Archive for February, 2010

Did you enjoy your bedroom this morning, get a good Sunday lie-in, and maybe a long laze with another half or the papers? If not, and your weren’t feeling the right vibes, then perhaps that’s down to where you have your nightstands and whether you cracked the window. For those who believe, the principles of feng shui can improve the energy (or chi) in the rooms in your home, enhancing the balance and harmony in your life. As many will know, feng shui is an ancient Chinese system of aesthetics that uses laws of Heaven and Earth to cleanse and boost flow of chi for positive knock-on effects. The most important place for a feng shui overhaul is the bedroom apparently, since it’s where the body, heart and soul restore themselves daily. As well as correctly aligning objects and elements within the room, proper practice would see you banish your phone, TV, computer and exercise equipment since these things sap good energy. It’s also beneficial to have different levels of light (a strong source of nutrition) and aspirational images on your wall.

Roy Lichtenstein’s Bedroom at Arles (1992) brings our bedroom approaches and arrangements into fresh focus. The American painter, printmaker and sculptor Lichtenstein (1923 – 1997) came up with a distinctive style, based on cartoon and advertising images, in the 1960s. This work, currently hanging in the atrium of the East Building at the NGA, has all of his hallmarks. It’s large scale (320cm x 420cm) and uses garish colors (acid yellow, bright turquoise). There are thick black outlines similar to what we’d find in a comic book and all the forms are flattened. The dots on the back wall are also typical of the artist, simulating the mass printing used in comics of the 1950s and 60s. They’re called Ben-Day dots, after the illustrator and printer Benjamin Day, who worked out that by using dots either closely spaced, far apart or overlapping (in cyan, magenta, yellow and black), you can cheaply create primary and secondary colors as well as shaded effects.

We’re accustomed to Lichtenstein exploiting “popular” images, but here he’s looking at someone else’s bedroom for inspiration. This is a take on a famous work by the Dutch artist Vincent van Gogh (1853 – 1890), who painted three versions of the room he occupied in a house in Arles, France (one in 1888 now in Amsterdam, and two in 1889, one of which is now in Chicago and the other – shown here – in Paris). It was in the 1960s that Lichtenstein first began parodying well-known paintings by other masters. Here, he takes van Gogh’s expressive post-Impressionist style and turns it into his own cartoonish vision. Using oil and magna (a kind of paint made from ground pigment in an acrylic resin with solvents and plasticizer), he “cleans up” the original swirling surfaces. He flattens the texture on the wood of the bed and the chair seats. Lichtenstein creates an alternative version of van Gogh’s willful brushstrokes: the floor boards are transformed into a sinuously patterned plane and the blue back wall is filtered into a screen of Ben-Day dots.

Do we see this as an homage to an iconic image or a more subversive twist? Is is a good rebrand for our times or an aggressive rip into high art? Whatever your view, it’s clear that both these images invite and lure us in, and excite and calm us in equal measure. Those are, I’ve read, the objectives for a good feng shui bedroom (though it’s hard to say whether either van Gogh or Lichtenstein were into their Chinese wisdom).

I’ve just read a book about reclaiming life’s simple pleasures called The Wonderful Weekend Book by the English writer, Elspeth Thompson. It starts by setting out the fact that for many of us, weekends can speed by in a mishmash of chores, DIY, expense, shopping and stress (not to mention ferrying kids from one engagement to the next). Apparently we spend about six hours of Saturday and Sunday on food shopping, house and garden maintenance and other mundane tasks. Possible reasons for the demise of our weekends include less time to run an errand during the week (due to strenuous jobs) and the fact that more of us own homes. Thompson’s book  isn’t about denying the progress of our times or recalling a bygone era when no-one had a phone, shops were shut of a Sunday and everyone went to church. But it is looking to re-establish the weekend as a time for relaxation, sport, hobbies, families and friends. It’s time to re-charge the batteries and do some of the things we actually want to do, so we don’t get to Sunday night and think “where did the weekend go?”

There’s a picture at the NGA called The Bedroom that sends out this new weekend idea loud and clear. It’s by a Dutch artist called Pieter de Hooch (1629 – 1684) who was born in Rotterdam and trained in Haarlem. Along with Jan Vermeer (1632 – 1675), de Hooch was one of the most accomplished masters of the Delft school, a category of mid 17th century Dutch painting named after it’s main city base and known for its scenes of domestic life, households, church interiors, courtyards and streets.

This genre (everyday) scene was painted during de Hooch’s time in Delft (c. 1652 – 60) and is exactly the sort of homely view he excelled at. It shows a woman with bed sheets to the right and a little girl holding open a door, through which we spy a bright courtyard. Line and light are combined to create a realistic and atmospheric sense of space: there are converging lines on the floor tiles and an alternate pattern of lit and shady areas, measuring the spatial recession. The artist uses the light flooding in from the left to give the figures and objects a rounded sense of form.

Most beguiling here though (and this is a characteristic of the best works that came out of the Delft school), is the sense of tranquility in this scene. It’s due in part to the ordered composition and the balance of light and shade. But there’s an enchanting feeling of restrained joy that comes from the fact that de Hooch’s eye is trained on the beauty of life’s smallest details. Spot the pretty picture above the door, or the glinting pot on the floor. See the rich green curtains and the beautiful chairs.

The true focus of this painting however is the child, holding a ball and looking to the woman with a smile and question: “will you come out and play?” With this, the artist conveys something of the ease with which children freely pursue life’s simple pleasures. The adult woman on the other hand has an acquired sense of responsibility and no doubt a to-do list: she’s engaged in a chore. It’s promising that de Hooch has her smiling back at the girl: maybe she’ll leave her task to play in the sun for a while. Not a bad idea, and perhaps one we can all take inspiration from, as a small step to getting back something of our wonderful weekends.

Yesterday was the last day of New York Fashion Week, which looks from the sidelines to have delivered the usual mix of high glamour and drama. Fashion Weeks the world over, whether in Paris, London, Milan or the US, are all about being seen. Once design houses and individuals have showcased their collections for the upcoming year, pictures of models in the latest looks are shuttled over the globe, giving us a glimpse of trends for successive seasons. Some’ll have the wallet for the real thing, while others will have to wait until the high street interprets the clothes at more manageable price points.

Fashion gatherings lay bare the pull and power of dressing in our era. It’s clear for instance that it’s only partly about the clothes on the catwalk, with designers aiming to fill their front rows with famous faces, preferably dressing any personalities that attend. While a lot of this hoopla is far beyond our day-to-day experience of fashion, we do all get to read about some singer causing a stink in a series of outlandish outfits in Paris or the 14-your-old fashion blogger who sported a grey-rinse and sensible knits in New York. Whether we like it or not, it’s all proof of the potential of clothes to anger, enthuse or carry a message.

One artist at the NGA who understood the power of dressing was Agnolo di Cosimo, or Bronzino (1503 – 72). He was court painter for the Medici (the family who ruled Florence in the 15th and 16th centuries), doing mainly allegorical scenes and official portraits. In this picture, A Young Woman and Her Little Boy (c. 1540), a lady holds herself rigid in the sort of formal pose typical of members of the entourage of Cosimo I, Duke of Tuscany. Nestled at the left is a small blonde boy, who was added when Bronzino reworked this picture (X-radiography shows that she at first stood alone, with her right hand against her skirt).

Despite the straight gazes and open body-language here, this picture remains a mystery in as much as we don’t have a fixed idea of who the woman is. Beyond basic assumptions of her birth and social circle, it’s now largely her clothes that do the talking to us. Light enters from the left and brings her red dress alive: the ruches shine and the damask pattern meanders visibly. The fine golden material at the neckline is held in place by a single pearl. See the feathery lace at her wrists and fine inlaid rings on her fingers. The chains at the neck, breast and waist fall in concentric swags.

Even if this woman’s identity were known, the garments would still form a central part of the picture. The colors (a green background enriches the red further), patterns, textures and shapes all suggest wealth and womanly status and Bronzino’s analytical, clinical style lends itself perfectly to picking out the intricacies of these clothes. Would it surprise you to discover that the artist actually updated this lady’s wardrobe when he worked on the painting a second time? He enlarged and embellished her headdress, puffed her sleeves, gave her gloves and put in the pattern on her bodice. Bronzino was an artist aware of the power of dressing in his context, so much so that his works may even have affected the way women wanted to look at court, inspired by the lavish clothes, stiff stance and haughty expression we see here. Florentine fashion trend-setting at its finest, it would seem.

According to scientific studies, by 17th Feb most people will have broken their new year’s resolutions. It’s an annoyingly familiar scenario: you started 2010 on a “new year, new me” note, brimming with plans to train for a marathon, write a bestseller or just remember more of your friends’ birthdays. But somewhere along the line it’s already gone a bit wrong. Luckily, there are people in the motivation business keen to share advice on how we can better stay on track. One psychology professor at New York University says it’s key to plan for obstacles: by anticipating pitfalls they’re less likely to derail our intentions. It’s also important to be realistic in our aspirations (to avoid demotivation), and to work on them each and every day. If the going gets tough, call on family and friends who are supportive and want to see you succeed. Finally, try not to let boredom settle in, says Frank Busch (he should know – he’s coached three Olympic swim teams).

Now if this verbal strategizing has turned you off already, then let’s try another tack and go for some visual coaching at the NGA. Just one look at Target (1958) by Jasper Johns should help to re-focus the mind and re-galvanize the resolve. Johns (b. 1930) is a prolific American painter, sculptor and printmaker. In the late 1950s he changed the course of art in the US by challenging the dominant Abstract Expressionist style. Johns aimed instead to use familiar images and recognizable objects, creating works that then paved the way for the Pop art phenomenon of the 1960s. His work Flag (1954-55), a literal take on the stars and stripes, was groundbreaking and also established a working pattern for the artist whereby once he hit on a subject he liked, he’d do a series of related images in varying forms, colors and media.

It was in 1955 that targets became a key subject for Johns. When looking at this example in the NGA you’re hit by the fact that a normal, mundane thing, freshly perceived, can pack a serious visual punch. In Johns’s hands, what could so easily look derivative or bland becomes a physical and visual testament to the insight and inspiration of the artist.

Target (1958) is made with oil and collage on canvas. The stark combination of three bright primary colors strikes you instantly. In fact, the alternate rings of blue and yellow actually make your eyes go a bit funny after a while. The red surround either creates or denies a sense of space, I’m not sure which: to my eyes it helps to thrust the target forwards. And you don’t even need to step in close to see the roughly textured surface, whipped and whizzed up between the oil paint and collage materials.

It’s quite something, to imagine Johns grappling manually with his target, taking this symbol in hand. Truly for us, it can offer encouragement too, especially if we take a look below the surface for some more motivational suggestions. As a pioneering artist, Johns has to have conviction, both in his subjects and style: in our case too, our chances of success at anything are deeply rooted in self-belief. Also, I’d say making art is often about enjoying the process, not just eyeing the finish line, a completed work or ticked-off objective. Lastly – and this is the clincher – if something has intense meaning and personal significance for us (like art has for Johns), then we’re that much more likely to see it through. So now, how does that target look?

In the Western Christian calendar, today is Ash Wednesday (dies cinerum). It’s the first day of Lent and occurs 46 days (40, not counting Sundays) before Easter. In a solemn ritual dating back to the 8th century, church-goers approach the altar at the start of the service, for the priest to mark each forehead with ash in the shape of a cross. While doing so he’ll say “remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.” The day is also linked to an old Christian practice of covering the head with ashes, to show awareness of mortality and repentance for sins.

So this Wednesday marks the start of Lent for Christians. In the past this might have meant a period of self-denial, reflecting the suffering and temptations of Jesus as he fasted for 40 days in the wilderness. These days though, while some might still set out to give up something like cheese (in the case of my husband) or diet cokes (that’s me), the strictness of Lent has been relaxed. But even without cutting anything out, these six weeks can be filled with a special sort of looking forward, whatever you believe. It’s a chance to work towards Easter, witness the unfurling of spring or simply watch the days get longer.

For me, there’s a painting at the NGA that subtly conveys this softly-softly sense of hope. It’s called Grey and Silver: Chelsea Wharf (c. 1864/1868), by James McNeill Whistler (1834 – 1903). Born in Lowell, Massachusetts, Whistler ended up spending most of his life as an expatriate living in England. He was a painter, designer and printmaker, perhaps best-known for his night-time scenes of London.

As its title suggests, this work shows a section of the banks and waters of the Thames. Not long before painting this, Whistler had given up working en plein air (out in the open) in favour of a new approach. He’d boat on the river, watch the mists and light effects and only create his landscapes later, back in the studio, from memories and sketches. Perhaps that’s why here, the harsh tenements and factories on the distant Battersea shore are transformed into an ephemeral vision of spires and domes. Perhaps that’s why there’s such a settled feeling in the composition, built into a loose grid of horizontals (docks and water lines) and verticals (masts and figures). Those few poles that jut diagonally serve somehow to highlight the regularity. Whistler’s colors appear at first as a muted blend of grey and beige, but peer closer and it’s clear this calming, restorative scheme is more complex than that. The jagged lines of the masts and sails are painted in toned-down versions of complementary blue and orange, which brings a tender tension and latent energy into view.

Whistler rejected the artistic conventions of his time and actually came up with his own style, a hybrid of French Realism and Japanese decorative influences. He was also a central figure of the Aestheticism, a British and American Movement that grew in the second half of the 19th century and covered literature as well as art. Whistler maintained that subject matter in a painting was secondary to evoking mood and creating harmonies of color and composition. He was also a firm believer in “art for art’s sake”, adamant that a picture shouldn’t necessarily have to convey a moral or religious message. For Whistler, art was about providing emotional sustenance and aesthetic pleasure. So whether we plan to observe Lent or not, it’s nice to know there’s some visual succor close at hand.

For more than 1,000 years, this day in the UK has been known as Shrove Tuesday. The word ‘shrove’ is the past tense of the (old) English verb ‘shrive’, meaning to obtain absolution for one’s sins through confession and penance. Shrovetide (the week leading up to today) is when Christians were expected to cleanse themselves in preparation for the 40-day season of fasting and prayer known as Lent (which begins tomorrow).

So Shrove Tuesday was traditionally about clearing out the soul and cleaning up the mind before a time of personal communion with God. It was also the time to empty out your larder, since church regulations tended to restrict the consumption of pleasure-giving foods during Lent. So all scraps of meat (‘collops’) were eaten up on ‘Collop Monday’ and butter, milk, eggs and sugar needed to be used up the next day. A pancake recipe was one of the best ways of using up all the goodies from your cupboard, making a fun final feast before the leaner Lenten days (hence today is often referred to as Pancake Day).

That feeling of looking forward to a fabulous feed, laced with butter and enriched with eggs is perfectly packaged in this picture, Mound of Butter (1875/1885) in the Small French Paintings section of the NGA. It’s by Antoine Vollon (1833 – 1900) a French realist painter, known as the Chardin of his day (we looked at Chardin on 10 Feb). Vollon was most accomplished as a painter of still-life scenes, in which he would depict objects stored in his studio such as fruit, flowers, tankards, copper cauldrons and bowls. He exhibited at the annual Salon shows in Paris but remains somewhat under the radar to this day.

This painting’s pared-down approach brings us close to the beauty of everyday things, whether we’re giving up butter for Lent or not. The objects are thrust up against the picture plane and the sense of depth is diminished. The mound of butter looms large, bigger than any I’ve seen before. The pyramidal pile of fat rises majestically and mountain-like from what looks like a linen cloth or paper casing. The golden paint so perfectly emulates the color of butter that the lips start to smack and and the taste-buds tingle.

What Vollon excels at is the actual handling of paint. Close up in the butter area, one sees the way the oil has been slathered on in thick slicks. The strokes are quick and sure, purposefully leaving tracks of paint that harden onto the canvas. Vollon used brushes for this effect, but also the brush handle, his palette knife and occasionally his hands. The result here is unlike anything I’ve seen before: it literally looks as if it’s been painting with butter.

For as long as people have observed Shrove Tuesday, it’s been a time for fun and festivity, ahead of the more somber period to come. This is the root of the carnival traditions that lots of countries observe in February. The word carnival, popularly translated as “goodbye meat” (from the Italian ‘carne’ – flesh, and ‘vale’ – farewell) also has an older derivation from the Latin ‘carnelevarium’ (meaning ‘solace – or lightening – of the flesh’). Now I don’t know about lightening the flesh – I’m pretty certain Vollon’s avalanche of butter would cause quite the opposite effect – but today’s a day for a blowout. So if you’re in the mood for some food, then here’s the best pancake recipe I’ve ever tried (it’s the melted butter that makes them so good).

Ingredients:

250g plain flour

50g white sugar

5g salt

Zest of an orange

500ml milk

4 eggs

1 tsp vanilla essence

60g unsalted butter (melted)

Steps:

1. Sift the flour into a large mixing bowl. Add the sugar, orange zest and salt.

2. Whisk the milk, eggs and vanilla essence together in a separate bowl.

3. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ones, adding the melted butter last. Whisk to blend.

4. Pass the batter through a fine sieve and leave to stand for at least 30 minutes.

5. To cook, put a non-stick frying pan on a medium heat, wipe with a touch of oil.

6. Pour in just enough batter to thinly coat the bottom of the pan, cook 2 minutes per side.

With Valentine’s behind us, let’s take a look at the new dating order emerging in our era of social media. Take a young couple in courtship. Chances are that these days the romance will play out on Facebook or Twitter, in a virtual arena of known (and unknown) bystanders. As the pair’s intimacy grows, they’ll share passwords (to e-mail accounts and photo-sites) as it’s the new way of gaining love and trust. And should their love falter, the breakup will be defined by the Web as well. In the past, it was possible to cut (literally) someone out of the picture and get on with your life. But these days where the internet’s concerned, it’s practically impossible to sever ties completely. Status updates, tweets and wall-writings will continue to get back to you and digital pictures of you and your ex will still abound. It’s thanks to the interconnectedness and uncontrollability of social media that it’s now harder than ever to leave a relationship behind.

The French artist Edgar Degas (1834 – 1917) was in the habit of poring over past pictures. An influential painter, printmaker and sculptor, Degas had an academic training, attending classes at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts (France’s top official art school) and making studies of the Old Masters. He might have gone down a traditional art path, were it not for a chance meeting with Edouard Manet (1832 – 1883) who turned him into a devotee of modern-life subjects.

Since he came from a comfortable background, Degas didn’t rely solely on selling pictures for his income, so had some freedom when it came to choosing subjects. Perhaps that’s why almost all of his portraits show friends and family members. Our picture (Edmondo and Thérèse Morbilli c. 1865) shows the artist’s sister and her Neapolitan husband. Though it’s set in a living room (Degas liked working indoors) and appears posed, he avoids a structured composition becoming stilted in a number of ways. See the spontaneity of the couple’s casual poses: she’s raising a hand and he’s turning towards us, hand on hip and left leg bent on the back of the chaise. Degas deliberately didn’t use the body positions of classical statues and old paintings, thereby making his subjects look more real and familiar. Notice too the cropping (cutting off) of the dress on the left, adding to the impression of a snapshot.

What’s interesting here is that we see how Degas puts off finishing a painting, liking to go back to it again and again (he’d even retrieve already-delivered pictures to rework them). Sometimes it happened that he never completed a work, as is the case with our portrait (it was in his studio at the time of his death.) See Thérèse’s dress and shawl, as yet undefined areas of color where he’s scraped and rubbed paint off the canvas. The darker lines in these parts suggest changes Degas planned but never got round to.

I can only imagine that Degas’ habit of returning to a picture was productive for him. It allowed him to perfect it in bits, such as the fully finished faces, detailed and expressive. But for people seeking to move on from a relationship, going back to pictures and profiles on the internet might be less fruitful. Sure, there’s the sense of keeping tabs on someone and the chance to sate curiosities, but ultimately it’s unhelpful, serving only to string out and entangle a break-up even more. I don’t know if anyone ever told Degas to put down his paintbrush, but for those of us ending a romance, it’s probably best practice to change the passwords, stop the posting and get a whole new e-mail address.