Acropolis Fall 2014 by Sophie Helm

ACROPOLIS Movement Fall 2014

TABLE OF CONTENTS STUDENT ARTWORK Untitled, Photograph, Haley Radvany Subway Stop, Photograph, Maggie Pelta-Pauls Onward, Photograph, Eric Dale View Before the Plummet, Photograph, Michael Winn Untitled, Photograph, Beatrice Chessman Colored, Acrylic on Canvas, Kareem Obey Vessels, Ceramic Sculpture, Katie Fee Dinner Set, Ceramic Sculpture, Katie Fee Untitled Series, Plaster Sculpture, Matt Lentini Rickshaw in Penang, Photograph, April Zhang Rodin, Photograph, Sophie Helm Untitled, Photograph, Meridith Boulous Pit Stop, Photograph, Maggie Pelta-Pauls View from Under, Photograph, Lynn Nakamura Daily, Photograph, Lynn Nakamura

SCHOLARSHIP A Shifting Paragon of Virtue: The Theme Lucretia Through Literature and Art, Matthew Chiarello Orphee and Orpheus: Articulating the Importance of Myth, Mary Kate Connors The Meaning and Associations of ‘Spaces’ Within the Work of Jackson Pollock ca. 1950, Michael Winn

FEATURES & GENERAL Acropolis Staff Letter from the Editors W&M Art History and Studio Art Major Requirements Movement As Dance, Michael Winn Catron Scholar Profile: Kelsey Hughes, Sophie Helm FRONT COVER Veruschka, dress by Bill Blass, New York, January 1967 Photograph by Richard Avedon © The Richard Avedon Foundation BACK COVER Sur La Rue, Photograph, Sophie Helm

Untitled, Haley Radvany

Subway Stop, Maggie Pelta-Pauls

4 Editors in Chief Sophie Helm Michael Winn Deputy Editor in Chief Clara Hoch Scholarship Editor Haley Radvany Layout Editors Sophie Helm Michael Winn Submission Evaluators Sophie Helm Clara Hoch Haley Radvany Ingrid Unander-Scharin Michael Winn Faculty Advisor Dr. Charles Palermo

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS Dear Art Lovers, With this issue of Acropolis, our overarching theme is Movement through all facets of creative art. Movement is all encompassing across artistic medium, whether it be tangible works of art, expressive performance art, filmography, or the Art Historical scholarship that analyzes the ties between them all. We have chosen to express and include a melange of content spanning across many artistic eras and genres, all with the common suggestion of Movement in mind. As you read through Acropolis, ask yourself, How can Movement be interpreted differently than you thought before? How does this work of art or scholarship exhibit Movement? How does Movement continue beyond a simple interaction? As all of the issues that have come before, Acropolis celebrates the creative talents of the students at William & Mary through Art and Art History scholarship. Both the theme and content can become somewhat subjective. It is common knowledge that a painting or photograph ellicits no physical Movement. Movement can be found in the interpretation of what is depicted as well as in the emotions it stirs. In a static sculpture, Movement can be discovered in the lines that extend beyond the physical planes and continue beyond the space it occupies. We hope that you discover something new when reading, viewing, and questioning the content of this issue. A viewer does not need to have an Art History background or need to know the historical specificity of a work to feel the artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s emotional intent. Enjoy these works, enjoy these writings, and thank you for exploring our Fall Issue, Acropolites. Your Editors,

Sophie Helm

Michael Winn

Onward, Eric Dale

View before the Plummet, Michael Winn

8 A Shifting Paragon of Virtue: The Theme Lucretia Through Literature and Art Matthew Chiarello

Figure 1

Opening Remarks Overcome by a sense of grief and shame following her brutal violation by the Roman prince Sextus Tarquinius, the chaste maiden Lucretia turns an atoning dagger on herself. From this violent moment of her textual genesis in Livy’s History of Rome, the tragic figure of Lucretia has proven to a be a perpetual artistic touchstone for the portrayal of feminine virtue and moral strength. Her defiant final breath marks the terminal moment of the tyrannical Roman monarchy under the reign of Lucius Tarquinius Superbus and spurs the popular uprising that climaxes in the formation of the Roman Republic circa 509 BC.1 Situated as the sacrificial catalyst for such a momentous political shift, the semi-historical figure of Lucretia has, over time, assumed a fully mythic mantel as authors and artists alike have creatively appropriated her dramatic demise. This process of retelling has inevitably resulted in the evolution of the narrative and by extension in the evolution of its principle actor and focal point, Lucretia. This transformation can be traced from its written roots in Roman and Greek original texts, through to religious treatises of the fifth century, and even into the secular work of Elizabethan Era dramatists. It is my contention, to be argued below, that the evolution evident in the literary depictions of Lucretia is mirrored in analogous artistic renderings. I intend to explicate this notion below by tracing two distinct and parallel progressions in both the literary and pictorial traditions. In the former case, I will briefly examine and analyze the presentation of Lucretia in primary written sources beginning with her origination in Livy through to her lyric Shakespearean portrayal in 1594. In the latter case, I will explore in-depth three seminal representation of Lucretia – one by the hand of Sandro Botticelli and the remaining two as created by Rembrandt van Rijn - alongside their various artistic antecedents. In the light cast by these dual analyses, the following hopes to elucidate the changes made to the character of Lucretia and to examine the societal implications of such augmentations as they converge to form the modern conception of the valiant yet tragically fallen heroine. Literary Lineages: From Ancient Rome to Elizabethan London Roman Roots. As briefly mentioned above, the story of Lucretia is a semi-historical narrative that has undergone continuous and constant evolution since its original formulation in the first book of Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita in ap1 Cary, M., and H. H. Scullard. A History of Rome down to the Reign of Constantine. New York: St. Martin’s, 1975. Print.

proximately 25 BC. This particular iteration of the narrative establishes a clear baseline from which assess future deviations in both literary and artistic reinterpretations. As such, a short synopsis will follow before tracing the story into its later permutations. Artistic Interpretations: Lucretia’s Painted Transformations Having considered the progression of the presentation of Lucretia through the literary canon, a parallel account can be traced through the visual tradition. This particular evolution can be seen to have occurred within three seminal works that treat the Livian subject. The first – The Tragedy of Lucretia - was begun around the year 1496 and was completed circa 1504 by Botticelli and deals with the political undertones of the fallen heroine’s narrative. The second and third images – two of Rembrandt’s Lucretias – were created in 1664 and 1666, respectively, and act as artistic extensions of the themes rooted in Shakespeare’s Lucrece. A systematic analysis of these three works alongside several of their thematically analogous counterparts will follow to elucidate the evolution of Lucretia through her visual representations.

Figure 2

Political Ends. Situated within a fictive classical space, Botticelli’s The Tragedy of Lucretia harkens to the Roman roots of the narrative while offering the viewer a chronological representation of Lucretia’s fall. The horizontally composed tempera and oil painting is composed of four distinct quadrants: the leftmost scene of Tarquin’s transgression, the rightmost depiction of Lucretia’s suicide, the central scene of the raising of revolutionaries, and the uppermost depictions of allegorical friezes. These four components converge to reframe the Lucretia narrative in order to convey a message charged with political overtones. Thus, whereas Augustine employs the model of Lucretia to convey religious dogma, Botticelli figures the heroine into a visual argument concerning governmental fragility and the power of popular uprisings. What follows is an exploration of the four aspects of this work with the aim of elu-

cidating Botticelli’s presumptive motivations in its creation.

Drawing upon both the original text and the woodcut illustrations that occasionally accompanied its printed editions in the 15th century, Botticelli begins his tripartite narrative on the viewer’s left with the rape of Lucretia. Here, within a confined fictive space, the armed Tarquinius confronts a cowering Lucretia. The pale white of Lucretia’s shocked face, framed by two upraised hands, emerges from a background of pitch black. This, the darkest area of the image, speaks not only to the time of night that corresponds to the rape, but also metaphorically to the foul nature of the crime itself. A crime, which Botticelli depicts as on the verge of occurring, as Tarquinius raises his dagger to threaten the life Figure 3 of his helpless victim. The perpetrator stands to the viewer’s extreme left and is shown advancing towards the woman with one leg extended and with his left hand groping at Lucretia’s flowing pink and green garments. In his right hand he holds a short dagger, which compliments the military attire that adorns him and adds to the danger lingering on the threat issuing from his slightly open mouth. Meanwhile, the imperiled Lucretia is shown in a moment of sheer terror and panic. Her resistance is not merely verbal – as is the case in the later Shakespearean representation – but it is also physical, as she recoils from Tarquinius’ advance. This back step causes her robes to flutter forward towards the viewer and highlights her fully clothed depiction. By rendering his protagonist in concealing fabrics, Botticelli preserves the chaste image of Lucretia that has its pictorial roots in illustrative woodcuts of the 15th century. Such works, like an unattributed piece drawn from Johannes Zainer’s 1473 printing of De claris mulieribus, shows Lucretia modestly covering her chest even as Tarquinius brandishes his sword.2 This decision to conceal all but the face and outwardly extended palms of his protagonist not only evinces a stylistic dialogue with previous representations of Lucretia, but also works to conceptually negate her complicity in the act, a stance that stands in contrast to the erotic images of the scene popularized in the mid-16th century in images like Titian’s Tarquin and Lucretia.3 The appearance of chastity conveyed by both her reaction and her dress comprises the first component of Botticelli’s political argument. That is to say that the crime committed by Tarquinius, whose militaristic garb channels the intrusive power of the state, is one perpetrated against purity, innocence, and helpless resistance. This abuse of power plays an integral role in the development of the narrative in this piece, as the crime sets into motion a revolution that pits the just masses against the demonstrably immoral monarchy. Yet, before this revolution can be set into motion, the catalyst of Lucretia’s suicide must occur and Botticelli vividly presents this dismal scene in the lower right of this image. Under the canopy of an imagined archway, four male figures crowd around a slouched Lucretia, as she sinks to the ground from her fatal wound. This dense, somewhat Caravaggesque, grouping represents the moment immediately following Lucretia’s self-inflicted penalty and is comprised of Junius Brutus in the foreground, a distraught Conlatinus with arms upraised in the background, Lucretia’s father, and an additional, unnamed soldier.4 While Botticelli appears to adhere to the pictorial tradition when presenting the rape of Lucretia, he seems to depart from previous renderings of her suicide. In the first place, he shows the act moments after it has occurred, shifting the focus away from the violent outburst and toward the reaction it engenders in the male onlookers. This display of emotionality – captured by the agape mouth and flailing arms of Conlatinus – is strikingly absent from earlier renderings, which tend to show a staid reaction to Lucretia’s suicide, as is the case in the Zainer print. This display of emotion translates directly to the revolutionary fervor that Lucretia’s suicide prompts and is thus featured prominently in this rendering of the act. 2 Schuler, Carol M. “Virtuous Model/Voluptuous Martyr.” Saints, Sinners and Sisters: Gender and Northern Art in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. By Jane Louise Carroll. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003. 7-25. Print. 3 Humfrey, Peter, and Titian. Titian. London: Phaidon, 2007. Print. 4 Puglisi, Catherine R., and Michelangelo Merisi Da Caravaggio. Caravaggio. London: Phaidon, 1998. Print.

11 Furthermore, Botticelli continues his departure from traditional images of Lucretia’s suicide by keeping her clothed in the wake of the rape, as she only appears to have lost her pink sash. This maintenance of Lucretia’s image as a paragon of feminine virtue - while faithful to the Livian telling - does not reflect the stylistic choice common to contemporary paintings, drawings, and etchings of the violent scene. In fact, Carol M. Schuler argues that the “virtual explosion of artistic interest in the suicide of Lucretia,” coincides directly with the “increasingly eroticized interpretation of the subject.”5 And yet, Botticelli appears to ignore this popular trope. Rather than show his Lucretia at three-quarters length, fully nude, with eyes sorrowfully locked on the viewer as her hand raises a dagger, Botticelli opts to show none of these attributes. His Lucretia exposes no enticing skin, is disengaged from the viewer as she dies, and is not shown with the instrument of her demise. Rather - as proved to be the case concerning the emotionality of the image – Lucretia’s individual plight is marginalized in favor of its wider ramifications on the men around her, a crowd absent from the portrait-like erotic renderings. In fact, Botticelli’s depiction of Lucretia’s suicide appears to focus on the figure of Brutus as much, if not more so, than on the traditional protagonist. This notion is confirmed by the frieze that overhangs the scene, which depicts the defense of Rome by the warrior Horatius Cocles against the forces of the Etruscan king Lars Porsenna.6 Unlike the relief that is placed above the rape scene – a rendering of Judith slaying Holofernes – this militaristic scene is disconnected from the plight of Lucretia. Rather, its message of victory over a foreign king by the sword of a Roman champion speaks substantially to the character of Junius Brutus. Moreover, in terms of the composition that is rendered below the relief, Brutus’ helmeted head is placed squarely in the center of the action and his dynamic lunge to rescue the falling Lucretia captures the viewer’s attention. In fact, it is primarily through the left-to-right reading of Brutus’ angled pose that the audience finds the figure of Lucretia perched against the Roman’s outstretched palm. Strangely, this pose accomplishes more than the purpose of leading the viewer’s eye, as it closely mirrors that of Brutus’ antagonistic foil, Tarquinius, in the leftmost scene. This pointed juxtaposition indicates the often-overlooked similarity between these two men: their willingness to exploit Lucretia for their own advancement. In the case of Tarquinius, the interplay is purely of carnal motivations, but for Brutus, his association with the suicide of Lucretia allows him to surge to the forefront of a political movement against the Tarquinii in the wake of a tragedy. This gathering of popular power forms the foundation for the central image in The Tragedy of Lucretia. In this scene, a mob of citizen-soldiers congregates around the corpse of Lucretia, as a strident Brutus rallies them to arms. While the body of Lucretia is featured prominently in the center of the image, it is on the figure of Brutus that the orthogonals of the image converge and lead the viewer’s gaze. Rather than the profile of Brutus offered in the rightmost third of the image, the central Brutus faces the viewer frontally, his sword aloft, and his red cape billowing behind him. The viewer is presented with the moment of his clarion call to expel the Tarquinii, as his mouth hangs open and his left hand gestures down to the cold body of Lucretia. Yet, here too, there are deviations from the original narrative. Principle among these augmentations is the aforementioned shift of focus from Lucretia to Brutus, as Botticelli actively marginalizes the heroine in favor of the dynamic scene around her. Even the rallying point of the dagger drawn from her chest in the Livy narrative is discarded in favor of Brutus’ power of oratory alongside the unusual wake-like display of Lucretia’s corpse in the imagined Forum Romanum. Thus, the revolution and its revolutionary leader literally take center stage in this image, overshadowing the feminine catalyst. This politically laced message is compounded by the inclusion of the biblical figure that crowns the central scene in the form of David.7 The young warrior is perched atop a porphyry column, with the head of the slain Goliath at his feet, as he hovers above the frenzied action in the foreground.8 This fictive sculpture synthesizes the central aim of the painting as a whole, in many ways. The parallel drawn between the abused figure of Lucretia, the oppressed Roman people, and the unlikely heroism of David can be comfortably couched in the conflation of the Tarquinii’s oppressive regime and the might of 5 Schuler, Carol M. “Virtuous Model/Voluptuous Martyr.” Saints, Sinners and Sisters: Gender and Northern Art in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. By Jane Louise Carroll. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003. 7-25. Print. 6 Goldfarb, Hilliard T., James Hankins, Sandro Botticelli, and Laurence Kanter. Botticelli’s Witness Changing Style in a Changing Florence ; [this Catalogue Is Published to Accompany the Exhibition ..., Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston, January 24 - April 6, 1997]. Boston, MA, 1997. Print. 7 Ibid 8 Malaguzzi, Silvia, and Sandro Botticelli. Botticelli: the Artist and His Work. Firenze: Giunti, 2003. Print.

the giant Goliath. In both the biblical and the historical cases the former triumphs over the latter and in this particular instance, the juxtaposition serves the overarching political aim of the piece. Thus, in nearly every formal aspect of this piece, Botticelli has managed to usurp the traditional story of Lucretia in favor of politically infused commentary.

Figure 4

Figure 6

Figure 5

Figure 7

Dutch Synthesis. Completed approximately 150 after The Tragedy of Lucretia, Rembrandt’s pair of tragic heroines situate themselves in stark contrast to nearly every aspect of the above discussed Botticelli piece. Even by the most fundamental metrics, Rembrant’s Lucretias diverge heavily from Botticelli’s visual interpretation. As such, both of Rembrandt’s works are vertically oriented oil on canvas paintings featuring a lone figure shown at nearly three-quarters length, compared against the densely populated horizontal showcase above. And yet, these topical differences merely hint at the treatment of the subject at the easel of Rembrandt.9 Much like his near contemporary Shakespeare, Rembrandt’s manifestation of Lucretia manages to simultaneously adopt popular tropes, remodel prior renderings, and reject the seemingly fundamental precedents of its antecedents. This artistic synthesis will be examined below in a 9 Westermann, Mariët, and Harmenszoon Van Rijn Rembrandt. Rembrandt. London: Phaidon, 2000. Print.

discussion of both Lucretias in relation to their predecessors, as well as in relation to each other. Certainly, Rembrandt’s dual heroines hang in a long line of Lucretia portraits. Despite the crowded Botticelli painting and its companion medieval woodcut, the suicide of Lucretia is typically portrayed as a lonely scene. The depiction of her death is thus usually contained to a solitary moment absent her father, her husband, and Brutus. This mode imagines Lucretia as an individual portrait viewed from a variety of angles, “in bust-, half-, three-quarters-, and full length.”10 Such a pictorial tradition, as catalogued by Schuler, is compounded by the tendency of 16th century artists to sexualize the tragic heroine and use the medium of the portrait to convey an erotic interpretation of the Livian narrative. This particular trend is strikingly apparent in two German oil paintings, one by Albrecht Dürer from 1518 and the other by Lucas Cranach circa 1530. The former – The Suicide of Lucrezia – shows a full length rendering of the woman in the process of piercing her abdomen with a sword.11 Here, Dürer depicts her in the nude, with only a scant piece of fabric draped across her hips. Her shoulders are thrown back as a strong light cast from the viewer’s left highlights the entirety of her exposed skin. Cranach takes the eroticism of this scene even further.12 He appears to suggestively pose his Lucretia within the bounds of a three-quarters length portrait even more so than does Dürer. Here, even the rumpled fabric that worked to partially conceal the former Lucretia is replaced by a scant hint of linen that hides little. To compound the overt nudity, Cranach places Lucretia’s left arm enticingly behind her head and locks her eyes plaintively on the viewer. In so doing, these artists appear to disregard the textual records and instead appropriate the likeness of Lucretia for the subject of popular, eroticized images. Even the Dutch tradition that predates Rembrandt’s own Lucretias showcases similar attributes and tendencies, as is the case in Joos van Cleve’s The Suicide of Lucretia from 1518.13 And yet, Rembrandt deviates significantly from this artistic model. Instead of employing the confined space of a three-quarters length portrait to the ends of eroticism, Rembrandt instead uses the area to portray a more empathetic heroine. That is to say that rather than objectify his subject – as had Dürer, Cranach, and van Cleve – Rembrandt works to humanize Lucretia and by extension to outwardly reflect her inner turmoil. This sense is perhaps most strikingly achieved in his 1664 work, which shows an exceptionally welldressed Lucretia in the moment immediately preceding her suicide. She holds her dagger out lengthwise towards the viewer in her right hand as she pauses in a moment of introspection before carrying out the deed. Her head is cocked to the right and her eyes are downcast in the direction of the blade, but they appear to look past it, as though she is lost in thought. Here, the rich garments and fine jewelry conceal the body of the heroine and even these wrappings are lost in places to the impenetrable shadows that comprise the void-like space behind Lucretia. Beyond these physical barriers to eroticism that Rembrandt places before the viewer, the artist also employs a gray light that shines onto the facial features of the heroine. Thus, as the brightest point in the image, the introspective gaze of Lucretia garners the viewer’s utmost attention. As such, the audience is made to focus on what Lucretia’s expression emotes, rather than on the beauty of her physical presence. This shift of focus away from the physicality and toward the emotionality of the subject forms the foundation for Rembrandt’s 1666 portrayal of Lucretia. In this image, the viewer is confronted by a strikingly different scene. Here, the figure of Lucretia has withdrawn a bloody dagger from the left side of her abdomen as she stares out of the picture plane with an expression that borders on defiance. Unlike the suppliant gaze bestowed on Lucretia by Cranach, Rembrandt’s 1666 heroine appears dominant, in control of her fate. This gaze, in concert with her isolation within this scene, speaks to a nearly Shakespearian conferral of agency to the dying heroine. That is to say that while the Bard gives Lucretia a powerful voice that dominates the latter half of his poem, Rembrandt offers his Lucretia a full canvas devoid of sensual distractions and a steely gaze that embodies feminine strength and morality. As such these two images work in concert to achieve in paint what Shakespeare achieved in ink: an amalgam of Lucretia’s varied representations in order to refocus the narrative on her personal sacrifice.

10 Schuler, Carol M. “Virtuous Model/Voluptuous Martyr.” Saints, Sinners and Sisters: Gender and Northern Art in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. By Jane Louise Carroll. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003. 7-25. Print. 11 Bailey, Martin, and Albrecht Dürer. Dürer. London: Phaidon, 1995. Print. 12 Schuler, Carol M. “Virtuous Model/Voluptuous Martyr.” Saints, Sinners and Sisters: Gender and Northern Art in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. By Jane Louise Carroll. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003. 7-25. Print. 13 Ibid.

Concluding Remarks Lucretiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s suicide succeeded not only in bringing about the fall of the Roman monarchy, but also in forging a malleable artistic trope for generations beyond her own presumed lifetime. The upheaval that her death wrought in Rome is echoed through the varied appropriations of her likeness in both the written and the visual arts. It is in this multifaceted light, that I sought to examine these various facets above with the hope of tracing Lucretiaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lineage from the ancient past into the near present. Her reincarnations appear to all take their root in the fundamentals of the Livian tale, while each bend the arc of the narrative away from its original axis and towards disparate artistic aims. In view of this hardly static trajectory, the significance of a multiplicity of views appears to overshadow the import of any definitive Lucretian model. And it is perhaps this variety and sense of constant evolution that has become the lasting testament of the ancient paragon of feminine virtue.

Figure 1 Sandro Botticelli, The Tragedy of Lucretia, c. 1504. Tempera on oil and wood, 83.8 cm x 176.8 cm. Isabella Steward Gardner Museum, Boston. Figure 2 Titian, Tarquin and Lucretia, c. 1571. Oil on Canvas, 188.9 cm x 145.1 cm. Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge. Figure 3 Anonymous, The Story of Lucretia, Woodcut illustration for Giovanni Boccaccio, De claris mulieribus, Ulm, Johannes Zainner, 1473, Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. PML 194, f. 49r. Figure 4 Rembrandt van Rijn, The Suicide of Lucretia, c. 1664. Oil on Canvas. 120 x 101 cm. National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C. Figure 5 Rembrandt van Rijn, The Suicide of Lucretia, c. 1666. Oil on canvas. 105.1 x 92.3 cm. Minneapolis Institute of Arts. Figure 6 Albrecht Durer, Suicide of Lucretia, c. 1518. Oil on panel, 168 x 75 cm. Munich, Alte Pinakothek. Figure 7 Lucas Cranach, The Suicide of Lucretia, oil on panel, ca. 1526 -30, Offentliche Kunstsammlung Basel, Kunstmuseum. Figure 8 Lucas Cranach the Elder, The Suicide of Lucretia, c. 1538. Oil on panel. Bamberg, Neue Residenz.

Figure 8

Untitled, Beatrice Chessman

Orphee and Orpheus: Articulating the Importance of Myth Mary Kate Connors The Myth of Orpheus has been an inspiration for a plethora of poets, authors, and artists alike. Perhaps the artist with the greatest fascination with the Orphic tradition is the figure of Jean Cocteau; a master french filmmaker, poet, novelist, dramatist, playwright, and artist. Throughout his bountiful creative life, Cocteau continually revisited the myth of Orpheus: ultimately crafting a live-action play, multiple pieces of art, and a cinematic trilogy surrounding the themes brought forth in the myth Orpheus. The films in question are entitled Le Sang d’un poeten (1931), Orphee (1950), and Le Testament d’Orphee (1959). In this paper, I will compare the ways in which his second film of this trilogy, Orphee, derivatives from true mythic form, leading us to an understanding of Cocteau’s intentionality in altering the myth. As to combat confusion, I will fully conceptualize the myth of Orpheus before scrutinizing Cocteau’s interpretation of this myth; Thus in the first section of this paper, I will give an overview of the Orphic mythic sequence, then I will move on to describe the films general plot, and eventually will make arg uments surrounding the aforementioned intentionality of altering the normative mythic structure.

The myth of Orpheus is found in a number of diverging primary classical texts. Sources include Apollonius of Rhodes, Horace, Diodorus of Sicily, Palaephatus, and Plato. The myth is most prevalently and continuously dictated in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and book four of Virgil’s Georgics. For this reason, we will be exploring these later texts regularly. Orpheus was the son of the Muse Calliope, the muse of Poetry, and the mortal Thracian Oiagros . Orpheus is a distinctive mythic entity due to his extraordinary talent for singing, playing the lyre, and reciting poetry. Multiple sources cite that the properties of his voice were powerful enough to charm even rocks and trees into life. Diodorus of Sicily states that Orpheus “composed marvelous poetry that was musically remarkable when sung. He advanced so far in repute that he was thought to charm beasts and trees with his music.” Horace states that he “was able to charm tigers and forests into following [him] and could halt swift rivers dead in their tracks.” Depiction of Orpheus reciting this described enchanting lyric poetry are represented on a number of various vases, most notably on an Attic Red Figure column Krater by the Orpheus painter from 440 BC (Figure A). This Krater clearly portrays Orpheus seated on a rocky outcrop, being attended to by a Thracian crowd. The four Thracian figures are depicted as amazingly attentive and moved by his songs, as indicated by the various stances that the figures emote. The male figure on the

far left of the Krater can hardly contain himself, he leans on the figure on his right in order to remain standing. The figure beside him is closing his eyes in enjoyment of the song, clearly attempting to absorb every magical note that Orpheus emotes on this depiction. Orpheus mourns for a great while at the loss of his great love Eurydice, singing gloomy songs across the land. He eventually meets his fate by being ripped to pieces by a group of Thracian women whose advances he rejects. This scene is depicted on a number of Greek vases, most notably an 460 BC attic red figure stamnos by Hermonax, where the Thracian women, who are recognized by their exotic tattoos, are seen attacking Orpheus with various objects (Figure B). In some sources they rip off his head and throw it in a river; It floats down the river Hebrus, where his head continually sings and spouts oracles as it floats down the river.

To Cocteau, a “poet” was a true creative artists whose identity is shaped by suffering. In his “Discours sur la poesie,” written in 1958, Cocteau observes “Mourir pour vivre. Car le poete qui n’accepte pas de mourir continuellement est indigne de vivre. Que dis-je, de vivre? D’etre tout court. C’est le theme de mes films Le sang d’un poete et Orphee.” This writing indicates an alignment of true poetry with death of some form. For Cocteau the poets life must be a life of suffering, where the poet must experience “many deaths.” Understanding this connection, it quite understandable that the Orpheus of mythology- the most famous tragic poet and musician of the Greeks - was Cocteau’s personal muse. Cocteau was inspired by the tragedy of losing one’s lover not once, but twice. Cocteau’s Orphee opens with a description of the actual myth, as interpreted by the filmmaker, it is presented in the form of text, with a man voice reading: “The legend of Orpheus is well-known. In Greek mythology, Orpheus was a troubadour from Thrace. He charmed even the animals. His songs diverted his attention from his wife Eurydice. Death took her away from him. He descended to the netherworld, and used his charm to win permission to return with Eurydice to the world of the living on the condition that he never look at her. But he looked at her and was torn away from her by the Bacchantes. Where does our story take place… and when? A legend is entitled to be beyond time and place. Interpret it as you wish…” The shot fades into a long shot of bustling scene at the Cafe de Poets. It is there that we come in contact with the figure of Cocteau’s Orpheus, who is introduced to us as a famous poet who has recently been without inspiration. Eventually a black car enters the screen, where a drunken man, who we later find out to be a young popular named Cegeste, and a glamorous women step out and enter the cafe. This woman is referred to as “The Princess.” Orpheus is visibly enamored by this glamourous woman, whose features are highlighted by an extreme closeup of her perfectly proportioned features (Figure C). Cegeste is very suddenly killed by two men on motorcycles, and chaos erupts in the Cafe de Poets. The Princess motions to Orpheus to help her move Cegeste, and instructs Orpheus to come with her

to take him to the hospital. She takes the both of them to an abandoned Villa, after a bizarre photo-negative car ride where Orpheus realizes that Cegeste has died. He follows the Princess into the villa, and watches her go through a mirror. It is revealed during this sequence that the character introduced as “The Princess” is actually the personification of Death.

The next day, Orpheus returns home to find his wife Eurydice all aflutter as to where he had been. Orpheus reacts negatively to this concern and moodily places himself in the Princesses car, where a mysterious and radio station continually plays. This strange ritual clearly stipulates that Orpheus is both in love and inspired by the character Death. He spends his time writing down the strange works that eerily play from the car radio. Orpheus believes these words to be to be inspirational poetically. Later that night Death comes to watch Orpheus as he sleeps, and it becomes evident to viewers that Death has fallen in love with Orpheus. The next morning, a jealous Death sends her henchmen, the two figures of motorcycles who previously killed Cegeste, to kill Eurydice. Heurtebise runs to Orpheus, and instructs him to go after his wife into the underworld. He does so by stepping into a mirror, a shot that is amazingly constructed by Cocteau using three cameras and mercury. Once in the underworld, displayed as an abandoned ruin of a city, Orpheus makes his way to Eurydice. Orpheus ends up in a room with four judges behind a table, who are looking into every aspect of the murder of Eurydice and assessing its validity. They eventually come to the conclusion that Eurydice was taken unjustly, and allow her to be taken back into the mortal realm. However, just as in the true myth, they stipulate that Orpheus may not look upon her, if he wishes her to remain alive. Heurtebise is granted access to the couple, to help them adjust to this new life style However, just as in the myth, Orpheus fails his wife in the Virgilian notion and looks on Eurydice in the car rear view mirror, purely on accident. After this sequence, Orpheus’ property is raided by a group of frenzied poets, who call themselves Bacchantes. They struggle for a while, but Orpheus is ultimately shot in the stomach by the frenzied group of people. At the end of the film, Death makes a choice to return everything back to what would have been without any form of myth. There’s a long sequence where the film itself is played backwards, as to further intimate the reversal of the mythic story. After this reversal we witness Orpheus and Eurydice reconnected in the mortal realm. They have no memory of past events, and cannot remember what has transpired between them throughout the film. It is as if all mytic sequences had been striped. They openly hug each other and say “there’s only one love that counts, ours,” and then they look dramatically above the camera and allow the hollywood style three-point lighting to catch Orpheus face, creating a stereotypical dramatic filminc sequence that is not in continuity with the rest of the film.

It’s clearly evident that Cocteau has taken a great deal of artistic license with the specific plot of the myth in his retelling of Orpheus. However he does make a few subtle hints throughout the film that demonstrate a deeper mythic understanding than the simple synopsis that he gave at the beginning of the filmic sequence. Take for example the first time Orpheus sits in the car listening to the enchanting radio: Heurtebise comes up to Orpheus and says “Beware of the Sirens” Orpheus replies “It is I who charm them.” This is a direct invocation of Orpheus’ aforementioned work with the Argonauts in combatting the Sirens. However in this instance, Cocteau is using this mythic understanding to connect the power that these radio signals, which end up being ‘the poetry crafted by Death,’ with the the power of Sirens. This connection articulates the enchanting power that Death has over Orpheus. It is this power that Death has over Orpheus that is one of the largest differences in the myth and the plot of the film. Orpheus does not love Death in the myth, but he does in the film. However, as film critic John Carvalho stipulates “Only a love of death could have inspired songs capable of winning the Greek Orpheus access to Hades… and persuade him to part with one of his recent prizes.” This exaggerated love of Death in the film adds to Cocteau’s aforementioned connections with a true poet dying multiple times. Orpheus in the film loses love twice as much as the mythic Orpheus, because of the constructed love-triangle with Eurydice and Death. This is merely Cocteau injecting his personal belief system into the myth of Orpheus. Another interesting deeper-mythic allusion that Cocteau makes multiple times in the film is the allusion of Orpheus losing his head. Orpheus does not directly lose his head at any point in the film. However, Cocteau slips subtle allusions in dialogue such as “your husband wouldn’t lose his head so easily” or “yours is a perfect marriage, but sometimes men lose their heads” when speaking about Orpheus (Figure D). This is evident to note because it creates a system in Cocteau’s film where those who understand the myth behind this story extract more from the films dialogue than those who have not been exposed to the myth; thereby incentivising mythical education in consuming Cocteau’s film. This connection to incentivising mythic understanding throughout the film points to a subtle commentary that is articulated by the filmic action. This concept is exposed most blatantly in the altered ending of the film. Just before he’s taken away by Deaths Henchmen, Heurtebise lets slip a strange sentence: he states “we had to return them to their swamp” (Figure E). As you shall recall, he and Death had just altered reality by stripping Orpheus and Eurydice of their mythic connection, allowing them to live ‘normal’ lives. Thus the ‘swamp’ that Hertsobiese is speaking of is the life that Orpheus and Eurydice were given at the end of the film: a life stipped of myth. Here Cocteau constructs a dichotomy where life with myth is placed in a linguistically higher place than the ‘swamp like’ life that is given to them in the film. The life Orpheus lives in the film, a life stripped of myth, is described in this scene as a swamp. When connected with the aforementioned subtle incentives given to the viewer who is knowledgeable of myth, it’s evident that Cocteau is articulating that a life without myth is not worth living. A life without myth in Cocteau’s world is either a “swamp” or jumbled words without context.

Cocteau articulates that mythic understand is what gives life meaning and what connects the unconnectable. This is a truth evident in the artwork that we have been exposed to in class; Take the stamnos by Hermonax again seen in Figure B: without the mythic background, this vase would have little to no meaning to us. But with mythic understanding we understand that these women are Thracian and that the figure of Orpheus is being killed by them. This background adds life to the art, and is worth preserving. This is what Cocteau is pointing to in creating this work: that myth is worth preserving in is important to add context to greater life. Even without delving deep into Cocteau’s Orphee, this general conclusion is apparent. Why else would Cocteau re-imagine a thousand year old myth, if not to ensure its preservation in modern society. By creating this film, Cocteau ensures that the spirit of his muse Orpheus lives on through each viewer that divulges his breathtaking film.

Bibliography Apollonius Rhodius, William H Race, Argonotica, (Cambridge), 2008. Carpender, T.H, Art and Myth in Ancient Greece, (London), 1991. Evans, Arthur, Jean Cocteau and his Films of Orphic Identity , (Philadelphia), 1977. Gauteur, C., “Jean Cocteau et le cinéma,” in Image et Son (Paris), 1972. Hammond, R. M., “The Mysteries of Cocteau’s Orpheus ,” in Cinema Journal (Iowa City), 1972. Lambert, Gavin, “Cocteau and Orpheus,” in Sequence (London), 1950. Long, Chester Clayton, “Cocteau’s Orphée: From Myth to Drama to Film,” in Quarterly Journal of Speech , 1965. Ovid, and Frank Justus Miller. Ovid: Metamorphoses. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1946. Peters, Arthur King, Jean Cocteau and His World: An Illustrated Biography , London, 1987. Tsakiridou,Cornelia A, Reviewing Orpheus: Essays on the Cinema and Art of Jean Cocteau, (London), 1997. Virgil, Janet Lembke, Georgics, (New Haven), 2005. Zimerman, JE, Dictionary of Classical Mythology, (New York), 1964.

Colored, Kareem Obey

Vessels, Katie Fee

Dinner Set, Katie Fee

23 WILLIAM & MARY ART HISTORY MAJOR Minimum Required Credit Hours: 39 Core Requirements: ART 211 - Drawing and Color ART 212 - Three-dimensional Design: Form and Space ARTH 251 - Survey of the History of Art I ARTH 252 - Survey of the History of Art II 3 Credits in Each Core Field: A. Medieval B. Renaissance and Baroque C. Modern D. American E. Non-Western/Cross Cultural ARTH 480 Two ART 400 Level Courses 1 Art History Elective Major Writing Requirement WILLIAM & MARY STUDIO ART MAJOR Minimum Required Credit Hours: 39 Core Requirements: ART 211 - Drawing and Color ART 212 - Three-dimensional Design: Form and Space ART 461 - Capstone I ART 462 - Capstone II ART 463 - Capstone III ARTH 251 - Survey of the History of Art I ARTH 252 - Survey of the History of Art II ARTH 300 or 400 level ARTH 300 or 400 level 17 Additional Credits in Two or Three-Dimensional Focus Studies Major Writing Requirement

Untitled Series, Matt Lentini

MOVEMENT AS DANCE by: Michael Winn

Acropolis Magazine was able to catch up with William & Mary’s own Megan Carter-Stone ‘17, of Pointe Blank Dance Company. With this issue’s theme being Movement, we thought that incorporating dance would be a great example of the theme since dance is movement’s truest art form. In the interview, Megan opened up about her beginnings as a dancer, her involvement with Pointe Blank, and her interpretation of dance as an art form.

How did you get involved in dance? I started ballet in preschool, but I didn’t really get serious about it until my first year of high school. In many dance schools, the three main types of dance are ballet, tap, and jazz. In high school, I cut out tap and focused more on jazz and contemporary dance. How did you get involved with Pointe Blank Dance Company? I researched dance groups at W&M before I came to college. My freshmen OA was also the former president of Pointe Blank and suggested I audition. Who is your inspiration for dance? Who do you look up to? I’m inspired by everyday life, personal events, relationships, the other dancers, and of course music. Will you continue with dance after college? I hope so, I’m not really sure right now. I’d like to always take dance classes or be a volunteer dance teacher. Would you consider dance as a form of art? Yes, of course! It is a way for one to express oneself, while centered in a traditional discipline.

Our theme is Movement, what would you say about dance as an art form in that respect? I would say that movement is the medium of dance. In a way, movement is to dance as a paintbrush is to painting, but also adds a third dimension- time. Dance is fleeting. It is very therapeutic. I benefit both mentally and physically from it. Dance allows me to express myself while exploring emotion in a safe space by becoming someone else.

Rickshaw in Penang, April Zheng

Rodin, Sophie Helm

The Meaning and Associations of ‘Spaces’ Within the Work of Jackson Pollock ca. 1950 Michael Winn

When one views a Jackson Pollock, they are not simply viewing a physical painting, but rather the energetic result of Pollock’s experience while applying the paint to the canvas. It is this feeling of chaos and serenity, anger and balance that is exuded from the canvas and provides a ‘space’ for the viewer to immerse themselves in, the same ‘space’ and emotion that Jackson Pollock was present within while executing the work. This ‘space’ and the purpose of Pollock’s art is the topic of discussion by many art historians and artists throughout modern art history and is defined by art critics. How these spaces are incorporated in Pollock’s circa 1950 pieces during the high point of his career and the different elements that are interconnected with their meaning and development are of preponderant importance in understanding the greater context and meaning of his paintings. An example of his 1950 work is located at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., it is from the high point in Pollock’s career and is titled Lavender Mist or Number One, 1950. This work is a preponderant masterpiece by Pollock and truly evokes these emotions or feelings that works by the artist normally evoke in the viewer. This set of emotions and feelings will be discussed in further detail as we explore not only this work, but elements of Jackson Pollock’s career that are evident in Lavender Mist and other pieces from this part of his artistic career. To truly understand this idea of a painting creating a physical space that the viewer enters, we need to discuss ways in which art critics and art historians have suggested this occurs. In a revelatory quote said by Dr. Charles Palermo, art historian and professor of Art History at The College of William & Mary, he asserts a definition of this ‘space’ and thus how it is created. “Fictions of a space, so subtle in construction, so dazzling that it seems you can enter only through your eyes, and that space is responsive to the corners and edges of the canvas, because it is fictional, and has repeating rhythmic movement, that is all for you to discover.” This statement beautifully describes how this sense of a ‘space’ is created by a work of art by Jackson Pollock.

30 In another reference to Dr. Palermo, “These paintings are spaces in which Jackson Pollock once occupied and recorded his action, and the viewer is then reading back through them to his presence, to his actions.” This defines truly how one might consider his works when physically standing before them. They are canvases with a visual record of his actions and movements around the canvas, some works even including handprints that indicate his physical contact and emotional connection to the canvas. This supports his attachment to unconsciously creating this dimension that connects to the viewer on an emotional level. This is a difficult concept to grasp, visualize, and then apply to a work of art, so here is another way to describe this idea in other words. A Pollock painting when viewing it in close proximity, truly encompasses ones entire vision, both in the sense of direct and peripheral, so much that one is overwhelmed by the lines, paint, and color that one enters this other ‘space’ that the artist once occupied. It is this methodology and uniqueness in viewing that makes Jackson Pollock such a fascinating and inspirational artist in a plethora of ways. In Lavender Mist, the overall work is quite large, 221 x 299.7 cm (87 x 118 in.) which calculates out to be about seven and a quarter feet by almost ten feet. That sort of size definitely instills a presence, and in its setting in the National Gallery, it definitely does just that. From afar, it appears to be a medley of an almost pastel like palette with a black and white veil thrown upon it. It is when one beholds its glory from a close proximity, and edges in ever closer to the expanse of color and texture that one can truly ‘see’ a Jackson Pollock and its’ complex web of lines and vast array of colors. Upon viewing Lavender Mist in this close proximity, you look at one section and think you see all of the colors, but then you pick up on some element of the work and your vision shifts to a whole new plethora of colors that you had not previously seen. It is almost a form of an optical illusion that is within the viewer’s mind, as their mind dances in trying to visualize and find all of the elements and colors in the same way Pollock danced around the canvas to create the work. This is yet another example of a shared space between the viewer and the artist. When one experiences the emotional attachment to the piece, by feelings such as confusion and frustration, one is then beginning to enter within the realm that Pollock painted these works, and then enter the previously mentioned shared space that the artist once occupied. Viewing a Jackson Pollock is a very subjective experience, for every viewer will in one way or another see something different, or in a different order than the person before them. It is for this reason, that so many try to define an undefinable work of art. One can view it and reach a conclusion on an emotion that they felt or what they felt the piece was trying to manifest. However, despite our discussion of ways to try to understand a Pollock, it is totally up to each individual viewer to grasp from the painting what their mind so chooses to grasp. A common thread within the element of these works is that the viewer looks ‘into’ them just as one would a landscape painting. This gives yet another ‘space’ in which the viewer can step into. Now, we have three spaces in which we can be within, when in the presence of a Jackson Pollock and truly connect with the artist. These are an emotional connection, his ‘dance’ in which our minds dance about the painting to find the elements and colors, and the physical dimension of the work in what we see beyond the colors. This last element is mainly attainable in trying to decipher the webs upon webs of colors, as one attempts to push the order of which they were applied forward and back. Yet, this again causes a tension within the viewer’s vision and mind and a feeling of overall befuddlement. By therefore experiencing this emotional turmoil, you merge back into the first space shared with Pollock. Lavender Mist exudes this very idea of depth, with a ‘mist’ of visual components and colors that obscure whatever endless result we are trying to search for within the work. When looking into it, one cannot help but try to overlap the colors and decipher in which order they were applied. In doing this, one inadvertently discovers more colors and this leads that feeling of befuddlement and awe at the same time. This awe comes in a form of respect to the fact that Pollock could apply so much paint through such a method of dripping that it is actually extremely intellectual and mentally stimulating. So much so that it humbles the viewer to truly respect the piece of art as more than simply a piece of art but for all of the underlying and overarching themes, motifs, provenance, and emotions that went into its’ achievement and creation.

We have discussed how Pollock felt a sense of emotion himself while painting, a feeling that the viewer takes in when beholding his work. This emotion was due to sense of anxiousness that Pollock had when it came to his work. He moved from his cramped apartment in New York City in which he was contained and somewhat inhibited in the size of the works he could execute, to the more rural Long Island. He then worked out of a large shed on the property, in which his art flourished. This flourishing however brought on further popularity in his work in which he was again in a pressured environment. This peaked with an August 8th, 1949 Life magazine article that showcased Pollock and asked if he was in fact the greatest living painter in the United States. He felt as if he had to defend his works of art and his style, which was so different that any American artist, mostly due to the ‘success’ of his drip painting style. This ‘success’ was defined by critics such as the famous Jackson Pollock critic, Clement Greenberg. Greenberg pointed out in a 1962 article in Encounter, that Pollock’s paintings “were autonomous works of art that should be judged by their aesthetic failure or success.”1 In discussing the importance of Clement Greenberg’s criticism of Pollock, he also made an assertion in Partisan Review in 1952 regarding Pollock’s show at the Betty Parsons Gallery. “[The show] reveals a turn but not a sharp change of direction; there is a kind of relaxation, but the outcome is a newer and loftier triumph.”2 This comment is in relation to the difference between Pollock’s dripped paintings of 1947-1950 and the poured paintings of 1951. These critics defined Pollock’s work as ‘successful’ based on the works ability to create that sense of fiction that previously mentioned. If that space that Jackson Pollock previously occupied and recorded that action was attainable through viewing the work, then it was defined as being a successful work of art, if it did not allow for this ‘space’ then it was deemed unsuccessful. In a very candid excerpt from ‘My Painting’ by Jackson Pollock, he discusses his painting technique and his inspiration for his methodology. He begins the excerpt by discussing how he never works on a stretched canvas but rather lays the canvas out onto the floor for a harder surface. “On the floor I am more at ease. I feel nearer, more a part of the painting, since this way I can walk round it, work from the four sides and literally be in the painting. This is akin to the method of the Indian sand painters of the West.”3 Here Pollock revealed that he is sourcing his method of painting to that of the mandalas, or sand paintings, which were temporary works of art which were created as sacred spaces in which to meditate. One cannot help but to see the obvious ties of this ideology to Pollock’s work. He worked in his painting both figuratively and literally, as illustrated in this next quote from the same source. “When I am in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing. It is only after a sort of ‘get acquainted’ period that I see what I have been about.”(Rose 69). This quote shows that he also had an out of body experience while painting, in that same vein that the Indian monks meditated, Pollock was no longer truly within his body and into the realm of his unconsciousness while painting, in his own realm of meditation. For the sake of sharing revelatory quotes by Pollock himself about his work, the next quote helps to support how Pollock felt about his paintings: I have no fears about making changes, destroying the image, etc., because the painting has a life of its own. I try to let it come through. It is only when I lose contact with the painting that the result is a mess. Otherwise there is pure harmony, an easy give and take, and the painting comes out well. (Rose 69) This quote is immensely insightful into Pollock’s mindset when painting, a notion and factor of the work of art that is crucially important to one’s overall understanding of it. This idea of the work of art having a life of its’ own is an element that allows us to decipher why Pollock let his unconscious guide the first applications of paint to the canvas. He didn’t want his own insight or judgment to take over, but rather as he mentioned, for the piece itself to have its’ own liveliness. When he loses touch with what he is doing, and touch with his unconscious, his painting then suffers and it is in his terms, unsuccessful. In the same vein, in the introduction of Jeremy Lewison’s Interpreting Pollock, there is an excerpt from Scottish artist, Alan Davie’s response of Pollock after viewing the 1948 showing of Peggy Guggenheim’s collection of art in Venice. He sensed a kindred spirit in Pollock, “a passionate interest in the art of primitive peoples’ and a sense of ‘liberation- a setting free of the natural spiritual flow within us’.” (Lewison 7). The description by Davie of Pollock’s work as being a liberation is another way in which to relate them to the purpose of the mandala once again. They were created for use in meditation, and in Hinduism it is the goal to free oneself and achieve a higher state through meditation and knowledge. In the same way as Pollock was liberating the

natural flow within oneself perhaps even himself through his art. In respect to two themes of perception in relation to the works of Jackson Pollock, Michael Fried and Allan Kaprow are two significant art critics. These definitions and perceptions of Pollock’s work were covered in a class lecture by Dr. Charles Palermo, who was quoted previously. Fried, a modernist art critic, has a perception that relates an “autonomous formal arrangement that is responsive to the conventions of constraints of the medium of painting.” At the level of Pollock’s greatest pieces, such as at the time of the execution of Lavender Mist, there is a hint of a poetical reference to a sort of self-consciousness in front of the painting. Kaprow, an artist himself, had the perception of “imaginatively recreating Pollock’s dance around the paintings like an index pointing back to this dance. Through the construction of this index, that action is repeated, and its’ traces are thus present to you.” Kaprow also makes a revelatory statement in regards to the future of art, “Art is an affordance to experiences, that is totally your own and totally subjective” as Palermo describes. In Fried’s perception, we take in the notion, that Pollock’s works are their own entity. They come from only themselves and are thus independent, or autonomous. He asserts that there is a poetical reference, as poems are writings true art form, he is thus connecting the art of words to that of paint. The paint represents Pollock’s words and by thrusting paint on the canvas, it is like he is writing a poem, as we enter into his self-conscious mind. In Kaprow’s perception, we learn that he was tied to one of the ‘spaces’ we discussed earlier. That was the space of sharing in the dance that Pollock was once a part of. Our eyes and minds dance about the painting in viewing it, as he physically danced around the canvas while painting it. In regard to Kaprow’s statement about the future of art as being an affordance to experiences, ones that are our own and subjective, there is a truth in that matter. As art has progressed, some works are strictly about the experience rather than what is physically before you in a visual realm. In Pollock’s case, his art was subjective. Each person who views Pollock’s paintings has their own experience with the work of art, each sees something different and interprets it in their own unique way. Jackson Pollock’s legacy has left and will continue to leave a lasting impact on the art world. His abstract and subjective works are timeless examples of the culmination of what the unconscious and artistic creativity can execute. Pollock’s works create a ‘space’ that is as out of body of the physical canvas as he was from his mind when initially starting to paint a work. His inspirations and methods all help to support art criticism and encourage art critics to decipher his works. Lavender Mist is an iconic masterpiece of the artist, and represents all of the fields and motifs that we have discussed. One can truly gain that sense of a ‘space’ that the piece creates and that Jackson Pollock once occupied when executing the large canvas. As we end our discussion of Pollock and the ‘spaces’ created within his works of art, let us end on a quote by him. This quote successfully identifies Pollock’s own outlook on the world of modern art and claims that at the present it is in fact bold and somewhat ‘strange’ but that it is a deeper meaning that will manifest the artwork itself. “The strangeness will wear off and I think we will discover the deeper meanings in modern art”-Jackson Pollock. Bibliography Elizabeth Frank, Jackson Pollock, (New York: Cross River Press, Ltd., 1983), 83. Jeremy Lewison, Interpreting Pollock, ( London: Tate Gallery Publishing, Ltd., 1999), 60. Barbara Rose, Pollock Painting, (New York: Agrinde Publications, Ltd., 1978), 69. Image Caption Number 1, 1950 (Lavendar Mist), 1950, Jackson Pollock (1912-1956), oil, enamel, and aluminum on canvas, 221 x 299.7 cm (87 x 118 in.)

Untitled, Meredith Boulos

Pit Stop, Maggie Pelta-Pauls

Catron Scholar Profile: Kelsey Hughes By Sophie Helm The Louis E. Catron Scholarship program is a highly competitive William & Mary studio art project initiative which encourages international travel and a broadening perspective on artistic inspiration for students. Kelsey Hughes 15’ travelled to Edinburgh Scotland in Summer, 2014 for an international educational arts program. Kelsey’s pieces and the artwork of 8 other Catron Recepients exhibited their collectons in a semester ending show in the Andrews Gallery. What project did you choose to pursue when awarded the Catron scholarship. What was your inspiration? (aka where you travelled to, what was your primary subject matter and its significance to you) For my Catron Scholarship I was able to travel abroad to Edinburgh Scotland to take two printmaking classes in a studio in the city. I had taken classes before but this presented an opportunity to study a nontoxic more environmentally friendly process as well as take a screenprinting course that is not taught here at William and Mary. Was printmaking a new artistic medium or technique that you hadn't been familiar with before? It was fascinating taking these classes because I was able to experiment with photography in printmaking, something I had never done before. The process was much the same, which was so surprising. I’m hoping to continue to experiment with it here at William and Mary.

Above: Gallery Wall at Catron Scholar Exhibition, Fall 2014 Left: Kelsey practicing her craft at the Printmaking Studios, Edinburgh Summer, 2014 Right Above: Lowlands, Screenprint Right Below: Winter Wood, Aquatint Etching

How did your work develop as you began to create the prints? Did you face any set backs along your travels? I think the most interesting part of my experience was how the studio and the other artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s influenced my work. I gained so many new ideas and perspectives and they boosted my confidence tremendously. I saw my work really improve and branch out to encompass these new ideas. I believe I produced my best work during this time abroad. And it has definitely continued to improve my work at school. Did you feel as though this opportunity broadened your perspective for artistic creation? What are your future plans to develop new work? Are there any new artistic mediums that you would like to work with in the future? One thing I would still like to work on, however, is introducing screenprinting here at school. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not taught but it is such a great medium for graphic design. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m hoping with a little persuasion, we can start to see a change here. I and the other scholars learned so much and we really want to see that information be adopted by William and Mary.

View from Under, Lynn Nakamura

Daily, Lynn Nakamura