, Terry. “Conclusion.” Why is that art?: aesthetics and criticism of contemporary art. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. 196. Print.

Felshin, Nina. “Ecopolitics / Ecopoerty.” But is it art?: the spirit of art as activism. Seattle: Bay Press, 1995. 161,162. Print.

The Banff Centre. “Theaster Gates.” Biography. http://www.banffcentre.ca/ faculty/faculty-member/4374/theaster-gates/ (accessed March 12, 2014).

Kavi Gupta Gallery. “Kavi Gupta Gallery.” : Theaster Gates. http://kavigupta. com/artist/theastergates/cv (accessed March 18, 2014).

Gates, Theaster. 2014. “Keynote:The Need for Blackness Within Contemporary Ceramics” Presented at the National Council of the Education of Ceramics Arts, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, March 19 -20.

Theaster Gates, “In the Studio,” interviewed by Tim Marlow, http://whitecube. com/channel/in_the_studio/theaster_gates_in_the_studio/.

(July 2012): 1.

“Theaster Gates.” Theaster Gates. http://theastergates.com/home.html (accessed March 14, 2014).

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PAINTING AND ART HISTORY Abstract Expressionism: Collectivity and the Individual

Abstract Symbolist, Abstract-Objectionist, Direct Art, Concrete Art, NonObjective, Self-Evident2—through what language were the artists of the postwar era supposed to understand themselves? In the years from 1948 to 1952, what is historically now known as Abstract Expressionism, developed into a significant movement for arts and culture. Setting the foundation for individual expression with the notorious action painters, this movement is traditionally understood through the fields of Rothko, zips of Newman, and drips of Pollock. A deeper look into the discourse between the individual artists, popular publications, and art institutions reveals inquisitive dialogues amongst many groups that sought to unravel the artwork of the time. Specifically, a group of artists known as The Irascibles along with the oeuvre of Jackson Pollock will be discussed to examine collectivity as a means for individual success.

The initial push for a collective was rooted in education. The foundational lecture series, Subjects of the Artists, functioned in a traditional teacher as educator relationship. As explained in a publication from 1952, Modern Artists in America, Subjects of the Artists began in 1948 and consisted of a group of painters; William Baziotes, Robert Motherwell, Mark Rothko and sculptor, David Hare, who sought to introduce students of a small cooperative school in Greenwich Village in New York City to art. These lectures were not limited to art students but expanded their ideas of “advanced art”, a term used during the time to describe the movement that we now know as Abstract Expressionism,3 to the public.

The beginning of these discussions corresponded with Life’s round table panel on modern art published in October of 1948. I suspect the lecture group from Subjects of the Artists was acutely aware of the media conversation hovering around modern art due to its popularity. It is when Life publishes the round table panel that the artists’ lectures begin to shift and create definition toward the movement from their perspective as artists. In May of 1949, Subjects of the Artists ended but then was established once again that following fall by teachers

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from the New York University School of Art Education. The regular, inclusive lectures continued every Friday night until it was “decided to have a closed, threeday session among the advanced artists themselves, with the dialogue taken down stenographically.”4 Three discussions followed this decision and spanned from April 21-23, 1950. These resulted in what I view as a shift away from traditional educators and into professional artists. It is at the end of these discussions that a group of the participating artists decided to petition against a juried show hosted by the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET). The exhibition, titled American Painting Today-1950, was organized in New York to offer the “public, its many visitors, and its artists an opportunity to review contemporary creative trend of this country”.5 With an open call for submissions, the MET received over nine thousand entries from artists nationwide. In the MET’s report of the exhibition, they highlight the 18 painters who “called upon all the advanced artists in the country to boycott the exhibition” with the justification that “the juries chosen were too conservative to admit a just proportion of advanced art”.6 This collective decision and action solidified the group who were later labeled as The Irascibles.7

As mentioned previously, in 1948, Life magazine invited a group of professional “experts” to discuss whether modern art was a good or bad development. The group consisted of all middle aged white males who were critics, advisers, professors, editors, publisher, authors, curators, museum directors, and art dealers.8 Life’s choice to exclude artists of the time is questionable and it raises questions of what is lost in the dialogue’s content without the creators of the art in discussion. Though Life’s motive was well intended, to connect the public with art, the separation between experts and the less cultured public is problematic.

The moderator, Russell W. Davenport, quickly insisted that their expertise took them outside of the vague definition of a “layman”.9 The article continues to note that the layman finds modern art difficult to understand which initiates a difficult dynamic between the public and the artists.10 I believe this separation between expert, laymen, and artists as a result of Life’s publication encouraged the participants at Studio 35 to carry on a discussion in attempt to define their movement on their own behalf.

Francis Henry Taylor, director of New York’s MET, was one of the experts on the Life panel and the critical target of the The Irascibles’ petition to the MET. As the director of a fundamental institution, it is within his duties to consider the sentiments of the public towards art. Taylor lacked respect for the

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layman’s by questioning their intellectual abilities11 but also had animosity toward the abstract painters when he later questions the privacy of their images and their lack of “communication”. I believe he more heavily disagreed with abstract painting for the ways in which it shifted his viewer’s experience at the museum.

With this in mind, we can understand why the artists from Studio 35 would be confrontational with the juried exhibition at the MET. The painters assumed, and I believe assumed correctly, that Taylor would not risk the visitor’s ease at the MET on their paintings that communicated in a new visual language that the “layman” and the public had not yet digested.

The expert’s resentment toward abstraction is a result of the artists pursuing the freedom of an individual mark. In a 1991 essay in the Art Bulletin, Bradford Collins points out that the same Life panel agreed that there were no longer community values so the only point of departure for “the search of truth” was through the individual. The panel concluded that, “The modern artist feels compelled to develop his own highly individual idiom…He does it because he feels compelled to express life as accurately as he sees it from a highly individualist point of view.”12 The panel recognized a common thread between the artists- their individual idiom. Unique yet united, this characterizing of multiple artists into one idea confirms their efforts within a collective.

Collins continues by stating: “These painters came to be grouped under these rubrics by critics and historians who perceived in their art and lives a confluence of stylistic and philosophic concerns. The choice and general acceptance of the label ‘Abstract Expressionism,’ in particular, was grounded in the conviction that there was a style, or nexus of styles, that warranted such a designation.”13 Collins points out that the grouping of these artists through the label of “Abstract Expressionist” was due to an inherent connection among the artists. With Collins idea of designation and labeling, I want to reiterate the importance in the exclusion of artists in Life’s panel because I believe it triggered the artists’ desire to collectively discuss and respond to the public at the Studio 35 conversations.

Modern Artists in America published a transcription of the Studio 35 conversations in 1952; densely edited by the original participants, the transcription still captures much of the general sentiment and expressions of the dialogue. I would argue that the intent of this group was not only to discuss various topics amongst themselves as artists but also to define and clarify their movement for the public. Unlike the Subjects of the Artists lecture, Studio 35 was exclusive. Included

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in the letter of invitation was the disclaimer that “The purpose of this forum is to yield information which will be published, and which, it is hoped, will cover all the important phases of expression that are now in process.”14 Interest in the public is mentioned throughout the conversation as a means to either prompt questions or ground conclusions. Herbert Ferber, a participating artist said, “The public has been mentioned, and it seems to me in a professional group like this we should attempt to identify our relationship to the public.”15 What can be concluded, as a whole from Studio 35, is that the agreement and participation of the artists show an effort to create a cohesive dialogue between diverse minds in order to develop a relationship with the broader community and public. This idea of collective decision-making and action taking conflicts with image of the isolated painter that is traditionally associated with the Abstract Expressionist painters. The differences between portrayed images of the artists and the reality of their dialogues is an important distinction to make if we want to understand the history of a movement through the reality of its social dynamics, relationships, and politics rather than through a narrow and skewed romantic vision. 16

The creation of a petition toward the MET, a result of the discussions, is understood in one way through David Hare’s statement, “ I think this group activity, this gathering together, is a symptom of fear.”17 In the eyes of the artists, the fear mentioned by Hare was rooted in pursuing their passions without recognition from the public. Alongside fear, there was also idealism. Barnett Newman suggested to the group that “The thing that binds us together is that we consider painting to be a profession in an ‘ideal society.’”18 Newman’s ideal society, in which he was a painter such as someone is an accountant, was within reach for the artists. The meeting at Studio 35 set the framework for their professionalism in the same way that Life’s panel highlighted the expertness and professionalism of the participants. In the artists’ powerful stride for professional art careers, they understood that they needed the support of the public to determine the worth of their work and, therefore, their contribution to society as a group rather than individuals.

The discussion continued to address the issue of tradition within the American painter, his history and lineage. As the American artists were feeling in competition with French artists, the Studio 35 discussions pointed out that the “finished” quality of French work was inherent in their French ancestry. In the letter to the MET, the artists use this conviction of history. The letter states, “We draw to the attention of those gentlemen the historical fact that, for roughly

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a hundred years, only advanced art has made any consequential contribution to civilization.”19 Collins argues for the “strategic brilliance” of this statement as the connection to a historical lineage heightens the status of the group. It is also through their strategic maneuvering that segments of their letter were published with commentary in The New York Times on May 22nd, 195020 which was the result of Barnett Newman handing a copy of the letter to the editor on the 21st.21 The fear mentioned by Hare, along with the group’s diligent push to be placed in history, emphasizes the artists’ serious and passionate pursuits within their art practices.

Returning back to Life magazine, its second publication dedicated to exposing modern art to the public was also The Irascibles’ second exposure to the public. The article, Irascible Group of Advanced Artists Led Fight Against Show, juxtaposed a now iconic image of The Irascibles (Figure 1) next to the text describing the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s inaugural contemporary painting competition in January of 1951.22 This publication is critical because it portrays an image of the art rebels while also highlighting the imbalance between the artists and institution. This group is composed of fifteen (there were 18 who signed the petition), avant-garde painters who boycotted the exhibition.23 Included in the photo is Jackson Pollock, which will be noted later. Nina Leen’s contact sheet (Figure 2), the photographer from Life, is clear evidence that the published photo was intended to define The Irascibles in a certain way. In terms of choosing their stances, editing the contact sheet, and selecting the best image, the photograph can be viewed as a “result of a public relations campaign.” 24

In terms of a public relations campaign, we have to address the message portrayed to their audience. Collins states that, “The sense of exclusion is completed by the fairly tight, almost closed circle of their grouping.”25 The physical tightness amongst all the individuals’ stances alongside the close proximity to one another portrays The Irascibles as being a collective.

This reflects, in my opinion, the conclusion of the Life panel that the there was a push to find the individual idiom within a collective of artists. The works being made by these artists were not all the same, nor were their thoughts toward art and making. The photo is meant to show retaliation against the MET’s power but this photo is proof of their collective decision to present themselves as a unified force.

Specific decisions like what to wear show the group’s understanding of public image: how did they want to represent collectively and individually to the public?

Collins claims that “The group’s readiness to appear in Life magazine, however,

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suggests a collective desire for a kind of status and success that far exceeded acceptance by the Met…They understood that having their photograph in Life magazine would increase their chances of showing at New York museums…”26 because through collective intention these artists were seeking success in the art world.

Motivation to be highlighted in Life’s publication also came from the success that Jackson Pollock received from his spread in 1949. The Irascibles’ awareness of this success is evident in Pollock’s development as, to borrow Collins’ words, “the first American art celebrity.”27 In the spread, Pollock stands in front of his work, Number 12, with the daunting title under him: Is he The Greatest Living Painter in the United Sates? With his arms crossed, he excludes the viewer from accessing him as the artist but he also lures the viewer with the intensity of his gaze. This is the iconic representation of the Abstract painter and it was adopted by The Irascibles group photo in Life magazine. The attention Pollock received in Life Magazine resulted in his higher status in the public eye and amongst his professional colleagues as suggested by Collins: “The Life article dramatically increased Pollock’s stature within the professional art community” 28 amongst the younger and more established artists. Although Pollock did not attend the Studio 35 sessions, his professionalism amongst his colleagues is represented in their request for his approval in their petition to the MET. Similar to the intentions of the Studio 35 sessions, I believe the publication and publicity were conscious endeavors by Pollock to elevate the esteem of his oeuvre.

It is also important to understand that Pollock’s appearance in Life (Figure 3) was most likely not his own effort; his wife, Lee Krasner probably persuaded, assisted, and created the connections that made the spread possible. I will highlight the marriage and partnership between Krasner and Pollock to show an additional, smaller form of collectivity in Abstract Expressionism. It may seem strange to compare a diverse group like The Irascibles with a married couple because of the many obvious differences like scale and intimacy. Ultimately, the two examples shared the same goal of raising awareness and prestige of their work.

In a highly critical essay of Krasner and Pollock’s relationship, Anna Chave emphasizes Pollock’s reliance on his wife. As an educated painter, Krasner understood the dialogue and necessary approaches to advance in the community.

Chave writes that “when Krasner and Pollock met in 1942, she was a smart, wellconnected New Yorker whose intensive studies at Hans Hofmann’s school had

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brought her au courant with events in the Paris vanguard” and continues to contrast Pollock as a “misfit hick” that was distant and lacked communication skills.29 The partnership between Krasner and Pollock contradicts typical understanding of an abstract painter: one alone in his studio, contemplative, responding to himself within the world. Pollock and Krasner as partners along with The Irascibles, represent, in their decisive actions, an alternative perspective on Abstract Expressionism, one that was smartly intent and seeking accreditation.

In her book, Machine in the Studio, Caroline Jones discusses the tropes of the artist’s studio space in relationship to sacredness and romantic solitude. Jones clearly states the role of the artist’s studio: The public role played by the private studio in postwar American art was both paradoxical and crucial to the development of an international modern art in New York. The Manhattan studio was a public figure for all that was private, a visible yet inaccessible source for all that was meaningful in the abstract art object.30 An image of Pollock and Krasner (Figure 4), which is also included in Jones’ essay, complements her definition of the artist’s studio as a space that jumps between public and private. In this photo, Krasner plays the role of the public as she views Pollock, the artist, in action. Beyond the specifics of the photograph’s composition and subjects, I would more importantly like to develop the decisions of multiple parties that made this photograph possible. Namuth was initially allowed to photograph Pollock, photographs were taken, video was recorded31 and then selected material was published. The decisions leading up to the capturing of these photos represents Lee and Krasner as partners while the composition portrays the artists versus public dichotomy. Representative for the Irascibles as well, this photograph displays the collective (or partnership) embedded in the actions taken for the individual artists to succeed.

The Irascibles’ understanding of their public image was critically important to their advancement. They were self-motivators who created opportunities to be seen and heard. As Collins explains, “Americans were attracted to bohemian personas, not their art…photographs by Hans Namuth of the artists (as well as those taken by Life) provided the vehicles by which the public came to embrace the troubled revolutionary.”32 The artists also understood the importance of creating a bridge for what Life magazine described as the “layman.” They utilized widely distributed publications like Life to their benefit by spreading their professional

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artist personas to a vast audience.

From public lectures, invitation only conversations, and round table discussions, to final publications, the history of Abstract Expressionism would be incomplete without discourse regarding the collective dialogue, decisions, and actions. The highlighted subjects in this essay, The Irascibles along with Pollock and Krasner, represent two successful examples in which individuals worked and supported one another to advance the work of Abstract Expressionists. Only a fraction of Abstract Expressionism history, these key players are evidence that conversation and politic are vital to the evolution of art. The ways in which the artists involved in The Irascibles arrived in the history books, the reason for writing about them now, I hope has set a foundation for new perspectives towards understanding the art and culture during the 1950s.

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Figure 1: The Irascibles, from Life Magazine, published January 15th, 1951

Figure 2: Contact Sheet, The Irascibles, taken by Nina Leen in November of 1950

Figure 3: First page of Jackson Pollock’s article, Life magazine, August 1949

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Figure 4: Jackson Pollock painting One and Lee Krasner, taken in 1950 by Hans Namuth

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Endnotes 2 Robert Goodnough, “Artists’ Sessions at Studio 35 (1950),” in Modern Artists in America, ed. Robert Motherwell and Ad Reinhardt (New York: Wittenborn, 1951), 55. *The following page numbers are from a reprint of the original copy by Soberscove Press in 2011.

3 Artists’ Sessions at Studio 35 (1950)., 8.

4 Robert Goodnough, “Artists’ Sessions at Studio 35 (1950),” in Modern Artists in America, ed. Robert Motherwell and Ad Reinhardt (New York: Wittenborn, 1951), 9.

5 Hale, “A Report on American Painting Today: 1950,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 9, no. 6 (1951), 162.

6 Ibid., 163.

7 Robert Goodnough, “Artists’ Sessions at Studio 35 (1950),” in Modern Artists in America, ed. Robert Motherwell and Ad Reinhardt (New York: Wittenborn, 1951), 56.

8 “A LIFE Round Table on Modern Art,” LIFE, 11 November 1948, 56.

9 Ibid., 65.

10 Ibid., 56.

11 Ibid., 75.

12 Bradford Collins, “Life Magazine and the Abstract Expressionists, 1948-51: A Historiographic Study of a Late Bohemian Enterprise,” The Art Bulletin 72, no. 2 (1991): 286.

13 Ibid., 283.

14 Robert Goodnough, “Artist’s Sessions at Studio 35 (1950),” in Modern Artists in America, ed. Robert Motherwell and Ad Reinhardt (New York: Wittenborn, 1951), 57.

15 Ibid., 11.

16 Caroline Jones, Machine in the Studio: Constructing the Postwar American Artist (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), 2.

17 Robert Goodnough, “Artist’s Sessions at Studio 35 (1950),” in Modern Artists in America, ed. Robert Motherwell and Ad Reinhardt (New York: Wittenborn, 1951), 13.

18 Goodnough, “Artists’ Sessions at Studio 35 (1950).”, 52.

19 B.H. Friedman, “’The Irascibles’: A Split Second in Art History,” Arts Magazine 53, no. 1 (September 1978): 98.

20 “18 Painters Boycott Metropolitan; Charge ‘Hostility to Advanced Art,’”New York Times, 22 May 1950.

21 B.H. Friedman, “’The Irascibles’: A Split Second in Art History,” Arts Magazine

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53, no. 1 (September 1978): 98.

22 “Irascible Group of Advanced Artists Led Fight Against Show,” LIFE 30, no. 3 (1 January 1951): 34.

23 Bradford Collins, “Life Magazine and the Abstract Expressionists, 1948-51: A Historiographic Study of a Late Bohemian Enterprise,” The Art Bulletin 72, no. 2 (1991): 292.

24 Ibid., 295.

25 Ibid., 293.

26 Ibid., 298.

27 Ibid., 298.

28 Ibid., 229-230.

29 Anna Chave, “Pollock and Krasner: Script and Postscript,” in Pollock and After: The Critical Debate (New York: Rouledge 2000), 329.

30 Caroline Jones, Machine in the Studio: Constructing the Postwar American Artist (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), 20.

31 I want to note that alongside photographs and publications, Namuth’s film of Pollock, Jackson Pollock published in 1952, is significant in Pollock’s notoriety but will not be addressed in this essay.

32 Bradford Collins, “Life Magazine and the Abstract Expressionists, 1948-51: A Historiographic Study of a Late Bohemian Enterprise,” The Art Bulletin 72, no. 2 (1991): 303-304.

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SCULPTURE AND ART HISTORY Ideals and Traditions of the Medieval Churches: Resonating Still Within the Bauhaus Walter Gropius: Bauhaus, Dessau 1925-1926

The Medieval Period in Europe can be seen as the first steps to progressing onward in the world of art and religion when looking through the perspective of architecture. Throughout the Medieval Period, from the beginning of the Romanesque style of building, to the Gothic style, and on to the Rayonnant style of church construction, adaptations can be seen in the opinions of what the church must function as, both spiritually and architecturally. As traditions began to be challenged and altered, so did the ideals that were set in place for what the church must conform to and its corresponding functionality. The development of the relationship between the interior and exterior of the church became intertwined, and they were thought of as no longer separate entities, but together as one singular image of the Heavens. A new set of traditions and ideals was forming that took into consideration the buildings as form, and heavenly grace was thought to be achievable through holy mathematical proportions. These major leaps in design considerations made way for the beginning of abstraction in regards to architecture. Although ideas of abstraction were picked up by prolific architects from then on, architecture does not become referred to as abstraction until the early twentieth century, reaching its fully-realized state of practice in the 1920s in Dessau, Germany, where the seeds of Modernist thought begin to take root in architectural design. The major Modernist architectural work that best addresses the history of abstract architecture from the Medieval Period and on is the Bauhaus, designed by Walter Gropius. The Bauhaus at Dessau commits a multitude of visual alignments to traditions in design established in the early-to-late Medieval Period in Europe and revives structural ideals encompassed by culturally impactful works of great architecture coming out of Italy and France during times of major Christian expansion.

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Born in 1883 to an established family of architects whose names were well-established in the Berlin community, Walter Gropius chose to follow his architectural lineage and trained as an architect in Berlin and Munich. Gropius began practicing on his own in 1910, making a name for himself soon thereafter.

At the age of 28, Gropius designed a shoe factory that caught the attention of his colleagues. From there, “Gropius was appointed director of two technical colleges in Weimar at the age of 32…Gropius merged the two colleges calling them Das Staatliche Bauhaus and on a site at Dessau he soon designed the great built realization of Modernism, the new Bauhaus, in 1925-26.”2 This new building complex for the school was innovative in its construction and utilitarian in its functionality. In a Modernist search for simplicity, the design for the Bauhaus buildings complex consisted of basic geometric square and rectangular forms that made up the exterior with simple black white and gray tones covering the sharp surface. “Gropius consistently separated the parts of the Bauhaus building according to their functions and designed each differently. He thereby arranged the different wings asymmetrically, in order to appreciate the overall design of the complex.”3 The main structure, designated for students to learn and to work and to fabricate consists of windows from floor to ceiling of the exterior wall, wrapping around the corner. “Form for its purpose.”4 Gropius’s Modernist design for the school was focused on the pure and simple.

The ideals that Gropius drew from for his designs of the Bauhaus can be seen being utilized in the Medieval Period alongside the very earliest of Romanesque style churches. In Florence, one of the best examples of the Romanesque style in Italy, San Miniato al Monte, 1062-1150, is an early search for abstraction in the medieval period. “Captivating in its simplicity and purity of design.”5 This description of San Miniato Al Monte’s design is the very core of what Gropius based his own practice upon. As early as this structure is, “San Miniato is a study in abstract design and clarity.”6 Given Gropius’s apparent understanding of the Modern abstract concepts he works so well with, there is no doubt that the principles he stands by stem from this very structure and ones similar to it. It is where the Modern abstract understanding of form originates. With regards to San Miniato al Monte’s exterior, this early Christian basilica provided the basic model; the building is a simple rectangular design.7 Similar to San Miniato al Monte’s simplicity in form and exterior ornamentation, the Baptistery of Florence, 10591150, can be seen as being an originator of the same core understandings of early abstraction in Romanesque style architecture. The Baptistery, is very similar to

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San Miniato in its façade ornamentation of marble of white and green of Prato.

Here, the panels of marble are arranged in a way so that the building’s exterior is divided, by threes, referencing the Holy Trinity. Although Gropius uses the same mathematical proportions in the break-up of the façade of the Bauhaus using windows, this geometric break-up of space using various ornamentations is not something that only Gropius employs. From the early Christian periods and on, the great works of architecture from the Medieval Period have especially altered the thoughts, traditions, and ideals of architects working long before Gropius. Renaissance art culture was majorly influenced by the Medieval Period; take Brunelleschi for example, and his Hospital of the Innocents. Designed entirely by using proper mathematical proportions that tied into cultural beliefs and traditions, inspired by the same Romanesque structures mentioned earlier.

“A vocabulary imitated, but greatly simplified-from classical antiquity…from Romanesque buildings, such as the Baptistery of Florence and the Church of San Miniato…This new vocabulary soon became standard, and it conferred upon the architecture of Florence and appearance responsive to the new ideals of measure and proportion.”8 One outstanding and strong-spoken great work of architecture of one time period changes the view-points of those around it, and the lesson encoded within it resonate until they have accomplished all that they are intended to accomplish.

The great works of the Romanesque style laid the groundwork for not just traditions and ideals involving simplicity, geometric form, and abstraction; The Romanesque style was a springboard for the style in church construction that followed. In pursuit of the perfect representation of Heaven on Earth, Christians in the Medieval Period, one in particular, sought to change the way in which the traditional construction of a church was to be. A member of the church, a man by the name of Abbot Suger, designed a new style of church construction that would later be referred to as the Gothic style. Suger wanted to transform the exterior of the church to better improve the interior. By replacing the thick walls and heavy piers with supports, called flying buttresses, that project off of the exterior of the church and transfer the weight further away from the center of the church. By doing this, Suger hoped to accommodate his main goals, which were to have thinner walls, and begin to incorporate stained-glass. Many people at the time opposed these modifications to the current Romanesque style. A similar case can be made for Gropius’s new style of Modernist Architecture in the 1920s. “Many modernist architects in Germany welcomed the advances of the 1920s but did not accept

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the stylistic reduction of the new style.”9 Suger eventually gained the support he needed to construct the first true Gothic style church, the Abbey Church of St. Denis, 1140-1144. Once completed, the popularity of such a style spread quickly throughout Medieval Europe. As Suger’s Gothic structure amassed great traffic and popularity from pilgrimage routes all over Europe, so did Gropius’s Bauhaus.

“Such was its prestige that it became seen in retrospect as the intellectual centre of the new style.”10 Both new styles at first were too far from the norm for the public, but were very quickly popularized. The Abbey Church of St. Denis’s exterior now drew in the crowds to witness the holy light show that the stained-glass was to accomplish on the interior. Suger’s intensions were to make a style that was grander in scale, lighter in visual weight, thinner in structure, and brighter on the interior, expelling all darkness of the Romanesque. The intense popularity of the Gothic style and the diffused light on the interior from the stained-glass effect led to a new development of the Gothic style in Medieval church construction known as Rayonnant style. This style, being very similar to Gothic style, is only different in the construction of its walls. The walls of Rayonnant style churches are more stained-glass window than they are wall. The only sacrifice made to accomplish this feet is constructing a church in smaller scale. Looking at Saint-Chappelle, 1243-1248, originally a private small-scale chapel, the success of the diffused light interior is a close second to that of the Heavenly light of God. Gropius accomplished these same feet, and with clear inspiration from the visual and uplifting effects of the Rayonnant style stained-glass, constructed an entire section of the Bauhaus of glass. “The glass curtain wall suspended in front of the loadbearing framework defines the exterior of the workshop wing and openly shows the constructive elements. Gropius, rather than visually amplifying the corners of the cubic body of the building, allowed the glass surface to overlap the edges, thereby creating the impression of lightness.”11 Gropius wanted to counter-act the sheer visual weight of the solid rectangular form of his structure with walls made of glass curtains, bringing only light into the interior. Making the structure feel, and look lighter as a result. “The entire complex is rendered and painted mainly in light tones, creating an attractive contrast to the window frames, which are dark. For the interior…he designed a detailed color plan that, by differentiating between supporting and masking elements through the use of color, aimed to accentuate the construction of the building.”12 Gropius also accomplished similar light effects of the stained-glass of the Rayonnant style churches by designing the interior to be painted with light, vibrant colors to off-set and contrast the tones

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of the exterior façade. “Gropius sharpened the formal language of his designs through the 1920s. He acquainted the public with glass curtain walls; exterior walls that did not turn corners; wall openings free of projecting pediments and jambs; window locations and sizes cued by function, not balance; window proportions related to steel lintel spans, not classical theory.”13 Although Gropius was majorly influenced by the Medieval Romanesque, Gothic, and Rayonnant style churches of the Medieval Period, times had changed by the 1920s and some of his own ideals and methods of understanding differed from that of the Medieval Christian traditions of construction and meaning in architecture.

The Bauhaus was the first major school for abstract thought, design, and construction of its kind. “The Bauhaus adhered to Gropius’s conviction that art and technology had to be a unity. The school’s coursework followed his assertion that “In an age of specialization, method is more important than information.”…

The design of the Bauhaus changed the man-made world as few buildings ever have. Indeed, the influence of the building had such historic effect that the whole architectural environment altered (as a result).”14 For being such a leader in this style of academia in the context of post-war Germany required a full-on confident embrace of aesthetic ideas tied to bold visually-challenging exteriors that broke boundaries throughout Medieval Europe’s Early-Christian history. Simple in structure and form, and abstract in approach at the time of its construction, the Bauhaus building complex at Dessau embodies the Modern abstract thoughts that stemmed from the traditions and ideals of the Medieval Period’s Romanesque, Gothic, and Rayonnant styles. The relationship between the design considerations of the exterior and the interior is actually quite brilliant; the exterior, designed to be simply structural, and the interior, designed to extremely functional; the design of the complex’s dense form in contrast to its illusionistic light volume; and the seemingly minimal considerations of the façade leading you into the potentially maximal considerations that are to be considered by both instructors and students.

“Today, the Bauhaus is therefore once more a vital place for experimental design, research and teaching, similarly dedicated to the cultivation and communication of the Bauhaus legacy.”15 The Bauhaus at Dessau, a gift to the world of art and architecture from Walter Gropius, just as the great Romanesque, Gothic, and Rayonnant churches were considered to be gifts to God from man.

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Endnotes

2 Muriel Emanuel, Contemporary Architects (Detroit: St. James Press, 1994), 390.

3 Bauhaus Dessau. “The Bauhaus Building by Walter Gropius.” Accessed April 22, 2014. http://www.bauhaus-dessau.de/the-bauhaus-building-by-walter-gropius.html.

4 Muriel Emanuel, Contemporary Architects (Detroit: St. James Press, 1994), 390.

5 Henry Luttikhuizen and Dorothy Verkerk, Medieval Art (Upper Saddle River: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2006), 291.

6 Henry Luttikhuizen and Dorothy Verkerk, Medieval Art (Upper Saddle River: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2006), 291.

7 Henry Luttikhuizen and Dorothy Verkerk, Medieval Art (Upper Saddle River: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2006), 291.

8 Frederick Hartt, History of Italian Renaissance Art: Painting, Sculpture, Architecture (Eaglewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, Inc., 1981), 149.

9 Sir Banister Fletcher, A History of Architecture (Woburn: Architectural Press, 1998), 1334.

10 Sir Banister Fletcher, A History of Architecture (Woburn: Architectural Press, 1998), 1333-1334.

11 Bauhaus Dessau. “The Bauhaus Building by Walter Gropius.” Accessed April 22, 2014. http://www.bauhaus-dessau.de/the-bauhaus-building-by-walter-gropius.html.

12 Bauhaus Dessau. “The Bauhaus Building by Walter Gropius.” Accessed April 22, 2014. http://www.bauhaus-dessau.de/the-bauhaus-building-by-walter-gropius.html.

13 Muriel Emanuel, Contemporary Architects (Detroit: St. James Press, 1994), 390.

14 Muriel Emanuel, Contemporary Architects (Detroit: St. James Press, 1994), 390.

15 Bauhaus Dessau. “The Bauhaus Building by Walter Gropius.” Accessed April 22, 2014. http://www.bauhaus-dessau.de/the-bauhaus-building-by-walter-gropius.html.

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PAINTING AND ART HISTORY The Greek Temple: A Divine Whole

The Greek temple, geometric and brightly painted, punctua1ted the hills of ancient Greece. Their initial purpose was to house the image of a god, and weren’t intended for the shelter of mortal men. The temples’ compositions that eventually emerged were so articulately planned, their use so ritualized, and their form so astounding, that the temples themselves became an image of the god and his qualities. In their early forms of development, the Greek temple was a simple rectangular mud brick structure with a small front porch and a hip roof that formed a triangular space above the front and back entry. Later stone was incorporated and became the new standard for temple construction. It is this stone rectangular colonnaded (peripteral or dipteral) temple at large that will be examined, not by specific temple-to-temple features or measurements, but by the abstract trans-human associations that surround and define the temple. Often regarded as a sacred structure built merely for aesthetic purposes, these temples were vigorously designed and built with every aspect calculated from the surrounding landscape and specific architectural geometric symbols to the personality of the god it represented and its ritualized ceremonial use. All of these elements were synchronized through the temple, which became a distinct sacred totality of Greek ideals as well as embodying a true conception of Greek divinity.

In ancient times, people had a much more intimate experience and relationship with the earth than most people do today. They learned to calculate the seasons through the celestial bodies above them and this afforded them the right time to plant crops, and thus survive the year. Yet they still feared and were in awe of the earth’s power simultaneously and thus worshipped nature as the earth mother. Religion played an important role in ancient Greek culture. While the earth mother was likely a more vital figure to the earliest Greeks, their religion evolved to be more anthropocentric and numerous gods with human characteristics became central and “ritual sacrifices and offering became even more significant in order to appease these unpredictable deities”2

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The need for a further sanctified space became increasingly significant in order to expand their religious practice. These temples were a way for the Greeks to transform the sacred world and to clearly differentiate it from the public sector.

It was not just the temple that created this holy realm but the land itself. Choosing the sites for these temples was anything but arbitrary. The Greeks actively related their temples physically and psychologically with the landscape. Generally, “a high place is chosen [and] makes direct, axial approach difficult and, from a defense point of view, unwelcome. This feature extends in a notable degree to the temples of the archaic and developed times wherever they occupied the sites of earlier, revered, or sacred buildings.”3 As one approached the temple, it was important that two sides were seen so that the three-dimensional quality was present.4 This is significant because it relates to the idea of the Greek temple being whole; it is a complete form in space and must be viewed as such. If one was to approach a Greek temple from a direct frontal axis, it would not appear to recede into space and thus its complete form would be invisible in that moment. Just as the Greeks carved their sculptures with as much detail in the front as in the back, the idea of something being a totality was an essential part of their ideals.

Also essential to most Greek temples is their orientation. Facing east or slightly north of east, the rising sun shines on the cult image, which is always housed in the innermost sanctum of the temple. Another notable characteristic common among Greek temples is that they are usually isolated in space. There is no unifying geometric form that surrounds them, but solitary in the sense that one could circumnavigate the temple with ease and when viewing the temple, its harmony would be further realized.5 “Some sites offer a dominant position for human settlement while other make us feel at the centre of a well-defined cosmos. In some places there are natural elements of a very particular shape or function such as horned rocks, caves, or wells.”6 “In Greek religion, the sacred interpenetrated the world of everyday life to a very high degree. Features of the natural environment, such as springs or trees, were attributed to the agency of superhuman mythical powers.”7 Natural landmarks were interpreted by the Greeks to personify specific gods, and a place with these significant natural properties became a manifestation of that god.8 The temple itself represents the archetypal human characters, which participate in the situation symbolized by the site.9 For example, a place where nature was dominant was dedicated to Demeter and Hera; areas where man’s intellect and discipline complemented and opposed

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the forces present were attributed to Apollo; places that were experienced as a harmonious whole was dedicated to Zeus; and places where men came together as a community was dedicated to Athena.10 Although this idea may seem ambiguous since Greek temples look similar, “on closer scrutiny they reveal important differences in form and expression. The single temple may be characterized as an individual member of a ‘family,’ just as the gods formed a family which symbolized various roles and interactions of men on earth”11 Through these views, “The Greek temple appears as a muscular body, as a truly organic form, which concretizes life as action in space and time.” 12 Vincent Scully takes this idea even further when he proposes that the interior of the temple dedicated to Apollo at Bassae “expresses a complex psychic structure in the god.”13 “It explores to the full the double character of Apollo: it’s outward aspect, bright and Olympian, its inward aspect, chthonic and dark [and] the architects at Bassae created a work of classic art, because they dealt not with a part but with the whole of things.”14 The temples’ geometric forms could even be understood as simplified shapes inspired by the natural landscape around them. The colonnaded porch suggests a forest of trees holding up the triangular roof, shaped like the peak of a mountain that pointed towards the sky, another realm of the gods. “When the temple was complete, it would have appeared like a grove of trees against the sky upon the otherwise barren contour line.”15 Beyond the temple, the land falls away and the temple stands exposed in the vast landscape. As the hot sun beats down on the island, the temple offers the only shade.16 “It is in fact the sacred grove of the god, his ‘wooded grove,’ to which the Homeric Hymn so often refers.”17 Located, planned, and built towards the idea of achieving a whole, one must also attempt to imagine the human to temple relationship and experience, as it is another important aspect of understanding the Greek temple. Direct encounters with the temple are believed by many to be highly specific theatrical ritualized ceremonies reserved for only the male elite. Special hymns and music would have also been present along with special garlands and decorations.

The hymns sung at the opening of temple doors during festivals had distinctive rhythms and tones corresponding to the special powers of the god in question The exceptionally beautiful fragrance - euodia - characteristic of the gods was simulated not only by burning incense but also by flowers, planted in the sanctuary gardens or hung as garlands in the temple, specific to

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each deity: poppies for Demeter, lilies for Hera and for Aphrodite myrtle.18 Animal sacrifice was a common way to appease the ancient gods and ritual cooking and feasts followed. These events took place in front of the temple at an outdoor altar.

The proceedings at the actual sacrifice were usually the same.

First came the preparations; garlands were worn by priests and by the victim, whose horns were often gilded. Then it was led to the altar; if it struggled, the omen was bad; if it bowed or shook its head, the omen was good. Next a bowl of water was sanctified by plunging in it a torch from the altar, and all present were purified with it, and the altar sprinkled. In the sacred silence that followed came the prayers. Then came the sprinkling on and around the victim, of the grains of barley brought in a flat basket, which was therefore among the essential elements of the sacrifice. After this began the sacrifice itself; first some hair was cut from the victim and thrown in the fire; then it was stunned with an axe or club; its throat cut, and the blood caught in a vessel, the head being turned down for the Chthonian gods, upwards for others; the blood was poured on the altar, or sprinkled over the worshippers if the rite was piacular. (Flute playing accompanied these proceedings.) Then the victim was skinned and cut up; the entrails were inspected for the purpose of divination, and the portions set apart for the god were burnt on the altar. Usually the thigh-bones and fat, portions of each joint, and the tail. The rest was cooked on spits, and divided among those present.19 Just as important as this specific purpose or ritual event was the building itself. Not just the functionality of the structure but the precise look of it. For example, the Parthenon, which the Greeks considered to be the culmination of perfection, sacrificed arithmetically correct dimensions in the interest of an appearance of perfection. “This process to correct an optical illusion was accomplished in the Parthenon by a process known as “entasis� in which all horizontal lines are made convex so as to appear flat and all vertical lines are moved slightly to an angle to appear straight. What matters most is the effect of

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the building on the human observer, how it appears and how it moves people who interact with it.”20 It shows a priority for theatrical presentation. And without these design alterations, the temple just did not fully meet the Greek expectation for perfection. Greek architects were aware that any person, however unschooled in design they may be, could stand in the presence of a rightly proportioned structure and experience a profound transformation as well as an honest pleasure to the mind.21 That further explains the extended effort executed on even the precise “look” of the temples. This goal toward sacred perfection was further enforced through the manipulation of visual, auditory and olfactory sensations that were at play during an experience with the temple.

While the exterior of the temple was most important towards portraying this sacred perfection, the Greeks certainly did not pay less attention to detail inside, despite its limited access by man. It housed the statue of a god, and to the Greeks, this meant the temple became a house for the god. The temple was even considered to be an abstract extension of the god itself due to its awe inspiring features and perfect form that attempted to deny the hand of man. Upon entering the temple, the idea was for the person to be mentally and spiritually transformed by the authority of the space.

Through the doorway, from the pronaos, could be seen the shadowed columns of the roofed area behind it, and beyond them, only the bright blue of the open sky. The way [into the temple] thus becomes a preliminary climax, announced by the effects of light, but further progress forward is blocked until one leaves the light and heads downward through the body of the temple along either of the narrow, sloping, barrel-vaulted ramps which flank the central door. At the end of their dark tunnel another spot of light beckons, and the viewer finally emerges into the blazing light of the cella court. Here the walls, plastically conceived, are much higher than the columns outside because one has descended so far, they rise upward toward the sky to define a vast expansion of space… A further drama of scale change is still created, however, by the small prostyle shrine which stands near the far end of the court and emphasizes, by contrast the walls around it. The climax seems reached, the finding of the inner shrine in the high, wide, brightly lighted place after having passed through the low and narrow dark . . .The whole drama of the god revealed.22

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Viewing such cult statues, in the innermost of the temple, would have been considered a real interaction with the deity and manipulations of light and darkness “enhanced the aura of deities sculpted in reflective materials like marble, gold and ivory. This produced the kind of radiant glow held to be characteristic of gods.23 “Architecture in the Greek scheme of life is symbolic of the wider framework about which a manifold code of perception was constructed.”24 The Greek temple was an expression of Greek ideals, taken to the highest degree of manifestation. “The theoria of Greek philosophy was deeply and inherently connected with Greek art and Greek poetry; for it embodied not only rational thought, the element which we think of first, but also vision, which apprehends every object as a whole, which sees the idea in everything – namely the visible pattern”25 The Greeks strived to create a totality, a balance is every aspect especially when concerning the sacred. In their temples, every element is distinct and aware of its necessity to the whole. There is a sense of harmony achieved that is further endowed by the movement of the viewer.26 The Greek temple was a supreme expression of Greek religion and it formed an architectural whole of unprecedented vigor and completeness.27 “The Greek architect dealt with forms natural and constructed. With them he celebrated his three deathless themes: the sanctity of life, the tragic stature of mortal life upon the earth, and the whole natures of those recognitions of the facts of existence which are the gods.” 28

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Endnotes 2

Jones, Lindsay . The Hermeneutics of Sacred Architecture. 2 vols. (Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2000), 94.

3 Stillwell, Richard. “The Siting of Classical Greek Temples.” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians. 13, no. 4 (1954): 3 4 Ibid, 3 5 Ibid., 3 6 Norberg-Schulz, Christian. Meaning in Western Architecture. (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1975), 47 7 Tanner, Jeremy. “Nature, Culture and the Body in Classical Greek Religious Art.” World Archaeology. 33, no. 2 (2001): 261 8 Norberg, 47.

9 Ibid., 47.

10 Ibid., 47.

11 Norberg, 50.

12 Ibid., 50.

13 The Earth, The Temple, and The Gods. (New York: Frederick A. Praeger, Inc, 1969), 129.

14 Ibid.,129.

15 ibid., 129.

16 Ibid., 129.

17 Ibid., 129.

18 Tanner, 262.

19 Gardner, P. The Principles of Greek Art. (New York: Macmillan, 1921), 405.

20 Jones, 193.

21 Ibid., 60.

22 Scully, 130.

23 Tanner, 262.

24 Martienssen, R. D. The Idea of Space in Greek Architecture. (London:Witwatersrand University Press, 1956), 155.

25 Jaeger, W. W. Paideia: The Ideals of Greek Culture. 3 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1939-1945), 21 26 Martienssen, 155.

27 Scully, 213.

28 Ibid., 213.

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PRINTMAKING AND CREATIVE WRITING A Manifesto from a Former Athlete There’s no such thing as sacrifice Take your medicine, and then help others get theirs.

Pay your bills, and then throw a picnic for everyone.

Learn to live with yourself, and then teach others how to live with you.

Make the money you need to make for your dreams make more to help people dream.

We are united in our differences. We are united in our differences. We are united in our differences!

Be Honest. Even when honesty becomes a set back. Even when honesty makes you slow down.

Nature is my home. My home is my body. My body needs nature.

Learn what living alone is like.

If you can’t think of how you’re being productive right now, but you know how you could be, stop reading this and get to it.

If you don’t understand, but you really want to, then say so!

If you do understand, and someone is trying to but doesn’t, help them!

I’m not a club girl, but if the DJ is egging on a friend, who doesn’t drink, to take a shot off of a gay stripper’s ass and she’s getting uncomfortable, I’ll volunteer myself.

When I’m getting dressed, I don’t put my pants on in the same sequence as you, but when I put my pants on, I do it the same way anyone else would… One leg at a time.

Read. Re-Read. Read out loud.

Write. Re-Write. Write really fast. Write really slowly.

Define fun for yourself.

Define fashion for yourself.

Mockery doesn’t do anything for the world.

Insecurity is a supposed sprained ankle making you think you can’t play anymore.

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ANIMATION AND CREATIVE WRITING Symphony

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ANIMATION AND CREATIVE WRITING Sleep Walk

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PRINTMAKING AND ART HISTORY “And there is no remedy.”

The Influence and Importance of Francisco Goya’s The Disasters of War

Perhaps one of the most moving and continually influential series of works in the history of Spanish art is Francisco Goya’s series of etchings titled The Disasters of War. Published 35 years after Goya’s death, these extremely graphic depictions of man’s continuous brutality to man aim to denounce war by placing the violence directly in the foreground so that it moves past the purely visual and into an emotional real1m. They make a pictorial report of the Spanish nationalist uprising against the French king, Joseph Bonaparte, which began in 1808 and soon developed into the Peninsular War.2 The plate numbered 15 in the series, captioned “And there is no remedy,” (Fig.1) is particularly telling of Goya’s desire to chronicle the events of this Spanish War of Independence while displaying the irrationality of such extreme violence and the loss of humanity that it results in. With Goya’s avant-garde depictions of violence and death in their purest expressions, this plate, and moreover this series, will continue to move viewers throughout history.

Although a long time painter in the Spanish royal court, Goya suffered from a mysterious illness in 1792 after which his work became very dark and allegorical. The tragedy of Goya’s personal life in conjunction with the great upheavals in world history as Napoleon invaded Spain led to what is conceivably one of Goya’s most powerful works: The Disasters of War. The Peninsular War, which overlapped with the Spanish War of Independence (1808-14), was extremely brutal because it involved everyone. It did not respect age, sex, or the sanctity of the home, but was a revolution where everyone was called to take part in the struggle for freedom. 3 The unbalanced fight between a poorly armed Spanish people and a well-equipped French army resulted in one of the earliest instances of guerilla warfare. The level of inhumane cruelties performed during the war gave Goya the impulse to begin his indictment against it in the Disasters series, which

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he began work on in the midst of the fighting, in the years of 1810-12. The series consists of 80 etchings that can more or less be divided into three groups: the first 47 show various aspects of the violence of war and guerilla tactics (Fig. 2); the next 17 describe the great famine of Madrid of 1811-12 (Fig. 3); and the last 14 plates are known as the Emphatic Caprices, which allegorically and satirically attack the repression exerted by Ferdinand VII’s regime after the end of the war (Fig. 4).4 Aside from them all being numbered on the top left, however, there seems to be no apparent sequence or narrative order to the plates, suggesting the randomness existing in war where nobody knows what will happen next.5

Many consider the Disasters to be Goya’s protest to the act of war in general since they convey an impartial condemnation where neither side is glorified. The theme instead revolves around the sufferings of man as a whole.

In fact, in some plates, such as Plate 14 (Fig.5), it is difficult to distinguish who is who. The anonymous figures are almost always in undetermined spaces, presented monumentally in the foreground in close proximity to the viewer, so that we have no choice but to confront what is taking place. Resorting exclusively to etching, Goya succeeds in creating a sense of heightened drama by making the contours of his figures stand out bluntly against nearly empty backgrounds.6 While the intensity of the series is best felt when looking at the prints as a whole, for the purposes of this paper, we will be focusing on Plate 15.

Located early in the series, Plate 15 (Fig. 1), “And there is no remedy,” captures the fragmented and repetitious nature of mechanically executed murder.

The central image is of a blindfolded man who is tied to a vertical post. He stands with his legs apart, his arms tied behind him, and his head drooped down, radiating a feeling of defeat. Three rifle barrels are visible entering the picture plane from the top right. At point-blank range, they are aimed at the central prisoner’s head or chest. Behind him in the distance, we see the same action echoed at least two more times. The perspective, with the vanishing point directly behind the central figure, suggests that the row of prisoners and soldiers goes on and there are more of these than is visible; in the words of art historian Fred Licht, a “kind of infinity, which has no center, no beginning, and no end, [and thus] necessarily implies that whatever we single out can be nothing but a fragment.”7 This idea is further implied by the man that is lying at the central figure’s feet. Shot and bleeding, he foreshadows what will happen to the central figure and to the rest of the bound men. He lies on his stomach with his arms apart and his head tilted to the side with an expression of anguish. It is almost as if he is about to fall out of the picture

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plane and into our world.

The action takes place outdoors in a hilly, yet desolate landscape, which is almost independent of time and place, endowing the scene with a still more terrifying atmosphere.8 Goya shrouds most of his Disasters scenes in nocturnal darkness to amplify not only the contrast, but also the terror. While the arch of light in the sky on the left, might be either a cloud or light from a rising/setting sun, it seems most appropriate that it would be the setting sun because it would parallel the execution scene that is taking place in the sense that it marks an end. The darkness of the background in conjunction with the stark white of the figures creates a heightened sense of drama. The blackness and emptiness of the setting furthermore allows us to focus our attention on the parts of the image that carry the primary information.9 The focal point rests with the central figure as he is the brightest and stands out against his dark surroundings. The bound and dead men wear what looks like everyday clothes of the common people in comparison with the uniforms of the soldiers in the back right, suggesting that the prisoners are Spanish.

While it is not always the case in the Disasters, in this particular plate, the division between the victim and the antagonist is very apparent. The anonymity of the soldiers, especially the ones that are out of sight aiming at the central figure, emphasizes the impersonal, machine-like execution of the firing squads. Although we know the soldiers are French because of historical context, they are “shown as sketchily as possible: they have only a remote connection with the actual uniforms [of the Napoleonic armies] and might be those of any nation’s army; [Goya] thus succeeds in conjuring up [we] know not what permanent army of sadists and executioners, and in this way enhances the terror and frightfulness of the drama”10 while also exhibiting that this is about more than just the fight between the French and the Spanish. He is universalizing the subject matter of violence.

The rendering of the French soldiers in Plate 15 is especially significant because of its influence in Goya’s later prints and paintings. Goya reuses the motif of representing a firing squad by revealing just the ends of its weapons in Plate 26 (Fig. 6), for example. Here he depicts a group of Spaniards, both men and women, pleading for their lives before a firing squad that we cannot see. The fact that the French are represented here only through the bayonets on their rifles makes them all the more terrifying because it strips them of their humanity. We cannot put a face to them and we cannot reason with them, which only adds to the feeling that these Spanish civilians have absolutely no chance of survival. It is as if we are in

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a nightmare, where the irrational overpowers the real. The motif appears slightly differently in Plate 2 (Fig. 7) where the soldiers holding the rifles are in our line of vision. The contrast between the Spanish guerilla fighters and the French troops is apparent here more than ever. Moreover, the depiction of the soldiers in these plates echo their depiction in Goya’s painting The Third of May, 1808, just as the female figure in the left center of Plate 26 echoes the man in the white shirt in the painting (Fig. 8). The central figure in Plate 15 can also be read as the next part of the man in the white shirt’s story. Yet another parallel to Plate 15 can be made with Plate 38 (Fig. 9). Here, Goya depicts a similar scene where a man is bound to a pole with soldiers aiming at him at point-blank range, only that in this case the bound man has his back facing the soldiers who are fully within the picture plane and a lot more animated than previously depicted. Overall in these examples, Goya depicts the French soldiers with a statuesque immobility that directly contrasts the emotional/vital movement of the Spaniards.11 And although the Disasters series is critical of the cruelty on both sides, these particular prints very clearly mark the French as the antagonists.

The lasting effects and influence of the Disasters is further due to the fact that they are prints instead of paintings. Goya’s reliance on the expressive process of etching strengthened by retouchings with dry-point and dense aquatints allows for violent contrasts of light and shade that evoke the chaos of struggle.

By working in the print medium, Goya was able to pursue these small format prints alongside his commissioned works. The Disasters remained unpublished until 1863, 35 years after Goya’s death. Spain’s Royal Academy purchased all 80 copperplates in 1862 and has since published a total of 7 editions between 1863 and 1937.

It is unknown why Goya failed to publish the series himself after the war was over. His earlier series of dreamlike, fantastical etchings/aquatints, Los Caprichos, did not sell like he intended, so maybe he thought the much darker, serious imagery of the Disasters would be even more impossible to sell.12 After years of suffering, it is true that there were probably not too many people willing to buy these cruel reminders of the hardships they so recently endured. The war and the bloodshed were too vivid in everyone’s memory. But if that is the case, why did he still feel compelled to make them in the first place? One of the main reasons Goya did not publish the series is most likely that it would have landed him in prison or worse. After the allied armies of Spain, Britain, and Portugal defeated the French, Fernando VII came back into power in Spain. He shrouded

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the country in a stern repression where “any critique against the victorious party and the disastrous consequences of Ferdinand VII’s policy would not have been very well received.”13 Considering that Goya’s noncommissioned Disasters express his liberal sentiments and are extremely critical of the war and politics, it makes sense that he chose not to publish them during Ferdinand VII’s reign.14

Due to their critical nature, photographic qualities, and emphasis on realism, Goya’s Disasters of War are considered very avant-garde for their time.

Unlike contemporaries of his, Goya’s style of etching and arranging compositions in the Disasters can very easily be compared to photography. Like photography, printmaking is almost infinitely reproducible, reduces imagery to black and white, and is meant to be broadcast widely at a small expense.15 Hence it makes sense that Goya chose printmaking for this series as it was/is used as an agent to mobilize mentalities. During Goya’s time, prints were commonly used as war propaganda with a very clear-cut goal of promoting victory. Thus immediately after the end of the war, prints were published commemorating the victory of Fernando VII and the troops. Goya’s prints, however, were radically different in that he was imbuing his own doubt, reflection, and critique on the events that occurred.16 While artists were primarily concerned with transforming realities into pleasing pictures, Goya was attempting to convey the sense of an obsessively urgent reality rather than his own artistic imagination. This is verified when comparing Goya’s Disasters of War with Jacques Callot’s Miseries of War (Fig. 10) from nearly two centuries earlier. They certainly influenced Goya in subject matter, but the differences are vast. Callot’s representations of cruelties are composed of a beauty and rationality that hold mankind in the highest order. His engravings are set in almost idyllic landscapes with the violence set far in the background, while Goya presents violence in a “direct and non-demagogic fashion… [in] the idiom of the snapshot, with no complex compositions to soften the brutality of the message.”17 In the words of Sandra Balsells, Goya’s images “give the viewer a sense of the danger and perfect timing of a photographer, by pretending to be close to what is happening at the critical moment of the event.”18 They can better be compared with war photography, such as photojournalist Agustí Centellos’ images from the Spanish Civil War in 1937 (Fig. 11). Like Centellos, Goya’s imagery is so rooted in observation and realism that it feels like a documentary of the events and thus makes it believable.

Goya also uses titles to give his imagery a sense of truthfulness unlike any titles ever used in prints before. Whereas descriptive texts would usually accompany

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commemorative war prints (as in Callot’s Miseries), Goya’s Disasters are captioned on the bottom with terse expressions, or sometimes even single words, that sum up the image as well as inform us of the moral judgments he thinks the depicted acts deserve.19 The captions also have the additional effect of adding credibility to Goya’s imagery. With captions such as “I saw it,” (Fig. 12) and “Thus it happened,” (Fig. 13) Goya claims to have seen the Disasters he is depicting with his own eyes.

Given that he was 62 years old when the war began, it is most probable that the plates that deal with the consequences of violence were based on stories he heard rather than things he experienced first-hand, but we know that the plates dealing with the famine were directly experienced by him as he was living in Madrid at the time. Through his conversational captions, Goya “vouches for himself as an eyewitness… placing himself on a plane contiguous to the action, taking part in the event in a way never done by an artist before.”20

In the case of Plate 15 (Fig. 1), the caption “And there is no remedy” that is etched on the bottom margin verifies the feeling of hopelessness and inevitability that the image conveys. The aspect of time is incredibly important in this image (as in others of the Disasters) because the optimal climactic moment is the one being depicted. Goya turns the viewer into a front-row spectator of an execution that will occur at any second. He represents war with an entirely new pictorial idiom that is far removed from any sense of heroism and instead captures man’s immorality and capacity for atrocities. Regardless of whether we believe that Goya saw these brutalities with his own eyes, they capture such a modern realism that we believe them as truth anyway. The fact that the seventh edition was published in 1937 during the Spanish Civil War verifies that Goya’s shockingly powerful, dark images and warning against the evils of war make these etchings, in the words of Balsells, “a pacifist discourse that is timeless in its scope.”21

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Fig.1: Plate 15, “And there is no remedy.”

Fig.2: Plate 32, “Why?”

Fig.3: Plate 56, “To the cemetery.”

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Fig.4: Plate 71, “Against the common good.”

Fig.5: Plate 14, “The way is hard!”

Fig.6: Plate 26, “One cannot look at this.”

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Fig.7: Plate 2, “With or without reason.”

Fig.8: Details showing the influence of the Disasters imagery in The Third of May, 1808.

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Fig.9: Plate 38, “Barbarians!”

Fig.10: Two examples from Jacques Callot’s Miseries of War.

Fig.11: Photojournalist Agustí Centelles’ photos from the Spanish Civil War (left) compared to Goya’s Plates 45 and 70 from the Disasters of War (right).

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Fig.12: Plate 44, “I saw it.”

Fig.13: Plate 47, “Thus it happened.”

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Endnotes 2 Francisco Goya and Philip Hofer, The Disasters of War (New York: Dover, 1967), 1.

3 Nigel Glendinning, Goya and his Critics (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 193.

4 Robert Hughes, Goya (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2003), 273.

5 Sandra Balsells et al., Goya: Cronista de todas las guerras: Los Desastres y la fotografía de guerra (Las Palmas de Gran Canaria: Centro Atlántico de Arte Moderno, 2009), 54.

6 Ibid., 56.

7 Licht, Goya, The Origins of the Modern Temper in Art, 142.

8 Francisco Goya and Elie Faure, The Disasters of War: 85 Etchings Reproduced in Actual Size (New York: Oxford University Press: Vienna: Phaidon Press, 1937), 14.

9 Balsells et al., Goya: Cronista de todas las guerras, 19.

10 Goya and Faure, The Disasters of War: 85 Etchings, 14.

11 Glendinning, Goya and his Critics, 193.

12 Claus Virch, Francisco Goya (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1967), 22.

13 Balsells et al., Goya: Cronista de todas las guerras, 54.

14 Francisco Goya and Jos ̌ Gudiol, Goya, trans. Priscilla Muller (New York: H. N. Abrams, 1965), 52.

15 Licht, Goya, The Origins of the Modern Temper in Art, 133.

16 Balsells et al., Goya: Cronista de todas las guerras, 37, 46.

17 Balsells et al., Goya: Cronista de todas las guerras, 18.

18 Ibid., 19.

19 Ibid., 54.

20 Balsells et al., Goya: Cronista de todas las guerras, 53.

21 Ibid., 17.

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PRINTMAKING AND ART HISTORY Minotauromachy Because of its thematic and visual complexity, Minotauromachy is widely consider ed as the zenith of Pablo Picasso’s graphic oeuvre. It simultaneously displays the tumultuous state of his personal life, is a synthesis and culmination of his preceding imagery, and serves as a visual and ideological precursor to his later work. Additionally, it elucidates his engagement in concurrently reliving the history of art and making it richer.

Pablo Picasso is an artist of such notoriety and repute that he requires no introduction. However, it’s very common for his status as a painter and innovator of many Modern movements in art history to overshadow his capacity as an accomplished printmaker. After the dissolution of his msarriage to Olga Khokhlova in 1935, Picasso stopped painting and devoted nearly a year to printing and writing poetry.2 With print, Picasso found that he could document and flesh out ideas successively and spontaneously; he characterized print as his own way of “writing fiction”.3 The artist was constantly looking for ways to satisfy his creative drive and exercise his tremendous energy. While he appreciated print for its role in expanding the scope of his artistic expression, he was never particularly interested in editioning his plates or using them for financial gain. This was an attitude that his contemporaries and supporters did not share. He was further encouraged in this venture by commissions from Ambroise Vollard and Albert Skira. Picasso’s camaraderie with master printers became a vital factor in the advancement of his craft and development of his confidence in the medium. As these printers possessed a technical virtuosity necessary for innovation within the process, collaborating with them inspired Picasso to explore print to an extent that he probably wouldn’t have on his own.4 Although he had already worked with professional printers like Louis Fort and Auguste Delâtre, it wasn’t until he was introduced to Roger Lacourière that any real sense of adventure emerged in his graphic work. They were first acquainted when Lacourière pulled all of the impressions for the Vollard Suite, Picasso’s most prominent print series.5 Collaborating with Lacourière inspired 1

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excitement about the potential of the intaglio processes- etching, drypoint, engraving, and aquatint.6 He was particularly enamored by the technique’s capacity for sculptural and painterly handling.

The Vollard Suite was a collection of one hundred plates commissioned

by Ambroise Vollard, print publisher and art dealer. (Fig. 1) Like Picasso, Vollard was an outsider; he came to Paris from a small French village near the Indian Ocean. It’s likely that he sympathized with Picasso, and partially for this reason organized his first Parisian opening in 1901.7 Vollard, as a publisher was interested in commissioning painters and sculptors- not master printers- to create graphic works. In his opinion, they weren’t burdened by the technical fastidiousness of the medium and therefore were more likely to create works of astonishing originality.

This suite of prints would succeed in disseminating Picasso’s imagery, establishing him as a printer of considerable talent, and distinguishing Vollard as a capable publisher.8 In 1937, Vollard obtained 97 copper plates from Picasso; this group was created during a period of six years between September of 1930 and June of 1936.

While the method of payment for this large volume of matrices is speculative, many scholars believe that in exchange for his plates, Vollard gave Picasso two works by Renior and Cézanne.9 Picasso never assigned a chronology or sequence to these prints, but they are usually categorized into four overarching themes, the most prevalent of which is the Sculptor’s Studio. In these plates, Picasso explored the relationship between sculptor and model, the communion between classical sculpture and his own, as well as the model’s attitude toward the sculpture bearing her resemblance.10 (Fig. 2) Picasso never hesitated to draw from the Old Masters, accomplished printmakers from the past like Rembrandt and Francisco Goya. In fact, many of the prints from this category feature the play between a single sober line and areas of enthusiastic scumbling and hatching, reminiscent of Rembrandt’s Artist Drawing from the Model. (Fig. 3)Picasso, apparently, was practically obsessed with “Rembrandt’s blacks” and strove to emulate them in his own work.11 (Figs. 4, 5) In 1931, Picasso was commissioned by Albert Skira to illustrate an edition of Ovid’s Metamorphoses.12 (Fig. 6) Here, the figures are rendered in a simplistic, linear style that preceded and was reiterated in the Sculptor’s Studio prints. It was also a style evocative of Greek vase painting and Etruscan mirror designs.13 (Figs.

7, 8) It’s likely that Picasso’s interest in the Minotaur was first sparked in this body of work, though it didn’t appear with consistency until years later. A group of fifteen plates within the Vollard Suite is committed to the Minotaur. (Fig. 9)

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In contrast to the Apollonian sobriety of characters in the Sculptor’s Studio, the Minotaur is an embodiment of unbridled emotion and behavior. In this series, he cavorts with Bacchanalic fervor- for the most part drinking, sleeping with, and sometimes raping women. This vulgarity is muted in the last four etchings of the series, commonly called the Blind Minotaur set. (Figs. 10, 11) Here, the Minotaur has been removed from the studio and instead appears in front of a seascape.

He blindly gropes for the prepubescent girl who’s in front of him. Scholarship suggests that this pair could be an allusion to the blinded Oedipus and his daughter Antigone.14 It seems inevitable that the Minotaur, and by that right the bull, would concern Picasso, as bullfighting is practically synonymous with Spain, his native country. (Fig. 12) The bullfight was included in Picasso’s earliest education; his father, who was both an artist and aficionado, took him to the weekly bullfights in his hometown, Màlaga.15 Even after he was permanently installed in France he would make sure to attend these events in the south of the country and during his visits home.16 The corrida, or bullfight is a practice that has been developed over centuries and one that presents the confrontation between man, daring and skillful, and beast, ferocious and proud. The bulls involved in this confrontation are not docile oxen; they are wild creatures, vibrant with life and incalculable strength. It is a display of the tradition of ritual and sacrifice. Yet, the corrida is more than a contest or spectacle; it contains elements of pageantry, ceremony, and art.17 Like the bull, the Minotaur is a damned being, predestined for sacrifice before birth. Born of an aberrant coupling, he is forced to reflect on his nature and judge himself based on the antithetical values of reason and morality.18 It’s possible that Picasso identified with both the creature’s sexual and violent impulses and his gentleness, seclusion, and suffering.

Since antiquity, this mythological being and the labyrinth in which he was confined have become visual and literary archetypes, repeatedly explored and scrutinized. Revived interest in ancient mythology came from the specific circumstances of the twentieth century, namely, an interest in sexual liberation, the development of modern science, resentment of the totalitarian brutality that Europe had endured, and hope for its reunification.19 The history, literature, and style of Classicism was abundantly sourced in Picasso’s work and coincided with the art world’s “call to order” following World War I. The artist insisted that this overt classicizing wasn’t a retreat into the past. Rather, it was an assertion that art from previous eras had a living presence. Mythology simultaneously mirrored

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the modern world and was a projection of the individual ego. In 1933, Picasso illustrated the cover of the inaugural issue of Minotaure, a Surrealist magazine published by Skira and edited by André Breton. (Fig. 13) Each cover featured the Minotaur or his labyrinth and was done in a style characteristic of the artist; illustrations by Duchamp, Ernst, and Matisse followed Picasso’s. Minotaure was an encyclopedic art and literary review; it was concerned with modern movements in poetry, philosophy, archaeology, psychoanalysis, and cinema. During the 1930s, the Surrealists used the Minotaur as an iconographic motif. It was a creature associated with the base instincts and forbidden thoughts of the unconscious, a territory extensively mined by the Surrealists. They were fascinated by the irrational and animal side of this creature and sublimated those characteristics into a symbol of the interruption of order and logic. Though Picasso never officially joined the Surrealist movement, he was deeply influenced by the philosophy of some of its members like Breton and Paul Éluard, who would remain his lifetime friends.20 (Fig. 14) Picasso’s exposure to these artists and others of a poetic sensibility prompted his own approach to narrative that juxtaposed disparate forms and motifs.

His prowess at storytelling is never more apparent than in the apogee of his career as a printmaker, Minotauromachy. This print is the final synthesis of a series of works. It condenses the entire universe that Picasso had developed until that time, producing a complicated allegory that defies all iconographic analysis. From the scale (approx. 19 x 27 “), complexity, and obvious care that he lavished on the plate, its clear that he intended this to be a masterpiece, if not a very involved affirmation of his facility as a printmaker. Picasso used the etching technique in combination with scraper and burin to produce the plate. He proofed a total of seven states in Lacourière’s Paris studio, and eventually an edition of 55 was pulled between April and May of 1935. 21 (Figs. 15, 16, 17, 18) Minotauromachy, as the title suggests, is a depiction of a Minotaur being challenged or slain, but, also features a small group of very distinctive figures. The image consists of seven characters, five of which form a chaotic procession across the picture plane, and two who watch the scene from within a shallow architectural form. The figures below seem to be standing on a scraggly shore, with a building and dark ambiguous space on the left, while on the right there is a seascape and open sky. The entire composition is practically bisected; the left side is very dark with very bright figures and the right side is very light featuring the darkest and most fully rendered figure. Here, Picasso establishes a very shallow depth of field,

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which pushes all of the figures very close to the foreground. This compression of space, coupled with the female figures observing the scene with detached attention from above, makes the image even more theatrical. It’s as if these figures are actors in front of a set. The main group in this cast of multifaceted characters consists of the female torero, the mare she lays astride, and the Minotaur. These are all elements of the traditional bullfight. Here, the Minotaur is transformed into a predatory devourer of nubile girls as well a figure of pity and shame.

The Minotaur is clutching his side, ostensibly trying to staunch a wound.

With his other hand he tries to either fend off another blow or to shield his eyes from the light. This aversion to the light could allude to his predatory instincts or his desire not to face the truth of his actions. The wound he’s sustained has probably been inflicted by the female bullfighter who wields a sword and directs it towards him. Her identity is clear from the traditional costume that she wears.

Though rare, female bullfighters had been performing for hundreds of years and more recently started to ride horseback in order to reduce the risk of injury.22 The white pattern in her costume mimics an embroidered design and was probably achieved by masking those small areas before putting the plate into the acid bath.

The horse that she lays astride has multiple lacerations, is reared aggressively, and snarls towards the Minotaur.

All of the figures are disproportionate, but the Minotaur is absurdly so. His head and mane are huge and overwhelm his body. They are made even more overwhelming by the excessive scumbling Picasso uses. His right arm is very large and seems proportional to the head, but his left arm is very small despite it’s closer proximity to the foreground. It is the opposite with both of his legs. His pose denotes the poses of his previous incarnations in the Blind Minotaur set.

Additionally, the Minotaur, unlike any of the other figures, is very heavily muscled.

The broad and sweeping hatches that traipse the buttocks, calves, biceps, and large expanse of the Minotaur’s back enhance this musculature. The Minotaur’s eyes bulge out and his nostrils flare as if he is crazed from either fury or intense pain, possibly both. Considering his visit to Rome in 1917, along with his frequent trips to the Louvre and observation of archaeological sites in Naples and Florence (where he supposedly witnessed the excavation of the Farnese Bull group (Fig. 19)), it’s very likely that this visual hyperbole was in some ways influenced by Hellenistic and Roman sculpture.23 The Hellenistic period in Greek art abandoned idealization for exaggeration. Sobriety and moderation were traded for dramatic

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emotional displays and overstatement. (Fig. 20) The figure on the far left is done in the sparsest detail. He is climbing a ladder and possibly trying to either escape the Minotaur’s rampage, or be able to observe more impartially from above. His entire body is covered with very faint hatching, most likely remnant from an earlier etch and subsequent removal of those lines. The only exception is in both his arms, where the right arm is darkened significantly, away from the single light source cast on him. There seems to be a large amount of false bite and stray scratches, especially in his torso. This was likely caused by multiple previous states, where acid ate through the layer of hardground.

The full beard, light loincloth, and ivy wreath that he wears likely identify him as the personification of the artist and derivative of the image of Classical sculptors, directly from the Vollard Suite. He could also represent Christ. Both the wound on his side and the ladder that reference Christ’s descent from the cross support this theory. Christ, like the Minotaur and bull is a sacrificial being with no choice in his ultimate fate.

All of the female figures are undoubtedly modeled after Picasso’s young lover, Marie Thérèse Walter. (Fig. 21) Marie Thérèse was Picasso’s model and lover throughout the creation of the Vollard Suite and Minotauromachy. Each time he entered into a new relationship there would be bursts of artistic production and changes in his style as well as subject matter. Picasso met her outside of a department store in Paris in 1928 when he was 46 years old and she was only 18.24 Marie Thérèse was an incarnation of his picturesque ideal, proclaimed already in his neoclassical figures of the 1920s. Her fine, classical profile and athletic build may have made Picasso feel as if, like Pygmalion, his own work had come to life before him.25 Indeed, he used the features of Walter and his other lovers on canvas, paper, and in sculpture with such frequency that they seemed to become more closely associated with his work than with the women themselves.

Walter’s features are directly quoted in the female bullfighter, the young girl, and the two voyeurs. The torero’s appearance is triply significant in that it references his personal life, his own previous work, and the work of his predecessors. The torero’s belly is slightly swollen, alluding to the then pregnant Marie Thérèse, who would give birth to their daughter Maya in September of that same year.26 Picasso used the Minotaur as a pliant alter ego; the torero’s confrontation with the Minotaur paralleled Walter’s personal confrontation with Picasso’s dualistic nature.

It additionally reiterated a pose that had been reincarnated a number of times in his paintings and prints- that of the model slung across the back of a horse, swooning

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with pain and in the throes of death.27 Two explicit examples of this are his Death of the Toreador and Marie Thérèse as Bullfighter. (Figs. 22, 23) The torero also seems reminiscent of Goya’s equestrienne figure from Los Destratas. (Fig. 24) Picasso admired Goya for his hand in elevating the subject of the bullfight to a context within fine art as well as his impeccable craftsmanship.28 (Fig. 25) The little girl seems to be the youngest person in the composition, yet she draws the most attention to herself and commands the scene. This presence is due in large part to the candle that illuminates the entire left hand side of the image. She is mostly rendered with very fine horizontal lines, but the pattern on her dress is made up of diagonal lines, forming a zigzag motif. The hem of her dress features very brief marks, clustered close together and reminiscent of a floral trim. Her blonde hair, pale skin, and bright hat remove her from the darkness that threatens to envelop her and the other figures on the left. This effect is heightened from the candle’s proximity to her person. Picasso’s use of the etching technique lends itself well to the drama unfolding in this scene. Its bristling line effectively conveys the hysteria and allows for the tiniest and most captivating detail. The light coming from the candle is delineated by radial marks, creating vibrancy in that area.

More movement and interest is created here when the radial marks surrounding the light source are continued into the horse’s mane. Instead of using an aquatint to create spaces of subtle tone, all of the tones are created by using very fine scumbling and hatching. Picasso would have had to etch this plate multiple times in order to get such specific variances. Her profile is clearly that of Marie Thérèse but her pose is also referential of ancient Kourai, sculptural figures who proffered gifts of plants, birds, and other small animals to the gods. (Fig. 26) Like these, her pose is very stiff, her feet are planted firmly, and her arm is at a 90˚ angle.29 Additionally, because of Picasso’s exposure to Renaissance art and engagement in sculpture, her could pose could be referential of a common sculptural motif, Young woman holding flowers, as iterated by Andrea del Verrochio and others. (Fig. 27) Above the other five characters is a voyeuristic pair. Both women are significantly darker than the rest of the characters because of their placement in the recessed space of the architecture. They are both rendered with much deeper lines than the figures in the foreground. The detached interest with which they observe the drama below them suggests that they might exist in an “ivory tower”; perhaps they occupy the same ivory tower as Picasso and his young lover, one that would soon crumble. After her pregnancy, Picasso began to lose interest in Marie Thérèse, and instead pursued the Surrealist photographer, Dora Maar. This apathy

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was farther exacerbated by Walter’s complete disinterest in his work, art in general, and the intellectual movements with which he was involved.30 There is an incredible amount of attention to detail in this image, as in the zigzag and floral patterns on the girl’s dress, the texture and folds of the bullfighters costume, the small dish that rests between the two birds, and the wiry mane of the minotaur. This sensitivity along with the sophisticated narrative that Picasso establishes is what makes the image so visually impactful.

Much of the fascination with Minotauromachy comes from its creator’s ability to condense and unite a host of formal and iconographic elements; he uses them to convey his existential anguish and the pain of confrontation that had both personal and global connotations. Considering the eventual dissolution of his relationship with Marie Thérèse and the imminence of the Spanish Civil War, this print seems eerily prophetic. Two years after its creation, Picasso would reiterate many of the images and themes from Minotauromachy in his allegory of the Spanish Civil War, his magnum opus, Guernica. (Fig. 28) Within the print, a complex and subversive network of associations is established that, even more than its extensive cross hatching and careful handling, binds its figures inextricably together.

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Fig. 1, Portrait of Ambroise Vollard, Pablo Picasso, 1937

Fig. 2, Sculptor and Kneeling Model, The Vollard Suite, Picasso, 1937

Fig. 3, Artist Drawing from the Model, Rembrandt van Rijn, 1639

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Fig. 4, Jupiter and Antiope, Rembrandt van Rijn, 1659

Fig. 5, Faun Unveiling a Sleeping Woman, Picasso, 1936

Fig. 6, Illustration of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Picasso, 1931

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Fig. 7, Theseus Killing the Minotaur, Greek vase painting, c. 550 BCE

Fig. 8, Calchas Reading a Liver, on an Etruscan Liver, c. 400 BC

Fig. 9, Bacchic Scene with Minotaur, the Vollard Suite, Picasso, 1933

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Fig. 10, Blind Minotaur Being Led through the Night by Little Girl, the Vollard Suite, Picasso, 1934

Fig. 11, Blind Minotaur Being Led through the Night by Little Girl with Pigeon, Picasso, Picasso, 1934

Fig. 12, Citando el Toro con la Capa (Provoking the Bull with the Cape), La Tauromaquia, Picasso, 1957

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Fig. 13, Cover of Minotaure, Picasso, 1933

Fig. 14, “Grand Air”, Paul Éluard, illustrated by Picasso, 1936

Fig. 15, Minotauromachy, 1st state, Picasso, 1935

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Fig. 16, Minotauromachy, 2nd state, Picasso, 1935

Fig. 17, Minotauromachy, 4th state, Picasso, 1935

Fig. 18, Minotauromachy, 7th state, Picasso, 1935

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Fig. 19, Farnese Bull, 2nd century BCE

Fig. 20, Weary Hercules, Roman copy, by Glykon after original by Lysippos, 4th cent. BCE

Fig. 21, Photo of Marie Thérèse Walter, 1930

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Fig. 22, Death of a Toreador, Picasso, 1933

Fig. 23, Marie Thérèse as Bullfighter, Picasso, 1934

Fig. 24, La Mujer y el Potro, que los dome otro, Los Disparates (Plate 10), Franciso Goya y Lucientes, 1819-1823

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Fig. 25, The cid campreador attacking a bull with his lance, La Tauromaquia, Francisco Goya y Lucientes, 1816

Fig. 26, Kore, Archaic Greek, 6th century BCE

Fig. 27, Young woman holding flowers, Andrea del Verrochio, late 15th century

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Fig. 28, Guernica, Picasso, 1937

Endnotes 2 Stephanie Barron, “Picasso’s Greatest Print: The Minotauromachy in All Its States,” Picasso Index-LAMCA, April 16, 2014, http://www.lacma.org/picasso-index 3 Brigette Baer, Picasso the engraver: selections from the Musée Picasso, Paris (New York: Thames and Hudson; Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), 12.

4 Deborah Wye, A Picasso portfolio: prints from the Museum of Modern Art, (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2010), 12.

5 “La Minotauromachie (1935): Picasso in his Labyrinth,” Fundación Juan March, April 18, 2014, http://www.march.es/arte/madrid/exposiciones/PicassoMinotauromaquia/?l=2 6 Deborah Wye, A Picasso portfolio: prints from the Museum of Modern Art, (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2010), 14.

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7 Stephen Coppel, Picasso prints: the Vollard Suite, (London: British Museum Press, 2012), 11.

8 Ibid, 15.

9 Juan Carrete Parrondo, “La Minotauromaquia,” Fundación Juan March, April 18, 2014, http://www.march.es/arte/madrid/exposiciones/Picasso-Minotauromaquia/ minotauromaquia.aspx?l=2 10 Brigette Baer, Picasso the engraver: selections from the Musée Picasso, Paris (New York: Thames and Hudson; Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), 12.

11 Ibid, 41.

12 “La Minotauromachie (1935): Picasso in his Labyrinth,” Fundación Juan March, April 18, 2014, http://www.march.es/arte/madrid/exposiciones/PicassoMinotauromaquia/?l=2 13 Deborah Wye, A Picasso portfolio: prints from the Museum of Modern Art, (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2010), 13.

14 Ibid, 14.

15 Ries, Martin. “Picasso and the Myth of the Minotaur,” Art Journal, XXXII/2, (1972/1973): 1. http://www.martinries.com/article1972-73PP.htm 16 Deborah Wye, A Picasso portfolio: prints from the Museum of Modern Art, (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2010), 62.

17 Verna Posever Curtis and Selma Reuben Holo, La Tauromaquia: Goya, Picasso and the bullfight, (Milwaukee: Milwaukee Art Museum, 1986), 69.

18 The Cretan king, Minos was born of Europa and Zeus, who lay with Europa in the form of a bull. After the death of his stepfather, Asterion, who was the preceding king of Crete, he sought to affirm his claims of divine favor and his right to kingship; he prayed to Poseidon to send him a white bull. He swore that upon its arrival, he would sacrifice it to the god. However, upon seeing how magnificent it was, he decided not to and instead sacrificed the best of his own stock. Poseidon, infuriated by Minos’ hubris, struck his wife, Pasiphae, with a fervent sexual desire for the white bull. In order to satisfy this desire Pasiphae asked the famous architect Daedalus to construct for her a wooden cow that she could hide inside of and use to lay with the bull. From this union, the Minotaur was born.

When the Minotaur came of age and began to wreak havoc on Crete, Minos commissioned Daedalus to build a labyrinth within his palace that would imprison it. Because of their hand in the death of Minos’ only human son, Androgeos, the Athenians were required to pay a tribute of seven young males and females, all of which would be devoured by the Minotaur in its labyrinth. This continued until the Athenian hero Theseus defeated the Minotaur.

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19 Theodore Ziolkowski, Minos and the moderns: Cretan myth in twentieth-century literature and art, (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 167.

20 Deborah Wye, A Picasso portfolio: prints from the Museum of Modern Art, (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2010), 46.

21 Juan Carrete Parrondo, “La Minotauromaquia,” Fundación Juan March, April 18, 2014, http://www.march.es/arte/madrid/exposiciones/Picasso-Minotauromaquia/ minotauromaquia.aspx?l=2 22 Wye, Deborah. A Picasso portfolio: prints from the Museum of Modern Art. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2010, 65.

23 Stephen Coppel, Picasso prints: the Vollard Suite, (London: British Museum Press, 2012), 29.

24 Wye, Deborah. A Picasso portfolio: prints from the Museum of Modern Art. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2010, 10.

25 Keith Bell, Picasso prints, (Saskatoon, CA: Mendel Art Gallery, 1986), 11.

26 Juan Carrete Parrondo, “La Minotauromaquia,” Fundación Juan March, April 18, 2014, http://www.march.es/arte/madrid/exposiciones/Picasso-Minotauromaquia/ minotauromaquia.aspx?l=2 27 Josep Palau i Fabre, Picasso: from the Minotaur to Guernica (1927-1939), (Barcelona: Polígrafa, 2011), 139.

28 Lisa Florman, Myth and metamorphosis : Picasso’s classical prints of the 1930s, (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2000), 186.

29 Lisa Florman, Myth and metamorphosis : Picasso’s classical prints of the 1930s, (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2000), 167-169.

30 Brigette Baer, Picasso the engraver: selections from the Musée Picasso, Paris (New York: Thames and Hudson; Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), 34.

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PAINTING AND ART HISTORY FALSE RECONSTRUCTIONS: A group exhibition of Mike Kelley, Katrin Sigurdardottir, Gregor Schneider and Zarina Hashmi The function of memory gives a person a time and place in which to put the context of their lives. The most significant memories are recalled time and time again when telling stories of loved ones or important events. Yet, these memories often fade and transform throughout the process of remembering—in turn becoming a process of forgetting. Often, memory manifests itself in recollections of a place lived; the hallways and rooms in which one grew up or the landscape of the place in which one was born. Over time the size of a room and the color on the walls will become skewed in one’s mind, becoming a new place. The work of Katrin Sigurdardottir, Mike Kelley, Zarina Hashmi, and Gregor Schneider is not only about memory, but the process of forgetting. The following essay will look at the work of these four contemporary artists, placed together in a group exhibition, to understand the ways in which memory of time and place have transformed into the archiving of imagination and forgetting.

MEMORY AS ARCHIVE In 1993 Rachel Whiteread presented the project House on a terraced street in East London. In this work, the artist made a concrete cast of the last remaining house of the neighborhood, which would soon become a park in the new urban landscape. (Figure 1) As the actual walls were torn away, the contained negative space was left standing, the ghost of an empty space. Whiteread successfully created the presence of absence, confronting viewers with an uncanny experience of a domestic space that could not be entered. House questioned viewers by presenting them with the form of a home, which could normally be entered into, and denying them that access. Turning what would normally be an intimate comfortable space into a massive concrete block, viewers were confronted with

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the uncanny experience of having their personal relationship to a home skewed.

This was not the first empty space that Whiteread would present to an audience; her other works such as Ghost from 1990 and Untitled (Sixteen Spaces) from 1995 also evoked the presence of something that once was, only showing the space that an object defined. For example, in Sixteen Spaces, the multiple castings of spaces underneath chairs allowed the viewer to assume the image of a chair, or a room with sixteen chairs. (Figure 2) The viewer is given the ability to imagine themselves or someone else sitting on these chairs. All of the important chairs from the viewer’s past are conjured as they imagine themselves sitting. Thus, one creates a type of ghost-- characterized by the “spectral”2 as Ian Farr states; these objects haunt the memory in the same way as the four artists’ work within this exhibition. The remembered images exist as only that, an archive of things that once were. With Whiteread setting the stage for the viewer to recall their past, we can approach the idea of the archive that is made up of the things that we have kept and the memories that are important to us. Pierre Nora states, “Remembering has become a matter of meticulously minute reconstruction,”3 as we try to remember significant events. In the act of making, these artists are able to manifest these recollections in an object.

This desire to recall has caused a reconstruction of the past for artist Mike Kelley. Kelley’s Educational Complex, which was made two years after Whiteread’s massive concrete trace of an entire house, is the attempt to compile all the educational systems he had learned and worked within throughout his life. It is presented as a to-scale foam-core model from memory, resulting from the many sketches in which Kelley tried to sort out the spaces of his past and turn them into realized objects. (Figure 3) In these sketches we see personal memories that Kelley associates with each space, such as the classroom where he took a modern sculpture class and how the books in the architecture library all had plastic on them. (Figure 4) Viewers cannot relate to the situation but may recognize how one associates events to places. In the final work, Kelley presents us with an attempt at recovering the complex architecture of places that contained the memories of his life, fluidly traversing the line between archive and memory.

Katrin Sigurdardottir approaches her model-like spaces in a similar way, with memory mixing with a sense of archiving. In her Langahlio 11 series from 2012 she presents us with multiple architectural structures that have been constructed from memories of her childhood home in Reykjavik, located at Langahlio 11.4 The works appear as cross-sections of her childhood home, the

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structures pulled from memory and photographs.5 (Figure 5) She scales each structure intimately to relate directly to the viewer’s body, thus the viewer exists in the space as perhaps Sigurdardottir would. One could imagine that creating these works would enable Sigurdardottir to recall memories associated in the spaces of this home. For example in, “Stairway, Hallway,” we can imagine the times in which she would run up and down these stairs, from one floor of the three-level house to the next. (Figure 6) While Kelley created full sites for memories, Sigurdardottir’s work presents us with precise sections of architectural spaces in which to imagine events.

Despite presenting us with these architectural frameworks, one may realize something is lacking. Maurice Halbwachs approaches the importance of physical surroundings in her 1925 essay “Space and the Collective Memory.” In the works mentioned so far by Whiteread, Kelley, and Sigurdardottir, we are presented with spaces emptied of the things that would be in them, or in Whiteread’s case, the things that make them possible. The clutter and objects that usually signify living are left out of these works. Often times, these objects are the things that individualize a home or room, giving one a sense of comfort and normalcy with their presence. Referencing Auguste Comte, Halbwachs states, “mental equilibrium was, first and foremost, due to the fact that the physical objects of our daily contact change little or not at all, providing us with an image of permanence and stability.”6 These things that make up one’s past such as the stuffed bear that one plays with when little, or the rocking chair passed through the generations of new mothers, become a way to locate one’s life in time. When these things are no longer present, there is a sense of instability, a loss of a way to identify oneself.

These objects may not be remembered for what they look like, but actions or events that took place on, around, or about them. Halbwachs further states, “Our physical surroundings bear our and others’ imprint. Our home—furniture and its arrangement, room décor—recalls family and friends whom we see frequently within this framework.”7 So, in these spaces emptied of the details of life, we feel the unease of disconnection. While the spaces are specific to the artists’ memory, the rooms’ sparseness emphasizes the absence of the personal. Their works act as environments for us to transfer our own memories, rather than places for the artists to supply with their own.

FRAGMENTED MEMORY

In this constant act of recovery, there becomes a point in which things are

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lost and forgotten. We forget a chair that used to sit in the corner of our childhood bedroom, until found years later in a parent’s basement, triggering our nostalgia.

These sudden realizations of memory act as a jolt, a rude awakening that we had forgotten. Gaston Bachelard, in an excerpt from The Poetics of Space states, “Such dreams unsettle our daydreaming and we reach a point where we begin to doubt that we ever lived where we lived. Our past is situated elsewhere, and both time and place are impregnated with a sense of unreality.”8 This kind of forgetting has become a plague on memory, and pairs hand in hand with the archive. One places themselves in a history that they have built up. Lines of significant events starting from childhood can be traced through a person’s life. Yet, when something is forgotten, a moment of time and connection is lost. This act of forgetting becomes a source of terror, what is one to do when they cannot remember the things that make them who they are?

Gregor Schneider began work on his childhood home in 1985 at the age of sixteen. In this way it has become “inseparable from Schneider’s life.”9 He dismantled and reassembled this house for 11 years before it was finally shown to the public. While Whiteread’s House could not be entered even if one wanted to, Schneider’s house has become a dark labyrinth in which his memories are buried deep within the empty spaces between walls and floors that he had closed off.

(Figure 7) Schneider could be said to have built himself out of his memory as he begins to explain his separation from the house that he grew up in. In an interview with Ulrich Loock, Schneider states, “By now my work has become independent.

It has its own inner dynamics. The sheer amount that I have built in here means that I can’t distinguish any more between what has been added and what has been subtracted.”10 When Loock asks for elaboration on the work’s independent nature, Schneider explains, “Considering I spend most of my time here, I have to accept the rooms as they are, and accept the most recently built as perfectly normal.”11 Schneider has altered his surroundings to a point where his childhood home is a completely separate structure from the one existing in1995. He could no longer reconstruct exactly what the original home looked like after such a dramatic and lifelong alteration. Loock later comments on how Schneider has stated that he forgets himself in the process of working, and Schneider explains, I don’t just forget myself, even the work becomes forgettable. As soon as you have built a stone into a wall—a red one or a totally black one—after a while you don’t know where it is any more, and the same thing happens again and again. It’s like that with

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a wall and exactly the same with a room. As soon as someone spends any time in a room, you accept it as a normal room.12 This idea becomes important in the way remembering and archiving works. In the process of archiving, the important things are kept. Memories are gathered and stack up to a point where only one layer may be remembered, the others becoming less important and eventually forgotten. The things you encounter often or recently become embedded, while the distant past thins in your mind. Once the chair is uncovered in the basement, you wonder how you could have forgotten something that existed with you for years of your life.

Revisiting Mike Kelley’s Educational Complex we can see the evidence of memory loss within the careful and precise model. Throughout the process of trying to remember the exact architecture that made up his life, Kelley was confronted “with a ‘loss of memory’—and thereby of space—of up to (in his estimate) eighty per cent of the structure, these lost spaces were modeled as solid blocks (blocked memory),”13 of foam-core that are visually evident in the model.

The viewer is able to peer into the interior of the complex in one area, seeing the structure of rooms and hallways within, while the miniature windows are blocked out in another. (Figure 8) In the sketches done by Kelley, these moments are marked by question marks and crossed out sections of building. (Figure 4) These memory-map drawings turn into a model of his failure at remembering.

Kelley states, “buildings that I had occupied almost every day for years could barely be recalled. The teachers, courses and activities held within them are a vast undifferentiated swamp.”14 As viewers look at the solid blocks of Kelley’s model complex, there could be a comparison to the blocked windows and doors of Whiteread’s House. An entire section of life, of a space once lived, is unavailable to memory. Examining Kelley’s desperate scribbles and questions, it becomes all too apparent that these blocks lie waiting to be discovered in our own recollections.

This boundary of memory has become all too literal in Zarina Hashmi’s autobiographical series titled Letters from Home from 2004. In this series of eight woodblock prints—or eight letters—Zarina15 presents the viewer with maps, layouts and symbols that one associates with a home or building. Within these minimal printed black images, text appears as an unreadable cipher to most, sometimes the image even blocks out the text, making it impossible to read. (Figure 9 & 10) Upon further research, the viewer learns that “each text is a letter written by the artist’s Karachi-based sister, often after a family tragedy.”16 Zarina uses this written script

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and language as a symbol of her displacement, it has become her one remaining connection to home. Born in Aligarh, India, Zarina and her family moved to Pakistan in 1959 as a result of the partition of India, which caused a sense of dislocation for the artist throughout her life as she moved from city to city.17 The different architectonics presented to us in the prints seem irrelevant and forgotten compared to the specific text, which directly connects Zarina to her family. The handwritten script contrasts the simple black over laid images of rooms Zarina has lived within. While these images of rooms and houses change, the language remains the same. Zarina’s use of Urdu, according to Allegra Pesenti, “indicated an engagement with the history of the language as the ‘home’ of certain ways of thinking, feeling, and being.”18 Whereas Sigurdardottir, Kelley, and Schneider allow us into some real architectural space of their history, Zarina has no home to show.

She is in a perpetual state of dislocation from India, constantly moving from place to place, and instead wraps us up in the words that she associates with her identity.

She finds comfort in the language of her home country, it moves with her, giving her something to hold on to as a place of origin in a way that one’s home would.

Yet, even Urdu, a language that gives Zarina her sense of home is “seemingly on the road to extinction in its country of origin,”19 in India. It is a similar story in Pakistan, “where it is the official language of an aggressively antiIndian nationalism, it is tainted with the stain of being alien since it is the mother tongue of only a relatively small minority population of migrants from northern India,”20 who were displaced in the partition.21 The news of family tragedies that Zarina receives in the letters reflects the amount of devastation that comes with forgotten memories and places. With the poignant sadness that the words relay, the letters show us a last connection to a home that Zarina has lost.

Zarina Hashmi’s suite of prints shows the emotional separation that comes with forgotten places. What if the memories that one associates with home are becoming extinct? Part of such a small minority of people that still recognizes and uses Urdu, Zarina seems to present this intangible home as a deep and individual connection that is just as strong as Sigurdardottir’s cross cuts of “Langahlio 11”.

Zarina can no longer connect to the India that she was born in, for it no longer exists, yet the use of Urdu somehow connects her in time and place to quickly fading memories of home.

FALSE MEMORIES

When looking at a memory that is severed from time and place, we realize a fine line between something forgotten and something slightly askew. This line

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separates the former from the idea of a false memory. As the past is recalled, images are formed in one’s mind that may be used to start rebuilding a past event.

As Sigfried Kracauer writes, “the meaning of memory images is linked to their truth content.”22 So, when one’s memory starts to betray them, and they remember an image of something that never was, the entirety of the memory’s function comes into question. Paul Ricoeur discusses the Bergosian idea of a transformation of “pure memory” to that of a memory-image which causes the false memories we see appear in the work of all four of the exhibited artists.23 While not all memories become skewed upon recollection, at times the imagination will work itself into the process. A ‘pure memory’ is a result of “spontaneous recollection” which “is perfect from the outset; time can add nothing to its image without disfiguring it; it retains in memory its place and date.”24 These memories prove un-damaged, they have not had the opportunity to be changed in the mind after multiple recollections.

While I do believe that spontaneous memories may be flawed from the outset, time and repetition applied to these images are more likely to change the memory in a confusing and subtle way. Once the imagination takes hold, and the memory has had time to become blemished, falsities are found. Ricoeur then states, “A phenomenology of memory cannot fail to recognize what we have just called the pitfall of the imaginary, is as much as this putting-into-images, bordering on the hallucinatory function of imagination, constitutes a sort of weakness, a discredit, a loss of reliability for memory.”25 This fault of memory is not only seen in the artists’ process of working, but also in the viewer’s encounter with the work.

In Katrin Sigurdardottir’s Langahlio 11 series, one is presented with models that appear so precise that one trusts they must be true. Given titles such as, “Dining Room, Hallway, Bathroom, Coat Closet” the viewer is automatically put in an area of recalling symbols of these particular rooms—the long table that accommodates extended family or the flower print shower curtain. The specificity of rooms as well as naming the house number and street of Sigurdardottir’s home provides a sense of honesty. Yet, when walking amid the works, the spaces become ghostly in their emptiness. (Figure 5) Sigurdardottir’s lack of touch becomes impersonal when compared to how one remembers and pictures their dining room and bathroom. By Sigurdardottir giving the works such specific titles as to what part of a particular house each cutout is, the autobiographical description of the architecture takes a turn towards false memory. When disregarding the titles, these spaces could belong to any home, on any street—even the rooms become interchangeable. Sigurdardottir approaches this idea in an interview, stating, “I

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think maybe the premise of this whole reenactment of architectural drawing, or drafting, or cartography for that matter, has to do with choosing a language or form of representation that is concrete and unemotional. To try to present the opposite of what it is meant to handle, or contain.”26 After the viewer furnishes the spaces as recalled by their own memory, the falsities become concrete: this is not your home, a space that you know—but it is also a space that is no longer Sigurdardottir’s. The models lie somewhere between vacant rooms and a home abandoned—so precisely cleaned and repainted that all traces of memory you thought were there, are not, and never were.

When Gregor Schneider installed his childhood home at the Kunsthalle Bern in 1996, he presented us with another kind of in-between, albeit a darker and trickier version. The building and rebuilding of this home presents an array of falsities, both to the artist and viewer. Schneider has buried his past into this home, hiding photographs within layers of windows that open into each other, each layer marking the history of a generation: mother, father, and in the deepest layer, grandmother.27 (Figure 11) With the original walls and structure no longer distinguishable, to call this Schneider’s childhood home would actually be misleading. As shown, Schneider’s memory has become fragmented through his continual building, and as the work progresses, new walls are repeatedly covered up and forgotten. The viewer is presented with walls built in front of walls and floors layered on top of another, fooling them in an unanticipated way. As Schneider explains, “I build complete rooms with floor, walls and ceiling, that you can’t see as a room in a room or a room around a room… Some of them—imperceptibly— rise up, sink back down, or complete a full rotation.”28 (Figure 12) It seems as though Schneider uses seemingly mundane empty rooms to contrast with the dark passageways and crawlspaces that make up each room’s armature. (Figure 13) In a video released before Dead House u r was known to the public, Schneider struggles to move between the rooms of the house as he carries a video recorder. Upon leaving these seemingly normal rooms, the winding hallways become narrow, dark, dead spaces and the windows that appeared to have soft daylight and a cool breeze blowing through the curtains are revealed by Schneider to be only a florescent bulb and a single fan from a windowless, inaccessible room.29 (Figure 14) This video would spark curiosity from viewers wanting to experience the house turned labyrinth before its installation in 1996.

Looking at the photo documentation of the work, the viewer is able to travel through the house, from a brightly lit room to a dark and dingy passageway

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leading to a door that opens to a brick wall. A level of fear is presented; the falseness of the home foreshadows an imagined trapdoor or weak spot in a floor that would drop you into a closed off dead space. The house that Schneider built has become a lie as we follow his footsteps and passages—it is all too fitting of its name Dead Haus u r.

This exploration of skewed space was a jumping off point for Mike Kelley in his Educational Complex. Kelley’s impulse in creating this work sprung out of controversies surrounding the idea of Repressed Memory Syndrome, where it is believed that experiences of trauma become repressed and are unable to be recalled.30 The falsities in the complex were discovered when Kelley began to try to piece together the forgotten spaces in which his own education had taken place. As stated before, the majority of the spaces Kelley could not recall. These false memories perhaps appeared most apparent to him in the presented sketches.

Kelley attempted to draw the floor plans from memory, yet, they “resulted in incomprehensible sketches of disconnected rooms with no information as to their spatial relationships…These thumbnail sketches were so formless they defied architectural actualization.”31 (Figure 15) Kelley was immediately under the realization that these would not result in something that could be built. His memories became false recollections of spaces lived, and he began to rely on photographs and actual floor plans of the different schools’ architectures.32 As a result, the model shows a melding of the real and the imagined—the viewer becomes witness to this as the structures appear nonfunctional—rooms and hallways don’t make sense in architectural terms. In some instances, Kelley was unable to access the interior floor plans of the spaces, and this resulted in a more challenging reconstruction. Kelley recalls a specific situation: For example, I remembered that the main entrance hallway that bisected my catholic elementary school was situated toward the left side of the structure. Based on the exterior images I was able to get of the school, such a location was, in fact, impossible. But I stuck to my memory in the construction of the model. This resulted in a completely unusable interior architecture, set with three times as many classrooms as there really were, all of which were too narrow to be functional.33 In this description, we see first-hand how one handles the recollection of a false memory, how it can cause doubt and impossibility in the mind. False memories have conformed to this skewed image in one’s imagination for a significant amount

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of time, causing discomfort that is not as engrained in things forgotten. When one begins to fabricate something forgotten, the line of falsity grows nearer—the slight misplacement of a hallway in the space of one’s mind can entirely shift the way one would have functioned in their past.

This use of floor plans and architectural elements is again used in Zarina’s Letters from Home, not as a marker of specificity, but as a sort of formal, nonnarrative structure. As Zarina creates these letters she is, “adapting these diverse visual languages to her own ends, she draws on a repertoire of abstract forms to speak about her perceptions of worldly realities.”34 The artist does not have specific images of home to draw from; yet, her nomadism has resulted in her learning to create a transportable home. Zarina presents us with what her (and perhaps our own) ideas of home look like. This representation may become less important to the viewer as they realize the care in which Zarina has transcribed the Urdu script over the simple black structures. These images of home begin to appear unimportant and perhaps just symbolic compared with the connection formed in writing between Zarina and her sister. We can see Zarina’s desire to create a home in her movements, for, “Zarina herself speaks of the need to create such spaces, homes that are as much psychic dwellings as actual physical locations in the world.”35 These prints show ‘psychic dwellings,’ as she finds comfort in the action of creating a symbol of home through the letters. While the homes she depicts may be false, these prints become anchors for her imagination. In Zarina’s work, compared to the work of the three other artists who contend with false memories, she seems to embrace their existence in a more nostalgic way. Perhaps they are even expected when one has lived a life so filled with displacement and movement.

As the four artists whose work is seen in this exhibition tried to form connections through time, they experienced the weaknesses in human memory. Even after confronting things forgotten, some events and places escaped recollection, as seen in the opaque windows of Kelley’s complex and the pristine white framework of Sigurdardottir’s house, Langahlio 11. Our imagination takes the reigns and fills in the empty spaces, connecting the significant remembered events with smaller ones that are fuzzy around the edges. The fact that we can only remember certain times and events of our life places importance on the things that affect us most.

It is when these moments start to fade that urgency is felt to remember all of the details. Kelley, Sigurdardottir, Schneider and Zarina seem to develop their work

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through these stages, and although there are aspects of comfort and nostalgia provided to the viewer in the first glance, there is a sense of desperation under the surface. Compelled to examine the works together, I have been able to examine the ways in which we, as humans, deal with imprecise memory. It has caused me to wonder, perhaps memory’s utility lies not in joy or how many photos we take, but in the occasional dissection of our own life and actions. I say occasional for this reason: the constant dissection of false or forgotten moments may conflict with the forward movement of life—the brief encounters with memory presented here may be just enough to remind us and the artist of this. It is only when we try to remember everything that we realize what we have forgotten.

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Figure 1: Rachel Whiteread: House, 1993

Figure 2: Rachel Whiteread: Untitled(Sixteen Spaces), 1995

Figure 3: Mike Kelley: Educational Complex, 1995

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Figure 4: Mike Kelley: Wayne High School; from the Architectural Site Drawings from Memory series, 1994

Figure 5: Katrin Sigurdardottir: Langahlio 11 series, 2012

Figure 6: Katrin Sigurdardottir: Stairway, Hallway, 2012

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Figure 7: Gregor Schneider: Dead House u r—passageway between two walls, 1985-1996

Figure 8: Mike Kelley: Educational Complex, 1995

Figure 9: Zarina Hashmi: Letters from Home, 2004

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Figure 10: Zarina Hashmi: Letters from Home—Letter Eight, 2004

Figure 11: Gregor Schneider: Dead House u r—window that opens onto another window, 1985-1996

Figure 12: Gregor Schneider: Dead House u r—turning room, 1985-1996

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Figure 13: Gregor Schneider: Dead House u r—crawl space underneath floor, 1985-1996

Figure 14: Gregor Schneider: Dead House u r passageway behind window, fan seen sitting on floor, 1985-1996

Figure 15: Mike Kelley: Drawing for Repressed Spatial Relationships Rendered as Fluid #5

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Endnotes 2 Ian Farr, “Introduction//Not Quite How I Remember It,” in Memory, ed. Ian Farr (London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2012), 20.

3 Pierre Nora, “Realms of Memory,” in Memory, ed. Ian Farr (London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2012), 62.

4 “Katrin Sigurdardottir ‘Ellefu’ at Eleven Rivington, New York,” Mousse, October 15, 2012, http://moussemagazine.it/sigurdardottir-eleven-r/ (accessed November 17, 2014).

5 Ibid.

6 Maurice Halbwachs, “Space and the Collective Memory,” in Memory, ed. Ian Farr (London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2012), 47.

7 Ibid.

8 Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969), 57-58.

9 Gregor Schneider (Milano: Charta, 2003), 103.

10 Ibid., 35.

11 Ibid.

12 Ibid., 37.

13 Mike Kelley (London: Phaidon, 1999), 96.

14 Ibid., 97.

15 In a written foreword of Zarina:Paper Like Skin, that is cited below, it is mentioned that while Hashmi is her surname, she has chosen to be called by just her first name.

16 Devika Singh, “Zarina,” Frieze, June-August 2013, http://www.frieze.com/ issue/review/zarina/ (accessed November 15, 2014).

17 Allegra Pesenti, Zarina: Paper Like Skin (New York: Prestel, 2012), 17.

18 Ibid., 151.

19 Ibid.

20 Ibid., 151-52.

21 Zarina’s written connections to her sister are impossible to disassociate with Mona Hatoum’s Measures of Distance, a video work compromised of Arabic text from a letter between artist and mother moving across the screen as a video of Hatoums’ mother in the shower while plays behind. Hatoum reads this letter aloud in English, a symbol of her dislocation from home.

22 Sigfried Kracauer, “Memory Images,” in Memory, ed. Ian Farr (London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2012), 46.

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23 Paul Ricoeur, “Memories and Images,” in Memory, ed. Ian Farr (London: Whitechapel Gallery, 2012), 67.

24 Ibid.

25 Ibid., 70.

26 Hannah Mandel, “Katrin Sigurdardottir’s Sequence of Experience,” Interview, April 8, 2013, http://www.interviewmagazine.com/art/katrin-sigurdardottir/ (accessed November 15, 2014).

27 Gregor Schneider, 99.

28 Ibid., 36.

29 Paul Schimmel, “Gregor Schneider: Dead House U R,” MOCA, http://www. moca.org/museum/exhibitiondetail.php?&id=338 (accessed November 16, 2014).

30 Howard Singerman, “The Educational Complex: Mike Kelley’s Cultural Studies,” October 126 (2008): 47, http://www.jstor.org/stable/40368519 (accessed September 9, 2014). These controversies involved a 1983 case in which McMartin preschool students recollections of hidden tunnels and rooms underneath the school that were sites of abuse, which resulted in being false. (ibid) 31 Mike Kelley, Educational Complex Onwards 1995-2008, (Zurich: JRP/ Ringier, 2009), 21.

32 Ibid., 22.

33 Ibid.

34 Margo Machida, “The World As Home,” in Zarina: Mapping a Life 1991-2001 (Oakland: Mills College Art Museum, 2001), 21.

35 Ibid., 23.

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ILLUSTRATION AND CREATIVE WRITING I Didn’t Mind That There Were Ashes In The Bathtub The cigarette began to slip between my ignorant fingers as I watched the foreign smoke drift up to circle once around the yellow dome light in the middle of the ceiling and disappear. I wanted to blame my roommate for my smoking but I’d have an easier time blaming my drinking on him. My phone vibrated with a text message that threatened to send it diving off of the edge of the bathtub and this brought me back to reality in time to catch my new habit before it tried to drown itself. Knowing my luck it would have landed on my thigh sticking out of the bath water, leaving another scar amidst all of the notes I had been writing to myself in black and blue sharpie. “Rent next week” “Pick up some fucking whiskey” “Friday lunch appointment” “shave, you lazy bitch” “Dinner 7:30 tonight” “Fuck all of this” I needed to start using the little pocket calendar my grandma had gotten me at Christmas, but I was relatively sure I had already lost it in the cluttered abyss of my room. I checked my phone, the text was instructions from the boy I fucked last night. “My place. 10.” I put the phone down without answering and my eyes closed as I relived the memory of the night before, my free hand trailed across the light bruises he had left on my breasts. He was just another name and face in a long list of names and faces that will haunt me one of these days, but for now he was the one who held my attention in his firm grip. My earlobe tingled with the memory of his breath as I remembered him asking: Did you enjoy it? I didn’t choke you too much? I didn’t hit too hard? Yes, sir. No, sir. No, sir.

My eyes opened at the sharp pain in my lower abdomen and I saw the water was stained with the monthly reminder that I had missed another opportunity for motherhood. As if everyone posting pictures of ultrasounds and babybellies on Facebook wasn’t enough, my own body had to remind me of my wasted fertility.

I doused the last sparkling ember of life in my cigarette in the water and hugged my knees close, trying to relax my muscles. I told myself that taking care of my perpetually drunk roommate was more than enough for me to handle right now. I don’t need a baby I repeated under my breath. I don’t need it.

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Lead and Pepper We used to have rabbits on the farm. They were white and black and gray and brown. Some had spots, rings around their eyes, or black tips on their long ears. A few were albino, their red eyes and pink noses set into colorless fur. Their rows of hutches reminded me of suburban homes, each one a designated identical layout of space. Like good suburban housewives, the does spent their days eating, sleeping, shitting, and rearranging their boxes in preparation for their next litter of kits. The bucks just ate, slept, shit.

The hutches sprawled out in obedient rows, housing the fifty-plus critters underneath a patchwork tin roof supported on cedar posts. I would greet each and everyone of them after school by feeding them, checking their water, giving them treats through the wires of their hutches, and occasionally taking one of the more docile ones out to pet and cuddle with.

Grandpa would jokingly call out, “Hey, Elly May, there’s other animals to feed.”

I didn’t mind the nickname. It was appropriate. When I fed the cows, Old Red didn’t threaten to use her horns on me like she did others. It wasn’t that she was mean, but rather she was just impatient. Still, she even did it to Grandpa, who would swat her on the nose and tell her to wait. Our pony, Fancy, threw temper tantrums about her haircuts and other frivolous things. Her wild bucking and charging would send my siblings fleeing to the nearest fence, but I’d stand my ground like a motionless stone waiting for her to calm, confident that she wouldn’t actually try to hurt me. She never did, because like all of the other animals, we understood each other and we were friends.

The summer before seventh grade Grandpa decided he was done with the rabbits. Part of the decision was made because he was tired of listening to us kids complain about having to shovel their pellets. Another part was because of a particular couple of does who liked to push their kits out of their hutches while they were still small enough to slip through the wires. This led to a couple of unfortunate incidents with dogs, trucks, fourwheelers, and younger siblings along for the ride.

It was a Saturday night after church when Grandpa told me that we were getting rid of the rabbits, all of them, and that I had to come up the next day to help him with this. I moaned that my older sister, Jess, should have to help, but my mother informed me that Jess had to help her and Grandma because we were

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having a big family dinner and all of our cousins were coming over. Despite all my huffing and puffing I still had to do it, and I knew as well as they did that I really just didn’t want to see the rabbits go.

When we returned to my grandparent’s house the next morning my mood had improved, but I still wasn’t particularly happy. I sat in the kitchen and cracked open peanuts not so much for the snack, but just to keep my hands busy while I waited for Grandpa. When he was ready we went out to the garage and put on our boots, so I wouldn’t get rabbit shit on my tennis shoes, and then we made our way down the gravel drive to the shed.

I enjoyed spending time with Grandpa, listening to his toilet humor and outdated, racist jokes. It was much better than kitchen gossip, plus I got to be outside, but I knew that today wouldn’t be any fun. For Grandpa all of these animals were livestock to be bought and sold and butchered, while for a thirteen year old girl, they were friends.

“Alrighty, Elly May, all you have to do,” he explained, pointing over to the hutches, “ is bring each of them over here, one at a time.” I nodded in affirmation and headed over to the hutches while he unlocked the shed and went inside to grab himself a Pepsi and a few other things.

The first rabbit I got was a gray doe we had named Pepper. She was skittish and scrambled into the corner when I opened the hutch, desperate to get away from my reaching hand. Clutching the soft fur on the back of her neck I retrieved her, trying to hold her so her kicking wouldn’t upset the others. I shushed and cradled her tightly against my chest so she couldn’t run off. Pepper’s racing heartbeat pounded against my own as she gazed wildly at the open space around her. Her ears lay flat, but her nose twitched anxiously in the crook of my elbow, her whiskers a soft tickle all the way up and down my arm.

When we got to the shed it was as if she knew what was about to happen, and she tried to make a dash, her scrambling paws left scratches that beaded with blood across my arm. She didn’t get away from my hold on her, but Grandpa was already there ready to grab her anyways. Once she was safely in his grasp I turned to walk back to the hutches and get the next rabbit, Dot. It was a wonder that I wasn’t crying having to say goodbye to all of my companions, but to this day I still flinch at the ringing of a pipe being struck, expecting to hear their screams.

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FIBER AND ART HISTORY A Response to the Restoration of Mark Rothko’s Harvard Murals

The restoration and reinstallation of Mark Rothko’s Harvard Murals celebrates the Harvard Art Museums’ recent expansion, ushering not only a new era for the Museums, but for art restoration as well. First installed in 1963 in the Holyoke Center dining room, the Murals were subject to enormous amounts of sunlight, fading dramatically as a result. The Harvard Art Museums conservation department and the MIT Media Lab collaborated to develop a unique restoration tactic: projection. Using a projected image to correct the murals’ faded imagery and fulfill them to their former glory, the Harvard Art Museums anticipates the exhibition will promote further scholarship on the Murals, as well as discussion about the technology used to restore the images. Featuring thirty-eight works, which includes the Holyoke Center’s five paintings, smaller studies, and a sixth painting that was left out of the original set of murals, the exhibition will allow for an expansive illustration of the commission. Finally, viewers can see the Murals as Rothko initially painted them, which will hopefully promote scholarship on the paintings that involves more than the conservation nightmare they became.

Professor Wassily Leontief, head of Harvard Society Fellows in 1960, was the first to suggest Rothko donate work to the university. Discussion within the Harvard Corporation members regarding Rothko’s commission ensued from fall 1961 to mid-1962. During this time, John Coolidge—director of the Fogg Museum at the time—was incredibly passionate about this proposal. Believing it important for the University to collect more American paintings, Coolidge wrote a letter to Harvard University’s then-president Nathan Pusey. Coolidge remarked on how Harvard should be “affirming [the University’s] interest in the highly influential American painting of our time,”; that Harvard University, an American university, should take pride in American art. Commissioning Rothko could not only bring more American art to the University, but would affirm their support in Abstract Expressionism’s world-renowned success.

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Both Leontief and Coolidge were major catalysts for Rothko’s work to be brought to the University. Without their attention to the project, it is possible the Harvard Murals would not exist. The Corporation was not enthusiastic about the commission. In Karyn Esielonis’s account of the Murals’ history, she speculates this is because of the project’s scope. Several members wanted only one large painting, rather than a series as Rothko suggested. They believed the public space should “bear the stamp of the institution...not the imprint of the painter.” Rothko’s proposed commission was neither “decorative” nor concretely representative of the school. While the proposal may have offended the Corporation members’ sensibilities, they nevertheless accepted the Murals in November 1962. Upon acceptance of the commission, the consensus was that the works were to remain together, unmoved from the Holyoke Center unless Rothko or his designated representatives allowed for removal. It was also understood Harvard could refuse the works once they were completed.

Once the work was installed, Esielonis notes Pusey thought the dinning room an “inappropriate place” for them, and even Rothko was unsatisfied with the results. A passive-aggressive tension seems to have pervaded Rothko’s commission, suggesting neither party felt wholly passionate about the project.

Upon completion, the Murals do not appear to have upheld Rothko’s vision, let alone Pusey’s endorsement of them. However, the Corporation did not decline the paintings, so there must have been some redeeming qualities. The Corporation’s negative attitude that existed from the beginning may have worn on the project, dampening the success of the commission. Such disappointment with the Murals probably contributed to the negligence that led to their deterioration, of which will be discussed later.

During Rothko’s Seagram Murals project (1958–59), a set of paintings also intended for a dining room setting, he discovered a want to envelop the viewer in an environment. This led to the Harvard Mural commission, his first installation in a setting other than a gallery, which in turn led to the development of paintings in the Rothko Chapel (1964–67) in Houston. While scholarship has been overlooked for the most part regarding the Harvard Murals, they were an intrinsic point in Rothko’s career, bridging the Seagram Murals and the Rothko Chapel, the two most important projects in his late career.

Rothko’s darker palette began with his paintings in 1957, creating imagery with similarly toned colors. Looking at No. 15 (1957, fig. 1), the colors are close in value, the only distinction between the rectangles and background border relies

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on green versus blue pigment. The edges of the rectangles are slightly feathered, an ambiguous container separating the green area from the blue. Had the painting been made in black and white tones, with no colored pigment, the imagery would be hard to distinguish, the viewer only observing slight variation in the built-up surface. Comparing this to one of Rothko’s earlier, classic paintings, No. 3/No. 13 (1949, fig. 2), it is obvious there is no clear contrast between the color areas in No. 15. Not only are the rectangles of color hardly distinguishable from the background, but they have simplified in nature; the rectangles in No. 15 take up more of the composition, as opposed to the rectangles’ variety of color and size in No. 3/No. 13. No. 15 is not trying to divide the rectangles from the background area in the way that No. 3/No. 13 draws attention to such differences. This evolution from emphasizing the figure-ground relationship through distinct colors to widening the border areas and minimalizing color differences clearly influenced the imagery in his mural commissions.

While Rothko was working on the darker paintings of 1957–1958, he was commissioned to produce the large paintings for the Seagram Building in New York. His new approach in composition transferred to the murals’ imagery, as seen in Red on Maroon Mural, Section 2 (1959, fig. 3). Again, the tone of the red and maroon colors are similar to what is seen in No. 15, the overall organization of color simplified to a slightly curved maroon square in the center, cushioned by a red border and encased by more maroon. The illusion that something has been cut out of the red color field, a window-like structure versus a maroon square painted on top of it, lies in the visual understanding that the maroon square and the maroon border are the same tone and level of saturation. Rather than the obviously layered colors in No. 3/No. 13—the rectangles show bits of red background underneath—Red on Maroon has fairly opaque color areas. The red hardly suggests a maroon background, despite the title’s description; instead, it appears inlaid, equal in saturation and surface to the maroon areas. This “inlaid” understanding of color is derived from Rothko’s trend toward similar color tones and wider border areas.

Such a window-like image in many of the Seagram Murals is suggested to have been influenced by Rothko’s trip to Europe in the summer of 1959, visiting Michelangelo’s Laurentian Library in Florence (figs. 4, 5). It is easy to see such translation of the Library’s architecture not only in the Seagram Murals, but also in the Harvard Murals that were produced shortly after. The repetition of the windows down the Library’s reading room and vestibule, combined with the

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placement of each window—“inlaid” in the wall—is surely mimicked in Rothko’s mural imagery. The placement of the Harvard Murals’ Panel One, Panel Two, and Panel Three (1963) altogether in the Holyoke Center dining room (fig. 6), suggest a similar movement seen in the Library. Each vertical maroon-red rectangle conveys a rhythm; Panel Two and Panel Three (figs. 7, 8) contain the same shape, and on the border of the two paintings is a gap of red of similar width. Equally spaced apart, the viewer can understand the vertical rectangles as a nod to architecture; such structure within the paintings’ composition begs for a comparison. When the other two paintings, Panel Five (fig. 9) and Panel Four (fig. 10), were placed on the opposite side of the dining room, a dialogue developed between the paintings.

The triptych’s movement, akin to the Library’s windows, is easily transferred to the other panels because they are similar in imagery. Combining the Murals with the dining room’s architecture, two walls constructed entirely out of windows, presents the idea that the room was quite literally built from windows.

Rothko successfully created paintings to build an environment, simultaneously responding to the architecture of the dining room and connecting it to the Laurentian Library. The window-like idea that burgeoned from the Seagram Murals became vital for Rothko to establish an environment in the Holyoke Center dining room. Because Rothko did not withdraw the paintings from the commission to have them placed elsewhere, it truly was his first enveloping environment.

Rothko’s linear progression from the 1957–8 paintings, to the Seagram Murals, to the Harvard Murals sets a perfect foundation for his Rothko Chapel murals.

Had Rothko not completed the Harvard Murals, it is possible he would not have accepted the Chapel commission. Moving directly from the Seagram Murals might have led Rothko to think using his paintings as architecture is not plausible. It allowed Rothko to visually see his paintings in a room as an environment, instead of the projected want that is associated with the Seagram Murals. Such affirmation of Rothko’s idea to engulf the viewer in his imagery is definitely evident in the Rothko Chapel murals.

While it is important to provide conjecture regarding the content of the Harvard Murals, it is equally relevant to explore the reasons for their deterioration.

It is no wonder scholars have hardly written about the Murals; not even a decade after the primary installation, the paintings had begun to fade drastically. Marjorie B. Cohn, editor for the Harvard Murals catalog, points out that however damaging the physical situation seemed to be for the paintings, it was still “intrinsic to their artistic integrity.” Not only were the Murals built specifically for the dining room,

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an extension of the architecture as per Rothko’s vision, but it was an ordeal to have them removed. Because the Harvard Corporation legally owned the works, it was their responsibility for costs of reparation and removal. Several years were spent trying to seek different locations for the Murals, but shuffling between the Corporation and the Rothko Foundation for approval, the paintings were exposed for fifteen years to the damaging light. A space was finally designed to store the murals, and were taken down in 1979 to be kept in dark storage.

The political ambiguity regarding the Harvard Murals’ removal from the Holyoke Center has made it hard to determine a specific culprit for the damage.

However, much research on Rothko’s technique and materials has allowed scientists and conservators to find precise reasons for the deteriorated paintings.

Elizabeth Jones, head conservator at the Fogg Museum during the Murals’ reign in the Holyoke Center, wrote series of notes assessing the damage of the murals.

Recording how sunlight-faded the works became over time, along with Rothko’s material choices, Jones’ notes were fundamental for later conservation research on the Murals. In Mark Rothko’s Harvard Murals catalog, Theresa Hensick and Paul M. Whitmore derived the primary reason for the paintings’ now blue appearance.

Rothko mixed ultramarine blue with Lithol red for a maroon color; the red faded, causing the paintings to “become more blue.”

The most drastic color change can be seen in Panel Five, the red image obviously a photograph of the painting before being damaged by light. Panel One (fig. 12) has the least noticeable amount of color change, while Panel Two, Panel Three, and Panel Four appear to be the same saturation of blue. Rothko’s inventive approach toward painting techniques probably led him to unknowingly use the Lithol red. Max Doerner, in The Materials of the Artist (1949), wrote on the emergence of this pigment, saying his experiments concerning Lithol red’s permanency varied. Its durability would have to be tested for every use, and was not guaranteed to be lightfast. Rothko probably did not know how the Lithol red pigment would react to light because it was a relatively new substitute for vermilion. .

Despite the varied deterioration levels of the Harvard Murals, they are treated with the same restoration method. Kodak Ektachrome slides of the Murals (1964) are used as a primary color reference for the projected image. However, the cyan dye in the emulsion for the Ektachrome slides is not stable, so when the slides were scanned, great care was taken to digitally restore them. Once the scanned images were doctored to represent the original colors on the Ektachrome slides, they were further adjusted for an overemphasis of red—an aesthetic choice made

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by the developers of the photographs. Final color alterations were made using the sixth painting as a physical reference. A digital camera then takes a picture of each painting’s current faded state, which is compared to the digitally restored image through a computer. Using MATLAB software, the conservators were able to create a custom program that calibrates the projected image. Instead of projecting an entire “correct” image onto the canvas, rather, the image is spottreated, certain areas being “more restored” by light than others. Not only does the program determine the color and amount of light each pixel requires to correct the paintings’ imagery, but also compensates for any keystone effect.

While using light to correct colors in work is not a new idea—the first dating to Lafontaine combining blue and white light to counter the yellowing varnish in J.M.W. Turner’s paintings—this projection method is the first of its kind to change a painting’s image so drastically. Unlike the blue and white light bandage for J.M.W. Turner’s paintings, the Murals’ projection is used only as a color corrective tool; the paintings need additional light to truly be seen. Such a large amount of light directed toward the Murals could aggressively flatten Rothko’s imagery. Instead of projecting the digitally corrected images of the Harvard Murals divorced from the canvases, the conservators did take great care to use the original paintings to “recreate” the imagerya, rather than just “display” it. It is important to see the physicality of the layers in each Rothko painting, which is why the original paintings are a necessary part of the exhibition’s installation.

While preserving the Harvard Murals’ imagery through paint would obliterate any sense of Rothko’s hand, the “pixel by pixel” correction of the Murals does not totally reconstruct it physically. The projected image can only offer a strict two-dimensional image, unlike the three-dimensional, object-like quality of the painting. Such digital projection of the image might ruin the purpose of seeing the Murals; Rothko created each painting through layer upon layer of paint. Regardless of color restoration and the integrity of composition through such revival, the point to viewing a Rothko is pared down to his technical use of paint. The reason these paintings need to be restored is because Rothko experimented so heavily with his techniques. It is important for the tactile qualities of Rothko’s paintings to be noticed, and the projected image could take away from this necessary insight.

While compromising the layers and creating a flattened image of his painting is a great concern, it does beg the question of whether the paintings should be displayed at all. Without the projection method, the Murals are in no state to be analyzed for scholarship and intent. Though the layers of paint are

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essential to every Rothko painting, a large portion of his intent, the imagery within each piece is just as critical. Rothko’s trend toward “inlaid” imagery certainly comes to mind when discussing the flatness of the projected image. Using the two colors of similar tone to achieve the “inlaid” effect is certainly a flattening method; the rectangles no longer float on top of the background, as is seen in Rothko’s classic paintings. Instead, the Harvard Murals achieve a new understanding of flatness, a butting-up next to each other. This “inlaid” imagery could play into the projected image’s qualities, the composition reinforcing the projection. This furthers the imagery’s flatness in a way Rothko could not have done with simply paint.

The exhibition also stirs up controversy about whether the paintings can rightfully be viewed in a gallery, versus in the Holyoke Center dining room.

Reinstalling the Murals outside of the Holyoke Center, alongside the studies and sixth painting Rothko made, certainly changes the frame of reference one views the Harvard Murals in. Rather than seeing the Murals strictly by themselves, without the smaller studies, portrays a specific message about the work. Adding the studies to the projection-corrected paintings obviously begins a conversation about the process Rothko used in his painting. The deteriorated Murals already speak to his process; in order to restore the paintings, it is necessary for the conservators to know how the paintings deteriorated, which in turn requires research on what materials and procedures were used to create them. This subversive message associated with the restored paintings, curated alongside the studies that visibly show Rothko playing with paint and imagery, unavoidably frames the Harvard Murals in a process-oriented perspective. Such a pointed message could inhibit conversation about the Murals, remarking only on the Harvard Art Museum’s brilliant save in conserving the paintings. Granted, the exhibition is not only to mark the restoration of the Harvard Murals, but also to recognize the opening of the Harvard Art Museums expansion. Hopefully the Harvard Murals can be seen in various exhibitions to facilitate different perspectives of the paintings.

This is not to say the Harvard Murals should remain in their faded state, installed for eternity in the space they were intended for. The exhibition does allow for an inclusive view of Rothko’s Harvard Murals for the first time, quite a treat as compared to the rare occurrences the paintings have been displayed otherwise. Such attention for these Murals could help them to stand on their own in scholarship, the faded quality no longer overshadowing their importance in Rothko’s career.

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Figure 1: Mark Rothko, No. 15, 1957

Figure 2: Mark Rothko, No. 3/No. 13, 1949

Figure 3: Mark Rothko, Red on Maroon Mural, Section Two, part of Seagram Murals, 1959

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Figure 4 and 5: Michelangelo, Laurentian Library reading room and vestibule, Florence, Italy

Figure 6: Holyoke Center dining room, from left to right: Panel One, Panel Two, Panel Three

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Figure 7: from top to bottom: Mark Rothko, Panel Two, 1963 and Panel Two in 1988

Figure 8: from left to right: Mark Rothko, Panel Three, 1963 and Panel Three in 1988

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Figure 9: from left to right: Mark Rothko, Panel Five, 1963 and Panel Five in 1988

Figure 10: from top to bottom: Mark Rothko, Panel Four,1963 and Panel Four in 1988

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Figure 11: Holyoke Center penthouse plans

Figure 12: from left to right: Mark Rothko, Panel One, 1963 and Panel One, 1988

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PAINTING AND CREATIVE WRITING Banisters The miscellaneous drawer in the corner of the kitchen has been leaking this century.

It has made the house into a collection of one woman’s fondness for certain things.

We know she loved horses.

That the reason she lived in a house that she knew would be a museum.

She treated the banisters with care, as she suspected they might be capable of recounting their own myths.

The house was a museum when she was still alive, so we might imagine there are no disquieted voices here—but she knew that the scrapes that we now unknowing attribute to reconstruction were actually the result of a dead foal trying to sit in an armchair after the servants had done their last chores and the clock in the main hall was nearly stuck at the witching hour for an hour.

She loved her horses, and they were fine until the city started closing in on them. She was fine with living in a museum for a short time because she was outside as often as possible, far from the pretty objects that she reckoned would one day misrepresent the era—an era whose density and potency were fluctuating before her very eyes.

But was she paying attention?

A foal’s limbs do not generally prefer armchairs.

If we lean in too closely to the walls, maybe we feel our earlobes tugged.

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Could it be from the fingers of the maid who died in childbirth when no one was looking trying to get us our hairs to perk up?

Would her first meeting with skin that was not her own or of her kin have been in a dark corner near that witching hour, after the chores, and with someone who was so quiet that their nakedness seemed invisible?

Do stray hairs disappear over time, or do they bind with the residue of wallpaper glue from a facade long gone?

It seems high ceilings invite the dust made of bits of old epidermis upward, and the mirrors don’t tell the secrets of faces checking to make certain that nothing has changed.

In the attic we find photographs and clothing of men and women who never lived here.

We imagine that the century blanketed them with similar (enough) fates— it would seem they are all in the ground.

Did the lady ever conjure imaginary children?

She might have thought about them while sipping in the sun room after church, when she had been scheduled to get her photograph taken. Her father’s voice popped into her head and was admonishing her about not having any children that were not four-legged.

The photographer’s cigar smoke floated in front of the lens, she blinked when the exposure took her.

When we walk slowly near the pantry we can almost taste her favorite dish.

The one that she thought helped her think while she chewed.

Something with a little twist of something something.

If we look closely at the images of her young second cousins

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(the ones who ran through the halls wildly when the leading lady’s father was trying to make a grandiose holiday toast) sleeping soundly in their post-mortem attire over their satin trimmed beds, do we think of our imaginary children?

This is only one of the modern contributions—when we gift the structure with materials of the present, do we hear an echo of resistance?

Whose memories are these, could we be littering the walls of someone’s memory with false ghostly dresses?

Invisible fondness cannot recollect and retell before a group of people separated by time and a lack of illusion.

We need the essential version, the one that the makings of banisters can remember.

If there are no more houses to be built, there are no more breathing requiems. This is why I hope when I throw my shadow against the walls of this house it sticks, as a house removed from the present marks a life that might be resolved.

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PHOTOGRAPHY AND ART HISTORY Harold Rosenberg, Abstract Expressionism, and the Post-War Attitude towards Existentialism in the United States One of the greatest shifts the art world has ever experienced occurred in the aftermath of World War II. Fraught with anxiety and a search for meaning in an existence where horrors such as the Holocaust were allowed to occur, existentialist philosophy took hold in the minds of many artists and thinkers across Europe.

At the same time, the postwar period saw the rise of the United States as a new world superpower, and with it, the new center of the art world. In this paper, I will argue that as the existentialists of the 1940s and ‘50s were searching for a new framework to categorize human existence, the Abstract Expressionists of the New York School were creating a new style of art in the United States. However visually unique in style and approach the Abstract Expressionist movement may seem, it shares an undeniable ideological link with existentialist thought that can be understood as a physical and creative reaction to the social anxieties of the epoch. During a time when the United States was attempting to disassociate with Europe, renowned American art critic Harold Rosenberg connected the European existentialist philosophy with abstract expressionist painting. However, time has allowed distance from this way of thinking, and the linkage between existentialism and Abstract Expressionism is, I think, far too strong to dismiss.

Existentialism in Europe Existentialism is a philosophy of existence. It was formed through several generations of writers and thinkers—namely Søren Kierkegaard, Martin Heidegger, and Jean-Paul Sartre—and was not acknowledged as a cohesive movement until the twentieth century. Although only Sartre eventually embraced the title of “existentialist,” together they championed general themes such as individual freedom, choice, authenticity, rebellion, and alienation. In Existentialism is a Humanism, one of his most well-known pieces of writing, Sartre stated that

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“Man is condemned to be free… because once cast into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.”2 This is the basis of existentialist thought; that the only way to gain knowledge and understanding is through experience, that is, through action. Individuality is formed through self-definition and achievement. Thus, the meaning of existence is formed throughout an individual’s life by their decisions and actions. However, this responsibility of freedom is also a great source of anxiety which can be found in the postwar mood of Europe and the United States.

The rise of existentialism in postwar Europe is highly appropriate, as it is often seen as a disenchanted response to the terrors of humanity that are too horrific to have been sanctioned by God. Existentialism acknowledges that there are disturbing things in life, especially death, and that no amount of knowledge is enough to understand them. When meaning cannot be achieved through a higher power, one must take their life into their own hands and decide for themselves what they will be. European artists, including Jean Dubuffet, Boris Taslitzky, Wols, and Alberto Giacometti, flocked to these ideas amidst the aftershock of the war.

During the mid-late 1940s and ‘50s, the European painters associated with existentialism were depicting gruesome subject matter directly reflecting the horrors of the war; the Holocaust, destruction, and the isolation felt after their routine way of life was upended. Before the war, the city of Paris shone as the Western capital. Once occupied, Paris became a meek façade of the rich cultural and artistic life that had previously thrived there. Amidst the tragedy and destruction of a physical battleground, Paris was unable to recover. The artwork that was still being produced in Paris during the Occupation and after the Liberation reflected the experiences of war and were filled with violence, death, and despair. The 1944 Salon d’Automne featured Picasso’s first retrospective of works made during the war, his form of passive resistance during the Occupation. The works were not shocking in their subject matter, like his politically charged ode to the Spanish Revolution, Guernica of 1937, or The Charnel House (fig. 1) painted only a year later in 1945. Instead, Picasso’s portraits and still-lifes exude a haunting intensity that caused such an uproar that some canvases were slashed by visitors.3 There were many other artists who rose to prominence during and after the war. In his 1945 painting, The Small Camp, Buchenwald, Boris Taslitzky depicts the gruesome conditions within the concentration camps of Europe.

There is little differentiation between the dying and dead as they sort through piles of bodies under the instruction of a Nazi officer (fig. 2). View of Paris, Life of Pleasure, painted in 1944 by Jean Dubuffet, is an ironic reference to the poor

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façade of Paris during Occupation (fig. 3). These paintings conveyed the reality of what artists saw as a result of the war in Europe. It is no wonder that American critic Clement Greenberg referred to existentialists—particularly Sartre—as having “world-hating attitudes”4 and stated that the movement “consign[ed] all of humanity, regardless of status or function, to contempt and despair.”5 Naturally, Greenberg would have been appalled at the suggestion of such a condescending tone existing in American artworks. However, he admitted that the circumstances were understandably influential, stating that “Dubuffet’s pessimism derives from an experience antedating and underlying that of the most recent history.”6 Despite his qualms with existentialism, Greenberg reconciled that it was appropriate for the historical mood and “may make up in art for what it lacks as a complete philosophy.”7 The Postwar National Mood in the United States To fully understand how and why existentialism applies to the artists working in the United States, a brief overview of the postwar social and political situation is necessary. While it is obvious that those in Europe had witnessed enough devastation to warrant deep questioning of existence, war had not physically touched the United States. Its cities remained intact; genocide held no threat to those on U.S. soil. Yet, the war produced a social, political, and economic impact on a world-wide scale, tipping suddenly in favor of the United States. Regardless of how apparent it was to them at the time, this drastic change had an impressive and immediate impact on the New York School artists, and played a major role in the evolution of Abstract Expressionist art.8 The shift of the Western artistic capital from Paris to New York lead to opportunities previously unthinkable for American artists, yet also created an atmosphere of intense anxiety which prevailed for several decades. The United States had suddenly become the leading world superpower, ushering in a new era of economic and political influence. The critical artistic mindset of the time mirrored the national political and social conscious. In this newfound status, there was a general feeling of national and artistic superiority. Art critics such as Clement Greenberg heralded Abstract Expressionism as the most superior form of artmaking. As Greenberg explained in his 1955 essay, “American-Type Painting”: “Perhaps it is another symptom of this same state of affairs that Paris should be losing its monopoly on the fate of painting. By no one, in recent years, have that art’s expendable conventions been attacked more directly or more sustained than

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by a group of artists who came to notice in New York during and shortly after the war.”9 Greenberg focused entirely on Abstract Expressionism as the “purest” form of art due to its lack of outside influences from literature, as he was a strong believer in medium specificity. 10 He triumphed abstract expressionistic painting for its flatness and successful “escape from ideas.”11 In addition to his ideas on abstract painting, he also believed that the “essence” of Modern Art lies in a discipline’s ability to self-criticize from within to better establish itself.12 By ignoring any current social context or considerations, his interpretation of Abstract Expressionist art severely narrowed the way in which the work could be read, particularly through a philosophy such as existentialism. It did, however, work much to the advantage of those who, like Greenberg, wanted Abstract Expressionism to be equated with the achievements of postwar America.

When Greenberg proudly declared that New York had replaced Paris as the cultural and artistic center of the Western world, Europe was too economically and politically weak to protest. However, despite the general physical safety of the country throughout the war and its new comfortable position of power, the United States was living in the shadow of the atomic bomb. The imminent threat of nuclear doom loomed over the country, ushering in the Cold War. Having just liberated Europe from the grips of evil, the United States looked inward for anything that could act as a symbolic assertion of its newfound status, representing the freedom it exuded throughout the world. Abstract Expressionism lay ripe with possibility for interpretation, and unassumingly became the nationalistic representation of freedom through artistic expression used on a global level of influence. The obvious individuality of the mark-making and rebelliousness against the traditions of European painting conveniently supported the American image.13 Interestingly, these same qualities are key factors in connecting the work to existentialist philosophy, though their application is quite different.

While postwar America was busy trying to fill its new shoes, the country was also experiencing a social revolution of traditional gender roles and sexual identity. During the war, women were required to take up the jobs and responsibilities men left to them while fighting abroad. Upon their return, the men faced an unexpected generation of empowered women.14 Though society tried to settle back into its comfortable patriarchal norm, the displacement was not resolved. Women now had access to roles that were previously unachievable.

Similarly, the Abstract Expressionists saw women like Helen Frankenthaler, Grace Hartigan, and Lee Krasner rise to prominence, much to the chagrin of their male

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counterparts. The presence of women was a clear source of anxiety for male artists, who expressed their fears by reaffirming their masculine identity in painting.15 Up until the postwar period, American painting was largely considered to be merely a result of European influence. This caused critics such as Greenberg to distinguish American works by attempting to tell the history of Modern art as an inevitable path towards the new American painting. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Rosenberg did not try to deny the connection of American painters to European works, but recognized the new abstract painting as an emergence and divergence from it. This aligns with his embracing of contemporary European philosophical ideals, such as existentialism, and his willingness to apply it to painting in the United States. Rosenberg’s unique historical perspective is most evident in his 1954 essay “Parable of American Painting,” in which he discusses the history of American “Coonskinism,” in relation to European painting. This term describes the inimitably American way of creating art without referencing any previously existing tradition or method. The essay explores his perspective on why for so long American painting seemed to be “elsewhere”—and why in 1950 it was suddenly, for the first time, present. In an insightful statement, Rosenberg notes that “the issue is not that American painting is influenced by Europe; the painting of all European countries has also been influenced.”16 Instead, the issue stems from the lack of history of fine art in the United States and its resistance to following the primary distinguishing qualities that consistently made European masters so successful. The few American artists who reached some level of recognition achieved it against the prevailing style. Their individual artistic innovations were unable to carry significant influence into the future. Each hopeful rising style was soon replaced by the next, moving too quickly to take hold long enough to change the course of art. World War II allowed the United States the time it needed to gain momentum over Europe, which was stagnating “for deeper reasons than transportation difficulties,”17 and American artists were able to take charge of the “antiStyle” in art. For the first time in history, American “Coonskinism” had become the prevalent style of painting not only in America, but in Europe as well.

All of these sources of postwar anxiety acted as further cause for the New York School artists to search for answers in the ideas present in existentialist philosophy. Artists were faced with a universal question: what to paint? Harold Rosenberg wrote that Modern Art arose “from the conviction that the forms of Western culture, including its art forms, have permanently collapsed.”18 Artists had to find new ways to convey their feelings and create a unique viewer experience.

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Painter Barnett Newman expressed this sentiment in a 1966 televised interview with Alan Solomon, saying that after the war “the crisis moved around the problem of what I can really paint.”19 Continuing the European tradition of depicting subject matter found in life was no longer enough in the wake of such an extreme loss and re-assigning of identity. It is from this search for subject that the New York School Abstract Expressionists were born. The realization was not what to paint, but just to paint. “It is this aggravated situation that Action painting has confronted with its techniques of evoking the present.”20 Harold Rosenberg and Action Painting The solution of “action painting,” so labeled by Harold Rosenberg in his 1952 essay “The American Action Painters,” has come to represent the strongest connection between the Abstract Expressionists and existentialism. Rosenberg initially drafted “The American Action Painters” for the French journal Les Temps Modernes as an explanation to the French of what was happening in American art.21 Of course he would then frame it within a contemporary context that they would understand—that of existentialist philosophy, which occupied much of the art occurring in France at the time. Rosenberg wanted them to understand and appreciate American art as their own, while simultaneously acknowledging its differences and innovations from what was happening in Europe. Although Rosenberg did not completely agree with Sartre regarding minute facets and ideas concerning existentialism, his general affiliation with the philosophy is undeniable, and it seeps naturally into his criticisms and writings regarding art. Ironically, the essay never made it into the French journal, and was instead published in the December 1952 issue of Art News. It has since come to be known as Rosenberg’s definitive critical writing on the Abstract Expressionists.

In “The American Action Painters,” Rosenberg attempts to define the new American painting being made at the time, and what constitutes “Modern Art”.

He begins with the question of distinguishing the art being made in America from that in Europe, asking “Is this the usual catching up of American with European art forms? Or is something new being created?”22 He argues that while the new ‘abstract’ art may at first appear to be related to the traditional idea of Modern Art that originates from what had been made in Paris in the recent decades, “the work of some painters has separated itself from the rest by a consciousness of a function for painting different from that of the earlier ‘abstractionists’.”23 These painters—the “Abstract Expressionists”—viewed the canvas as “an arena in

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which to act,” a place not for pictorial representation, but to depict an event. 24 The image on the canvas was the result of the encounter between the artists and their materials. Rosenberg openly rejects Greenberg’s idea of “pure art,” saying that pictorial representation in painting was not eliminated to focus further on aesthetic formalities, but “so that nothing would get in the way of the act of painting.”25 It is at this point in the essay that Rosenberg’s connection to existentialist philosophy becomes most pronounced. His emphasis on the “event” and action of painting as the defining moment of a modern abstract painter’s identity directly corresponds to the fundamental theory of existentialist thought. Rosenberg explains: “The act-painting is of the same metaphysical substance as the artist’s existence. The new painting has broken down every distinction between art and life.”26 By deciding to act upon the canvas with no pre-determined pictorial depiction, the artist was liberating himself from the European aesthetic history of art, the ever-pressing social anxieties of postwar America, and the perceived moral obligations of an artist creating in the epoch. The artist “gesticulated upon the canvas and watched for what each novelty would declare him and his art to be.”27 With each work of art, the new painters were rebelling against all that reality had given them until they reached the canvas. The canvas was not a place to reflect the world, not even to find a solution to the world—it was a world.

In this world, the artist hoped to discover a reflection of “the true image of his identity”28 by recognizing his exhaustive anxieties and pushing them aside. These so-called “personal revolts,”29 according to Rosenberg, demonstrate the rebellious attitude inherent in individualistic focus, particularly in what was considered to be following the canon of “Modern Art.” Rosenberg argues that this new attitude towards painting suggests what Modern Art truly is; it constituted anything relevant to the time, as long as it was new to someone.

Ironically, the “perpetual doubt”30 of working through pure action with no final image envisioned among the infinite possibility of results was a tortuous source of anxiety for the painters. This inescapable loop, this Sartrean condemnation to freedom, resulted in the artist never finding satisfaction or resolution in any result upon the canvas. This search was the artist’s driving force, and thus Rosenberg says “he must exercise in himself a constant No.”31 This idea can be found nearly a hundred years earlier in the writing of Herman Melville, an American precursor to the absurd literature written in conjunction with existentialist philosophy in the 1960s. In a letter to Nathaniel Hawthorne, Melville wrote of his friend; “He says “NO!” in thunder… all men who say no—why, they are in the happy condition

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of the judicious unencumbered travellers ... they cross the frontiers into Eternity with nothing but a carpet-bag—that is to say, the Ego.”32 Melville’s “NO!” is quite the same as Rosenberg’s—both are requiring the artists they support to be selfassertive and honest regarding their creative situations. It is only through this “No” that they can achieve any result, while still acknowledging the infinite possibilities the result could hold.

The Irascibles It is interesting that the Abstract Expressionists are so easily referred to as a group, yet as practitioners of highly individualistic, self-driven art-making, they continually resisted being put together as such. In his essay, Rosenberg pointedly states that “This new painting does not constitute a School…In the American vanguard the works…belong not to the art but to the individual artists. What they think in common is represented only by what they do separately.”33 Contrary to the canon of art history, particularly in comparison to European movements from the past few decades such as the Surrealists and Dadaists, the Abstract Expressionists rejected being labeled as a cohesive group. This is exemplified by the artists’ reaction to the infamous “Irascibles” feature in the January 1951 issue of Life Magazine. The article was written in response to a letter published in The New York Times undersigned by eighteen painters and ten sculptors angrily addressing the Museum of Modern Art in opposition to the exhibition American Painting Today-1950. 34 The accompanying photograph by Nina Leen features fifteen of the painters, each positioned separately with no relation to each other (fig. 4). This is clearly not a “School” of like-minded painters; these are individuals.

The expressions range from blank to grimacing, and one gets a sense of reluctant momentary cooperation from the many poised cigarettes resting in the men’s hands. While the artists agreed to disagree with MoMA, they were in no way ready to be viewed as a unified artistic group. However, the Life feature in particular helped to kindly serve many of the artists, particularly Jackson Pollock. The letter was successful in getting MoMA to recognize what was from then on known as the Abstract Expressionists—in the same year, Alfred Barr selected Arshile Gorky, Willem de Kooning, and Jackson Pollock to represent the United States at the American pavilion of the 25th Venice Biennale, bringing them an international level of attention.35 While it is obvious throughout “The American Action Painters” that Rosenberg is conveying existentialist ideas, he is not trying to insinuate that the new painters are existentialists. In fact, he recognizes that they are not; “Philosophy

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is not popular among American painters.”36 Rosenberg is simply applying a method of thinking that is relevant to the way in which painters were working in order to justify his point.

The Mythic Man of Action

No specific artists are mentioned in “The American Action Painters,” leaving many to wonder what initially inspired Rosenberg’s theory. Art historian Barbara Rose argued in her essay “Namuth’s Photographs and the Pollock Myth”37 that Rosenberg was not describing painting, but rather the black-andwhite photographs and documentary footage Hans Namuth made of Jackson Pollock painting in the early ‘50s. Interestingly, Pollock would not have agreed to be the epitome of action painting, as he expressly stated that for him, “technique is just a means for arriving at a statement.”38 Despite his personal declarations, these photographs and film recordings of Pollock provides the best support for Rosenberg’s idea of “action painting.”

Perhaps the most dynamic photographs taken of Pollock depict him in the act of painting Lavender Mist from 1950. These iconic images depict Pollock from varying angles while he propels the paint across the canvas upon the floor. In some instances, he even steps onto the canvas (fig. 5) or leans on it (fig. 6). In all of the photographs, he is clearly absorbed by the act of painting. Pollock’s face is one of intense determination and focus while his gaze follows the paint-marks as they fall from his brush. In many photographs his arm, brush, and the falling paint are blurred, emphasizing Pollock’s movement and act of painting, rather than the work of art itself. When seen as a contact sheet, the images convey motion not only from within, but as an overall sequence of acts, like the individual frames in a film (fig. 7). These moments were not studied or planned; through their spontaneity, they demonstrate Pollock’s fully engrossed state and physical involvement in the process of painting. Together, these photographs depict the mythic “Man of Action,”39 perfectly exemplified in the reluctant hero Pollock.

In addition to taking many photographs of Pollock, Namuth culminated their partnership in two documentary films made in 1950. The first is a black-andwhite study of Pollock as he paints; quite literally his photographs in motion. As the footage plays, Pollock’s recorded voice acts as an artist statement, declaring to the world the way his work is made. The second film is the quintessential documentation of Pollock’s process, featuring him painting on glass with a variety of added materials as Namuth films from below. In this color film, the viewer

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is literally given the perspective of the canvas. As Pollock arranges objects and pours paint, our vision of the artist and brilliant blue sky are further obscured through the glass (fig. 8). Though this process purportedly caused Pollock’s return to alcoholism, its benefits for Rosenberg’s essay are evident. In no other instance is the sense of an artist’s involvement with the act of painting conveyed so clearly.

Rosenberg wrote that “The test of any of the new paintings is its seriousness— and the test of its seriousness is the degree to which the act on the canvas is an extension of the artist’s total effort to make over his experience.”40 This footage represents one of the most innovative attempts to convey to viewers the artist’s experience and provide insight into the creative process, making Pollock a very serious and successful artist.

Over a decade after Pollock’s untimely death in 1956, Rosenberg published the essay “The Mythic Act,” describing his work in relation to action painting. He expands upon Pollock’s firm claim that “there is no accident”41 in his work, saying that “The action of the artist thus blends into the ‘activity’ of the canvas in a kind of feedback process that excludes error.”42 Rosenberg also uses Namuth’s photographs to emphasize the physicality of Pollock’s painting process, comparing his movement and gesticulation to that of dancing, stating that “His consciousness is directed not towards an effect determined by notions of good painting but toward the protraction and intensification of the doing itself.”43 Pollock himself said that when he was painting, he was literally “in” the canvas, implying that through his painting he was creating his identity. 44 Aside from his obvious association with the defining physical act, Pollock was also an artistic bad-boy, renouncing the European tradition of painting to make anew the legacy of American painting. He did not work from preliminary sketches, laid his un-stretched canvas on the floor, incorporated objects such as his cigarettes and dirt, threw the paint, and used unconventional means such as sticks to apply it to the canvas.45 Additionally, Pollock is known for his struggles with alcoholism, social etiquette, and communication. He was undoubtedly a man who fully experienced the anxieties of life, and found his freedom in the canvas.

Regardless of Pollock’s personal affiliations, it is clear that he represents both Rosenberg’s ideal action painter and the existentialist ideas exemplified in Abstract Expressionism.

I have argued that existentialist philosophy is directly relevant not only to the European postwar artists who fully embraced it at the time, but also to their overseas contemporaries in the United States who were, in fact, leading the artistic

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scene in the ‘50s and ‘60s. Through the critical writings of Harold Rosenberg and exemplified in the documented practice of Jackson Pollock, “action painting” is the existential response to the many anxieties that plagued the American conscious during the Cold War. Though other critics such as Clement Greenberg chose to ignore the social context surrounding the Abstract Expressionists, Rosenberg considers a larger perspective for art-making by including his philosophical ideals, allowing for a more complete understanding of this revolutionary time in art history.

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Figure 1: Pablo Picasso, The Charnel House, 1945, Oil and charcoal on canvas. Museum of Modern Art, NY.

Figure 2: Boris Taslitzky, The Small Camp, Buchenwald, 1945, Oil on canvas. Muse National d’Art Modern, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris.

Figure 3: Jean Dubuffet, View of Paris, Life of Pleasure, February 1944, Oil on canvas. Private collection.

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Figure 4: Nina Leen, November 24, 1950.

Figure 5: Hans Namuth, 1950.

Figure 6: Hans Namuth, 1950.

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Figure 7: Hans Namuth, 1950.

Figure 8: Still from Pollock Painting, Hans Namuth, 1951.

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Endnotes 2 Jean-Paul Sartre, Existentialism is a Humanism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 29.

3 Paris Post-War: Art and Existentialism 1945-55, Tate Modern (London: Tate Gallery Publications, 1993), 27.

4 Clement Greenberg, “Jean Dubuffet and French Existentialism,” in The Collected Essays and Criticism, ed. John O’Brian, Vol. 2:4 (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1993), 91.

5 Ibid, 92.

6 Ibid, 91.

7 Ibid, 92.

8 For more information on how the Cold War influenced the New York School, see Serge Guilbaut, How New York Stole the Idea of Modern Art: Abstract Expressionism, Freedom, and the Cold War, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983).

9 Clement Greenberg, “American-Type Painting,” in Art and Culture: Critical Essays (Boston: Beacon Press, 1961), 209.

10 Clement Greenberg, “Towards a Newer Laocoön,” in The Collected Essays and Criticism, ed. John O’Brian, Vol. 1:4 (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1993), 32.

11 Ibid, 28.

12 Clement Greenberg, “Modernist Painting,” in The Collected Essays and Criticism, ed. John O’Brian, Vol. 4:4 (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1993), 85.

13 For more information on the use of Abstract Expressionism as propaganda during the Cold War, see Max Kozloff, “American Painting during the Cold War,” in Pollock and After: the Critical Debate, ed. Francis Frascina, 2nd ed. (New York: Routledge Press, 1985), 130-146; and Eva Cockcroft, “Abstract Expressionism, Weapon of the Cold War,” in Pollock and After: the Critical Debate, ed. Francis Frascina, 2nd ed. (New York: Routledge Press, 1985), 147-154.

14 Lisa Saltzman, “Reconsidering the Stain: On Gender, Identity, and New York School Painting,” in Reading Abstract Expressionism: Context and Critique, ed. Ellen Landau (New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 2005), 562.

15 Marcia Brennan, “Fragmented Bodies and Canonical Nudes: Painting and Reading de Kooning’s Woman Series,” in Modernism’s Masculine Subjects: Matisse, the New York School, and Post-Painterly Abstraction (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2004), 5354.

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16 Harold Rosenberg, “Parable of American Painting,” in The Tradition of the New (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1959), 15.

17 Ibid, 21.

18 Harold Rosenberg, “The Concept of Action in Painting,” The New Yorker (May 25, 1968), reproduced in Rosenberg, Artworks and Packages (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1982), 214.

19 Barnett Newman, quoted in Mark Godfrey, “Barnett Newman’s Stations and the Memory of the Holocaust,” October 108 (Spring 2004), 37.

20 Rosenberg, “The Concept of Action in Painting,” 219.

21 Christina Noel Robbins, “Harold Rosenberg on the Character of Action,” Oxford Art Journal 35, no. 2 (2012) : 202.

22 Harold Rosenberg, “The American Action Painters,” Art News 51, no. 8 (December, 1952), 22.

23 Ibid.

24 Ibid.

25 Ibid, 23.

26 Ibid.

27 Ibid, 48.

28 Ibid.

29 Ibid.

30 Irving Sandler, “Clement Greenberg and Harold Rosenberg: Convergences and Divergences,” in Action/Abstraction: Pollock, de Kooning, and American Art, 1940-1976, ed. Norman L. Kleeblatt, 119-133. The Jewish Museum, New York (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2008), 127.

31 Rosenberg, “The American Action Painters,” 48.

32 Julian Hawthorne, Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife: A Biography, vol.

1:2 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1884), 338.

33 Rosenberg, “The American Action Painters,” 22.

34 Bernard Harper Friedman, ““Irascibles”: a split second in art history,” Arts Magazine 53, (November 1978), n.p.

35 Mark Stevens and Annalyn Swan, de Kooning: An American Master (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2004), 306.

36 Rosenberg, “The American Action Painters,” 48.

37 Barbara Rose, “Namuth’s Photographs and the Pollock Myth,” in Pollock Painting (New York: Agrinde Publications, 1980), n.p.

38 Jackson Pollock, Pollock Painting, YouTube, Directed by Hans Namuth, 1951.

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39 Rose, “Namuth’s Photographs and the Pollock Myth,” n.p.

40 Rosenberg, “The American Action Painters,” 48.

41 Jackson Pollock, Pollock Painting.

42 Harold Rosenberg, “The Mythic Act,” The New Yorker (May 6, 1967), reproduced in Rosenberg, Artworks and Packages (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1982), 58.

43 Ibid, 62.

44 Jackson Pollock, Pollock Painting.

45 For more on Pollock’s untraditional art-making techniques and their effects, see Rosalind E. Krauss, “The Crisis of the Easel Picture,” in Jackson Pollock: New Approaches, ed. Kirk Varnedoe and Pepe Karmel, Museum of Modern Art, New York (New York: Harry Abrams, Inc.: 2000).

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PAINTING AND ART HISTORY The Madonna and Child through Time

The Madonna and Child is an icon that has truly stood the test of time.

Depictions of the Madonna have been widely circulated from as early as the 5th century after being sanctioned by the Council of Ephesus in 431 AD and she has continued to be a subject in art since its conception (Khodr). The first recorded documentation of her image is placed in the catacombs of Rome, in the cemetery of Priscilla (Fig. 1). It could be said that the iconic image originated even earlier as it is comparable to Isis, the mother figure in Egyptian mythology, who is often depicted nursing her son Horus (Fig. 2). Depictions of the Madonna and Child reflect changing styles of art, as well as changes in the interpretation of religion, and even lifestyles of the time at hand. The reason that it may be such an intriguing concept is due in part to its empathy. All religions and cultures can identify with a mother and child. It is not just an image the Virgin and Christ child but a representation of tenderness, love and sacrifice.

The Madonna is referred to as the Theotokos in Greek and Byzantine terminology (Khodr). The Madonna became a crucial central figure to Byzantine spirituality and was also named the protectress of Constantinople, their capitol city. Even after the fall of the Byzantine Empire and the ransacking of Constantinople, caused in most part by the crusades, the Madonna did not fade into obscurity. In fact she becomes more venerated over the next centuries. Representations of the Madonna and Child in Byzantine art are very straightforward (Fig. 3). These images come off as sterile and cold to the modern viewer. The figures are almost always frontal and emotionless. The Madonna is seen as a throne to the Christ child, this type is referred to as Sedes Sapientiae, or Throne of Wisdom (Schuon). Painted works on this subject show the figures in entirely gold leafed backgrounds, which have been punched to make glowing celestial crowns. Many of these sculptural representations also served as reliquaries for holy objects, such as the Auvergne Madonna (Fig. 4).

The 12th and 13th centuries brought even more attention to the Madonna

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as a result of the writings of theologian Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, his texts regaled her as “bride of the song of songs in the Old Testament” (Metropolitan).

In 1311 Duccio di Buoninsegna completed his Maestà (Fig. 5) and in June it was accompanied by nearly the entire population of Siena where it was moved to the Duomo and sits in situ today (Gasparini). This is one of the first noted paintings to use chiaroscuro and it changes the artistic world forever. This Gothic style of art brings tenderness to the Madonna and Child. These representations begin to show the two figures interacting. The Virgin may look to the Christ child whose fingers are held in a sign of blessing to the viewer, or the Christ child will be grazing the Madonna’s cheek while she looks to the viewer, drawing their attention back to Christ. With this change in representation she is no longer a throne but truly a caregiver, not only to Christ, but to the world. Personal devotion images were also produced in this time. Wealthier people began to have their own chapels and places of worship in their homes which created a demand for smaller paintings and sculptures, not just the large altarpieces that took entire workshops to complete.

The Madonna had acquired indentifying features by this time, such as a blue robe to represent not only purity but royalty. The symbolism also begins to supersede the images around this time. No image of the Virgin would be complete without a lily, representing purity but her sacrifice as well. Roses are also an attribute of the Madonna and Christ because the thorns on the rose foreshadow Christ’s ultimate sacrifice on the cross. In Northern Europe artists began to experiment with oil paints and created glorious masterpieces while making more innovative strides in artistic development. The paintings of the Madonna by Van Eyck show a young girl with delicate idealized features draped in heavy fabric lined in gold and pearls, often with a Latin inscription (Figs.

6-9). She wears an oversized bejeweled gold crown. Every detail is rendered acutely, the texture of the fabrics and metals, down to reflections in glass and little tiny landscapes in the background that could only have been painted with single hair brushes. It became common at this time to dress the Virgin as the true Queen of Heaven and the trend continued into the Renaissance depictions.

The Madonna and Child are used to their full advantage at this time.

The Virgin is also believed to prevent against the plague so her image became even more prevalent during the renaissance. A Virgin and Child from 1455 by Hayne de Bruxelles in the Nelson-Atkins Museum shows the two figures with an inscription at the bottom and a small sketch of a Turkey (Fig. 10). The museum

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label indicates that this image was commissioned to promote nationalism during a war with the Turks. The Madonna has become extremely dynamic. She does not just represent a mother, or a religious figure, she can stand in many contexts to represent what is needed.

In this time the Roman Catholic Church gained immense power throughout Europe. The Vatican began to charge indulgences to pay for their own extravagant desires. When Martin Luther (Fig. 11) posted his theses he changed religion as we know it. This act also had a tremendous impact on art, religious and secular. Luther’s doctrine claimed, among other things, that the Catholic Church put too much emphasis on the worship of the images of saints and the Madonna, as well as the alleged miraculous images, such as Black Madonna of Częstochowa, which had developed cult followings (Fig. 12). Luther and others claimed that the representations had become too frivolous or sumptuous and were losing their basis in connecting the viewer to God and his teachings.

The viewers focus should be on the biblical story represented and not on the exposed breast of the Madonna (Fig. 13), or the shocking and depraved nudes

by Michelangelo covering the recently completed Last Judgment scene in the Sistine Chapel. Images of the Madonna and Saints were destroyed throughout Europe. Paintings, sculptures, reliquaries and illuminated manuscripts were desecrated and burnt while other objects were melted down to reuse the precious metals and gemstones (Fig. 14). Few works of art were saved, most of which are private devotional pieces. The effects of this movement, not only on art and religion, but in people’s daily lives, were extraordinary.

This did not effectively end commissions for religious artwork or the belief that some images held the capability to perform miracles. Many people still commissioned personal devotion pieces. The Catholic Church declared a Counter Reformation after much debate throughout the Council of Trent (15451563). The pope employed great artists, such as Bernini to excite the people about the Roman Catholic Church through art and architecture once again. Baroque representations of the Madonna and Child become more humble, the Madonna is not as glorious as she was traditionally represented in the Renaissance, she no longer wears a weighty crown or a jeweled robe but she is modestly draped in fabric and has a more homely appearance (Fig. 15). Though she does retain her signature blue robe and red dress and is still often accompanied by lilies.

The Virgin and Child are presented with many other people, and it eventually becomes rare to have a work of just the Madonna and Child. They are now

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surrounded by other saints, and patrons have been moved into the same picture plane as the Holy figures. Even commoners are shown receiving blessing from the Christ child (Fig. 16).

Around the mid nineteenth century art undergoes thrilling changes with impressionistic artwork. Artists are no longer confined to the long held traditions of painting and sculpture. Art becomes what we know it as today, an expression of the artist, a commentary on life or simply aesthetically pleasing works. This still does not erase the traditional image of the Madonna and Child (Fig17). Many artists have taken on this subject with a more modern view.

Salvador Dali painted several versions of the Virgin and Child, often floating in a heavenly space with architectural elements breaking apart around them.

Another, his Madonna Guadalupe is an intriguing call back to the traditional images of the Virgin, with a large golden halo, a delicately embroidered cape and a single lily (Fig. 18). Even Banksy has produced an image of the Madonna and Child with an iPod and a more controversial piece Suicide Bombers Just Need a Hug (Fig.19).

The Madonna is a static icon but also has incredible dynamism, any culture, from any time in history can relate to the Madonna because she is not simply a religious icon, but a loving mother. The depictions of the Madonna and Child represent turning points in the history of art, as well as mankind.

Because these images are themes of humanity, not just of a time and place, or even a religion, she has lived on for thousands of years and through charismatic images of her and Christ they will continue to capture the minds and eyes of artists for years to come.

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Fig. 1: “Mara� from the tomb of Priscilla

Fig. 2: Isis and Horus

Fig. 3: Byzantine Madonna and Child

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Fig. 4: Auvergne Madonna

Fig. 5: Duccio di Buoninsegna, MaestĂ , completed 1311

Fig. 6: Jan van Eyck, The Madonna of Chancellor Rolin, 1435

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Fig. 7: detail of Jan van Eyck, The Madonna of Chancellor Rolin, 1435

Fig. 8: detail of Jan van Eyck, The Madonna of Chancellor Rolin, 1435

Fig. 9: detail of Jan van Eyck, The Madonna of Chancellor Rolin, 1435

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Fig. 10: Hayne de Bruxelles, Virgin and Child, 1455

Fig. 11: Martin Luther

Fig. 12: Black Madonna of Częstochowa

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Fig. 13: Jean Fouqet, Madonna and Child, c. 1450

Fig. 14: Frans Hogenburg, Iconoclasm in Antwerp, hand-colored etching, c. 1570

Fig. 15: Peter Paul Rubens and Jan Brueghel the Elder, Virgin in a Flower Garland with Angels

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Fig. 16 Caravaggio, Madonna di Loreto, 1604-1606

Fig. 17: William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Virgin and Child, 1888

Fig. 18: Salvador Dali, Guadalupe Madonna, c. 1950

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Fig 19. Banksy, Suicide Bombers Just Need a Hug, c. 2010

Bibliography Department of Medieval Art and The Cloisters. “The Cult of the Virgin Mary in the Middle Ages”. In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2000–. http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/virg/hd_ virg.htm (October 2001) Gasparini, Lucia. “Masterpieces of Art.” Vercelli, Italy: White Star S.p.A., 2008. Print.

Khodr, George. “The Mother of God, the Theotokos, and Her role in God’s Plan for our Salvation.” The Ecumenical Review. (2008). 15 Nov. 2012 <http://www.thefreelibrary.com/

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FIBER AND ART HISTORY Park Güell: A Reaffirmation of Catalan Identity Eusebi Güell commissioned Antoni Gaudi in 1900 to create a kind of Garden City that could become a community in and of itself. Even before it was clear that not many wanted to live there, Gaudi placed most of the emphasis on designing the park’s communal spaces. Park Güell’s design is as perplexing as much of Gaudi’s architecture. What sets Park Güell apart is the manner in which its creation lends itself to the hosting of public events. The park is located on the Collserola mountain range, which overlooks Barcelona and the Mediterranean Sea. Site specification is an important factor, as Gaudi’s goal was to use only what the land supplied him. In the creation of Park Güell, Gaudi designs a communal space that serves multiple purposes for the community; thus, he anticipates many of the ideas that coincide with modernist public art, placemaking, and successful urbandesign.

Park Güell was initially designed to be a near-utopian community retreat.

While scholarship is unclear, it suggests the park’s original design, which included sixty residencies, was meant to have housed families belonging to the haute bourgeoisie. However, many texts also imply, that due to Gaudi and Güell’s focus on Catholicism, and the importance placed on the sustainability of a worker’s cooperative, there could have been room for the housing community to work in a kind of feudalist manner in which a hierarchy was present. This would not be the first social living experiment that Gaudi and Güell had worked on. Previously, they created Colonia Güell, which was a textile-manufacturing house that had accompanying residencies. Colonia Güell supports the latter possibility, as Güell acted very much like a feudalist landlord there. All the factory workers lived on the grounds and were provided with decent conditions as well as religious amenities. 2 Park Güell was meant to be a community within itself that supplied every basic need for living. The level of popularity for pilgrimages was quite high at the time, and many enjoyed escaping to nature. Many made religious pilgrimages to areas found all along the landscape that allowed for them to understand their

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spirituality and reclaim Catalan identity through their region’s unique qualities.

These pilgrimages were popular among the bourgeoisie, but many industrialists also took their workers on said pilgrimages.3 It is important to understand the quick manner in which Barcelona developed into an industrial metropolis. Its overpopulation and growth contributed to the want of a bucolic retreat. Gaudi uses the inherent, organic properties found on the site and combines them with his unique mathematical geometry to create a modern paradise. Carola GiedionWelcker describes Gaudi’s merging of design qualities as “collages.”4 Gaudi is able to create different areas of the park that respond to the natural landscape as well as the overall design of the park in a fluid, cohesive manner.

While its ultimate goal was for the park to be a residence, Gaudi focused most of his attention on the design and innovation of the communal spaces of the park; thus, the grand entrance hall proves to be one of its most memorable and important aspects (Fig. 1). The entrance, market hall, and theater appear similarly designed to the grand opera houses that were extremely popular for the haute class at the turn of the century.5 It’s fascinating to think that perhaps Gaudi was considering the way in which the advent of the rail created the popular pilgrimage that acted as the newest form of bourgeoisie entertainment. This concept is fascinating as the act of the attending the Opera was exclusionary in itself, while the idea of a park and communal retreat was not. It is as if the importance of the Catalan Renaixença and its focus on community created a trendy activity that was inclusionary. The entrance, market, and theater are truly the most important aspects of the park, as they incorporate all of the functions, qualities, and symbols that make Park Güell a space unlike any other. He worked closely with Josep Maria Jujol in creating these symbols as well as the mosaics.6 The grand entrance and stairway play a huge role in the visitor’s experience.

Many aspects of the stairs, walls, columns, mosaics, and layout are geometric; however, the park contains, and is surrounded by, masonry walls, gardens, trees, and plenty of foliage. It is very different from the landscape that surrounds it, but it looks like it is meant to be nestled in the mountain. Perhaps one of the most striking features of Park Güell is its combination of geometric constructs as well as organic ones. Many of the geometric features are also symmetrical. This can be said about the overall design of the entrance as well. The walls that encompass the staircase extend outward symmetrically, like wings. The walls and staircase are built in a manner that creates a perceived one-point perspective, drawing the viewer in to the center point. There seems to be a narrative quality about the way these

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details direct the visitor’s path.

The front is covered in a checkerboard of mosaics, each square being different from the last. The squares are also undulating, adding dimension. The tops of the walls have a row of peaks, which contain stripes of mosaics with a similar theme in the center. The mosaics mainly depict different floral and organic patterns. Many of the patterns are of flowers whose petals are intertwined within them creating a fantastical repeated form. The mosaics that adorn the outside of the top level are similar, but the flowers are much more symmetrical. The shapes of these flowers mirror the shape of the entire entrance. The backs of the walls are adorned with masonry style rock, a complete change from the geometric organization of the mosaics.

Gaudi worked to include an enormous amount of religious, mythical, and secular symbols into every aspect of the park. The combination of pagan and religious symbols is paradoxical, but makes sense upon understanding Gaudi’s interest in both Catholicism and Catalan folk art. At this point in time, there was a large revival of Catholicism in Barcelona, influencing the inclusion of religious symbols in this and many of Gaudi’s other works, the most evident being La Sagrada Familia. Many of the included symbols, however, have an air of mysticism about them. There is speculation surrounding the importance of the day that Gaudi and Güell chose to submit the proposal to build on the sight. They chose the feast day of St. Lucian and St. Marcien, who were the patron saints of Vic, a city in the region of Catalonia. They were known for having been magicians who converted to Christianity and were burned at the stake for preaching it. This suggests that there are symbols of alchemy to be found in the park. Indeed, alchemy is evident upon entering the park, present right at the entrance steps.7 The masonry stone is a symbol of alchemy not to be overlooked. The hexagonal mosaics on some of the walls are reminiscent of honeycomb structures; therefore, symbolizing work, construction, social life, and spiritual life.8 Perhaps the most curious mosaics are those of the beasts which act as guardians at the top of the stairs (Fig. 2). Neither of the beasts are exactly one animal or another, but it is clear that they guard this space. Much has been speculated about what these creatures are and what they symbolize. The animal that relates the most to a snake can be found on Gaudi’s version of the crest of the principality of Catalonia. Jose Carandell discusses its likelihood of depicting a creature related to alchemy, “…its canine looks are a reference to the hound that, together with the serpent, accompanied Aesclepus, god of medicine.”9 The second, and incredibly

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intriguing beast is one that looks like it has the capability of being a dragon, lizard, or serpent. It sits spewing water out of its mouth. He also states that this figure is, “… the alchemist’s salamander, the embodiment of fire.”10 Conversely, there has been speculation that this beast comes from the book of revelations. Conrad Kent and Dennis Prindle speculate this: Seen against the orthodox tradition of paradise representations, Gaudi’s entrance program corresponds to many features of the medieval paradise motif that evolved from the biblical image of the walled city of New Jerusalem, set with precious brightly colored stones. It was an image first set foot in the Book of Revelations…. Access to paradise always had to be difficult. In the Middle Ages this inaccessibility was represented physically with high walls, remoteness and the presence of exotic and forbidding beasts…. Historically, these guardian monsters were depicted as dragons and serpents.11 They also speculate that, due to their less than foreboding nature in the way they are depicted, the beasts could be representative of the passage to the paradise garden. 12 The stairway leads the visitor up to a hypostyle hall that seems to emulate Greek and Egyptian styles in combination with the art nouveau style (Fig. 3). While it’s still geometric, it’s a distinct change in style from many of the adorning aspects of the entrance walls. The walls have many more stylistic qualities of art nouveau, including some less angular, wave-like forms.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the market hall is the inclusion of a filtration system. Gaudi uses the natural earthen floor of the plaza above the hall to filter water. It collects in the vaulted domes of the hall, and runs down through one of the columns into a reserve. He was concerned with the health of the community, as disease was rampant at the time, and created this system to benefit them.13 The Doric columns tower over the entrance staircase. Eighty-six columns are what make up the space that Gaudi envisioned to be a communal marketplace.

The hypostyle, ruin-like columns are reminiscent of Egyptian architecture. They are also reminiscent of the ruins of the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi (Fig. 4).

This structure, like Park Güell, sits on a mountain, is comprised of a temple, a theater, and is close to the sea. It is thought to have been a model for the park.14

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There is interesting symbolism in the mosaics on the ceiling of the hall. There are four mosaics representing suns. Each of these sun mosaics is surrounded by smaller, swirling mosaics representing their moons. The moons appear to symbols for Artemis, sister of Apollo. The four suns correspond with each of the four seasons (Fig. 5).15 Overall, the specificity in which the entrance guides the visitor, as well as the combination of textures, styles, and motifs, can be interpreted as depicting the narrative of Catalan pride. Each change in style is apparent, but not out of place.

The styles and materials work together in presenting the narrative. The blueprint of the entrance itself plays a role in the telling of this story, for every place leads the visitor to the final and central most destination, the top level (Fig. 6). This level is a gathering space and is reminiscent of a Greek theater, but what is most important about this space is what it shows the viewer. The narrative is about what can be seen from this outlook. This space is a platform in which the visitor can’t help but overlook, and focus on, the vast cityscape. The path from the entrance to this space does not lead the viewer to a grand architectural masterpiece, but to the masterpiece that is the city itself, its people, and their culture.

The strong horizontal plane of the theater creates a visual element that is much needed to contrast the strong verticals of the market hall.16 The theater was used then and is used now in a variety of different capacities. It is used as an informal social gathering place and well as a space in which religious and secular community activities are held. Since it was built, the traditional religious folk dance called La Sardana has been preformed there. 17 Even the most visually interesting quality of this space is the border, which encloses the very edge of the platform. It is a serpentine style bench that has extremely intriguing mosaics. To spend time with this however, the visitor absolutely must spend time with the view as well, for the mosaics mirror the visual qualities of the city it overlooks.

The serpentine bench is the height of Gaudi’s use of symbolism. It also a kind of symbolism that best evokes Catalan culture’s mix of folk, religious, and mythical imagery, “The aesthetic of the bench sought to strike root in older and deeper layers of Catalan religious heritage.”18 A myriad of different celestial images as well as roses can be found along the bench. Many inscriptions can be found along the bench that appear to be a representation of the cult of veneration of the Virgin of Montserrat. This cult promoted “rustic simplicity… attempting to restore the virtues of the pious peasant.”19 These markings are difficult to find,

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as they are subtle. They were typically incised on the ceramic slip before glazing.

Some of the symbols inscribed that suggest the Virgin Mary are crosses, roses, and crown of thorns. The letter M also appears frequently, as well as the inscribed letters “M-A-R-I-A,” spelling out the name Maria.20 At this point, the visitor has walked through and experienced all kinds of styles and motifs that lead up what is overseen from the top level. It seems as if all the aspects of the park the viewer has experienced up until this point were meant to represent qualities of the final view (Fig. 7). It is possible that each mosaic tile, masonry rock, plant, and column is a feature that represents a different part of the story. Perhaps Gaudi chose each of the elements in the entrance and theater to portray and celebrate different aspects of Barcelona. From the range of qualities in the park, and the importance placed on the view of the city, it can be understood that these qualities are meant to represent the city as a combination of different moments in time and history.

Gaudi included such an immense level of symbols because of the cultural revival happening in Catalonia at the time, the Catalan Renaixença. A new level of regional pride was being displayed as people sought to revitalize their culture’s symbols, ideas, and craft. This revival also heavily promoted theater and literature.

The economical boom experienced by Barcelona at the time is a contributing factor to this movement. The level of pride is the most notable aspect of this time, as society wished to revitalize the language, poetry, and overall heritage for which they felt incredible pride. These circumstances created an explosion of creativity and support for the arts. 21 This likely contributes to Gaudi’s choice in leading the viewer up to the spectacular view of Barcelona in its entirety. It is certain that like the Catalan people, Gaudi felt and was influenced by the immense pride of the complex culture. Even Güell, his patron, had become “obsessed with church and culture.”22 Through the use of symbols that represented different aspects of his culture, Gaudi created a communal space while depicting the community itself. Many of the aforementioned symbols are indisputably representing Gaudi and Güell’s focus on Catalan identity. Most notably, wave-like formations found in so many areas of the park represent the formations of the Mediterranean Sea, which the park over looks in a similar manner to the sanctuary of Apollo in Delphi. The sanctuary of Apollo in Delphi is a landmark, which acts as a representation of Greek Identity; thus, Gaudi designed Park Guell to be just that for Catalonia. 23 The mosaic medallion of the crest of Catalonia is an irrevocable symbol of Catalan pride (Fig.

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2), especially with its placement on the entrance staircase. Ultimately, the narrative he wished to show the viewer is that of Catalan culture.

Gaudi’s level of focus on the design of the park’s communal spaces as well as his constant consideration of the culture and community allow for the conclusion that this work anticipates placemaking and what is today called Public Art. Robert Lee Flemming describes this as: Placemaking today is how to build the armature of mental associations into a sustainable narrative that enriches site and helps make them memorable.... placemaking requires deeper research into the meanings of the space, and then more interaction between several design principals. 24 Gaudi creates an extremely rich narrative about Catalan culture for the public to experience. Flemming continues to describe all the things that constitute successful urban design.

The first consideration is “Orientation,” in which the designer becomes acquainted with the site through research and an understanding of the community.

There is no doubt that Gaudi understood the community that would be interacting with this work, as so many aspects of its design cater to the needs of the time which have proven to continue to be relevant. “Connection” is another factor to consider in the success of urban-design, as it is the level in which the work’s meaning is fully integrated into the site. Gaudi’s intentions and meaning can be found integrated throughout he entire site, as it is full of symbols that the community would have recognized then, and likely still recognize today. 25

The next consideration is “Direction.” This gives the viewer “visual 26 clarity,” and allows for the visitor to be able understand how to interact with the space. Again, the layout of Park Güell succeeds in guiding the visitor in the direction they are meant to walk in order to come across the intention and meaning of the design. Lastly, “Animation” is an important consideration, and this refers to the complexity of the space and the potential variety of activity. Not surprisingly, Park Güell is a successful urban- design in this area as well, as it has been a host for a variety of community activities since it was built.27

Placemaking is an important tool in repurposing failed communal spaces that do not serve a useful purpose.28 Gaudi did just that in building this incredibly important gathering place on land that was literally referred to as bald mountain, due to the emptiness of the land. Park Güell’s design as well as Gaudi’s conscious

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decision of only using materials native to that area allow for the complete integration of the park with the original mountain landscape. In doing so, Gaudi gave the community a much needed public space that did not only refrain from interfering with their beloved landscape, but in fact became a depiction of all of the aspects of Catalan culture the community sought to revive.

Upon first inspection of Park G端ell, one might not immediately come to understand the way in which each of the different textures, symbols, and areas of the park connect. It takes a closer look to understand that what each of these things is representation of the qualities that were important to the community of Barcelona. In their attempt to revive the important aspects of their culture, religion, and language, Gaudi supplied them with a place that acted as a reminder of all the things they took pride in. Ultimately, he included his people in every single detail of the park, leading up to its culmination overlooking the city.

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Fig. 1

Fig. 2

Fig. 3

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Fig. 4

Fig. 5

Fig. 6

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Fig. 7 Fig. 1-7 Antoni Gaudi, Park Güell (detail), 1900- 1914, Barcelona, Spain. From: Park Güell: Gaudi’s Utopia: Sant Lluis: Jose Carandell and Pere Vivas, 2005.

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Endnotes 2 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 2757.

3 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 27.

4 Carola Giedon-Weckler, Park Güell de A. Gaudi, (Barcelona: Ediciones Polígrafa, 1971), 42.

5 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 88.

6 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 53.

7 Jose Cranandell , and Pere Vivas, Park Güell: Gaudi’s Utopia, (Sant Lluis: Triangle Postals, 2005), 37.

8 Jose Cranandell , and Pere Vivas, Park Güell: Gaudi’s Utopia, (Sant Lluis: Triangle Postals, 2005), 38.

9 Ibid 10 Jose Cranandell , and Pere Vivas, Park Güell: Gaudi’s Utopia, (Sant Lluis: Triangle Postals, 2005), 39.

11 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 106.

12 Ibid 13 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 115.

14 Jose Cranandell , and Pere Vivas, Park Güell: Gaudi’s Utopia, (Sant Lluis: Triangle Postals, 2005), 140- 141.

15 Jose Cranandell , and Pere Vivas, Park Güell: Gaudi’s Utopia, (Sant Lluis: Triangle Postals, 2005), 91.

16 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 127.

17 Ibid 18 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 175.

19 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 175.

20 Ibid 21 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 37.

22 Conrad Kent, Park Güell, (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1993), 35.

23 Jose Cranandell , and Pere Vivas, Park Güell: Gaudi’s Utopia, (Sant Lluis: Triangle Postals, 2005).

24 Ronald Lee Flemming, The art of placemaking : interpreting community through public art and urban design, (London: Merrell, 2007), 19.

25 Ibid 26 Ibid 27 Ibid 28 Ibid

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