Archive for April, 2010

I’m here at the National Museum of Women in the Arts, to see their brand new, bold public art project. Over the next five years, sculptures by renowned women artists will be exhibited in installations on New York Avenue right across from the museum’s front door.

Check out this week’s video blog. And special thanks to Bloum Cardenas of the Niki Charitable Art Foundation and the National Museum of Women in the Arts. Find out more about New York Avenue Sculpture Project here.

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Last night, husband and I attended the Atlantic Council Annual Awards Dinner (our first black tie event since moving to DC), as the guests of new friends here. The Atlantic Council promotes constructive US leadership and engagement in international affairs. It’s non-partisan in weaving a network of world leaders who together aim to “bring ideas to power and to give power to ideas.” Last night’s big shindig selected and celebrated impressive individuals who’ve contributed in outstanding ways to 21st-century challenges.

The Distinguished Humanitarian Leadership Award went to Bono (introduced by a surprisingly small Senator John McCain). The lead singer of U2 (with over 140 million albums sold and 22 Grammys to his name) has forged a phenomenal path as an activist against AIDS and extreme poverty in Africa. Bono spoke about the successes of his ONE and Product (RED) campaigns, which have diminished Third World debts and raised money for AIDS drugs respectively. His words were full of character and conviction, tripping off his tongue in catchy couplets. He talked about America as “an idea” plump with potential to inspire all, provided that idea renewed itself continually in the context of today’s fast-flux world. He quoted the well-known words of past Presidents (labeling them “great lyrics from the American songbook”) as templates for action in our times. And it was when he mentioned that “liberty, justice and equality” are as crucial to world affairs as “rhythm, melody and harmony” are to a smashing song, that today’s painting popped into my mind.

Hot Chord (1965) is by the African American painter Sam Gilliam (b. 1933). Born in Tupelo, Mississippi, Gilliam grew up in Louisville, Kentucky. Like Alma Thomas (see Feb 13), he settled in Washington, DC to teach art in the public schools. He’s associated with the Washington Color School and is broadly considered a color field painter. Gilliam’s work experiments with color and abstraction, making those two things the subjects of his art: Hot Chord captures the lyricism of this approach. A bright, blocked-out background of red platforms a zinging strip of stripes dashing across on a diagonal. Is it any wonder that I thought of Gilliam when Bono brought up the “bright line” that divides the functions of ‘peaceniks’ like him and military men (of whom many were in attendance last night)? Gilliam’s “bright line”, with its mobility and momentum, evokes the “separate yet shared path to development” that Bono’s activism is all about.

President Clinton closed the night when he accepted his award for Distinguished International Leadership. His lead motif was the extreme “interdependence” of our age, telling us that his choices now are informed by one straight question: “will this positively affect our interdependence?” Even Clinton’s theme of interdependence tugged me back to Gilliam’s picture, with its strumming strings lined up in positive, parallel formation. On a stringed instrument, chords are corrupted if even one string breaks: that’s interdependence in musical terms. Thus Clinton’s words were well-matched with Bono’s aural analogies.

The cultural critic and author Eleanor Heartney has said that Gilliam’s works are shot-through with meaning that’s “woven into the structure… as part of their strivings for unity and their measured accommodation of freedom and order. [They’re] painstakingly orchestrated to create a sense of internal harmony. Planes are locked together in compositions full of internal rhymes and rhythms.” Dynamic harmony, whether in music or world affairs, seemed to be the theme of the evening, as emphasized by a powerful performance by the Senegalese singer Baaba Maal on guitar. And what’s more, when George H.W. Bush appeared on video to introduce his friend Bill Clinton, I couldn’t help but be struck by the patterning of his favourite tie…

A few days ago, my Mum brought up the male readers of this blog, clearly concerned that my coverage might occasionally cater more to female followers. I definitely don’t want to alienate anyone, so today’s entry is specially designed with my much-appreciated male readers in mind. (You’ve got my Mum to thank for this one, gentlemen).

You may have heard the recent hype and hoopla that surrounded the unveiling of an un-airbrushed Kim Kardashian in the May issue of US Harper’s Bazaar. Kardashian ditched digital retouching as a way to convey her ‘all-natural’ body beautiful. Bodaceously curvaceous, Kim has long been a poster girl for the anti-size zero campaign and the photo, which shows her lying on the floor against a grey backdrop, does much to commend a fuller figure in an ‘untouched’ state. Of the process, she said: “It’s definitely scary, but it’s very liberating… I think the message is to embrace your curves and who you are. I feel proud if young girls look up to me and say, I’m curvy and I’m proud of it now.”

The artist at the NGA coming instantly to mind is Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472 – 1553). Since he was particularly fond of the odd erotic and coquettish nude, he would no doubt have heartily approved of Kardashian’s decision to display her flesh. Cranach took his name from his birthplace, the Franconian town of Kronach, which was part of the bishopric of Bamberg. He became one of the most successful and innovative artists of the Northern Renaissance, having been taught initially by his father. He ran a flourishing studio and became truly successful in Wittenberg, where he worked as court painter to Frederick III (the Wise). Cranach was also friends with Martin Luther, becoming known as the official artist of the Lutheran Reformation.

This Nymph of the Spring (after 1537) is painted in oil on panel (wood). The secluded setting shows Cranach’s fascination with the old forests and romantic vistas of Germany: here he shows a small clearing thicketed with dense leaves and a small town atop a hill top in the distance. But who honestly is still looking at the setting? At the time, this sort of sensual nude was highly sought after, since they had little precedent in either Italian or northern European art. Even leaving her nakedness aside, she’s unlike the sinewy, attenuated women we might associate with Gothic art and instead is plump, plush and enticingly fleshy. Her body spans the length of the picture, artfully draped over the forest floor. She’s adorned with jewelry and the robe she’s resting on is that of a German court lady.

But there’s a slight sting on the tail of this titillating picture, in the moralizing twist that Cranach brings in. She’s reclining beside a spring, which might reference a famed ancient Roman fountain that was associated with a verse, which was translated by Alexander Pope in 1725:

Nymph of the grot, these springs I keep,

And to the murmurs of these waters sleep;

Ah, spare my slumbers, gently tread the cave!

And drink in silence, or in silence lave!

This poem greatly influenced Italian Renaissance garden design, which developed to incorporate fountains and grottos, complete with attendant sculpted nymphs, where mischievous deeds could occasionally be done. Cranach writes an inscription into his painting, which might allude to that earlier poem: “I am the nymph of the sacred spring, do not disturb my sleep. I am resting.” Now, it seems to me this nymph isn’t asleep; rather she’s admiring herself through lowered lids. And it seems that Cranach is simultaneously enticing and fending off his voracious viewers. Gentleman, what do you reckon?

There are two important works by the painter Susan Rothenberg in the NGA’s permanent collection: Butterfly (1976) is currently on loan to the White House (and is shown below), and Head within Head (1978) is on view in the East Building. Recently at the NGA, Rothenberg appeared in conversation with Harry Cooper (head of modern and contemporary art). One thing that was immediately refreshing about seeing her in person was the revelation that real life impacts art. She started using acrylics when she had a baby girl, as oil was too tough to wash off her hands. And when she moved to rural New Mexico with her husband (the artist Bruce Nauman) in 1990, her work all-together altered to reflect her new environment.

Rothenberg seems always to have honored her commitment to paint. Born in Buffalo in 1945, she received a BFA from the Fine Arts School at Cornell University in 1967. Her first solo exhibition in 1975 met with great acclaim for its three large paintings of horses in stark silhouette. This at a time when “anything but painting” was in vogue: minimal and conceptual art dominated the New York scene and performance and dance were popular.

Head within Head (1978) is painted with acrylic and Flashe on canvas. Flashe paint covers well, giving a perfect matte finish and pure opacity and Rothenberg described how she likes using it as an alternative (or accompaniment) to oil. This picture is choc-full of pigment, loaded and ladled to the brim. Scouring across the surface is the artist’s distinctive brushstroke, which is at once lively and disciplined. The Flashe paint allows a more profiled appearance than acrylics alone would do, creating an energetic and textural finish. The multi-directional evidence of Rothenberg’s hand is all about retaining the visibility of the painter’s process, which includes impurities and accidents as well as fortuitous discoveries. See the seam running down the center of the canvas and the uneven effect that dapples all over.

The meaning of this picture remains elusive. A dismembered head hangs anti-gravity in an airless, spaceless vacuum (Rothenberg tends to avoid horizon lines, which she says diminish her freedom and potential). Nonetheless, the head is anchored, or located, by the black lines to the side of the canvas. The stark and saturated colors herald a hot-under-the-collar effect, as does the figurative, double-focus flexibility of the shapes: some see the smaller head as the eye of the larger one (though Cooper professed he’d “never looked at it in that way”). Ambiguity is a recurrent motif in Rothenberg’s work and I got the feeling she works to make it that way, enjoying the juxtaposition of “wholes” with “holes”.

Rothenberg’s career thus far has served as a constant declaration of the power of paint. She took it up when it was out of fashion, spurred the painting push in the 1980s and continues to work prolifically to this day. People say she’s “done more than any other living artist to expand the poetic and painterly possibilities of her craft.” And yet she remains delightfully unaffected by the accolades she receives. In person, she’s down-to-earth, clear talking and straight-shooting. Wearing a plain plaid shirt and casual trousers, she repeatedly discounted high-flying interpretations of her work by Cooper and audience members with “I just don’t know how to answer that.” Though I did get the feeling she wasn’t giving too much away, since at another point she mentioned that her favorite artist is the Dutch painter Piet Mondrian, whose style is totally unlike her own. The reason for this? “He got all the way home to making his work embody his ideas.”

I remember a conversation I had with a guy at my college at Cambridge. It was late in the summer term and everyone’s exams were right around the corner. This person had been a serious partier throughout his three years at university (always in the bar, never behind his books), so was totally tense about sitting his finals. Here’s the surprising solution he’d thought up: put on his best suit, sharpest tie and shine his shoes for each of his exams. Now, I’d not recommend this dressing ritual as any sort of revision tactic (this guy ended up with a low 2:2), but it does reveal trust in the transformative power of a fantastic suit. I saw this also when teaching in schools, where occasionally there’d be non-uniform days. The kids would come in wearing scruffy jeans, too-tight tops and huge hoodies, and there’d be a definite decline in their discipline and focus.

Dressing sharp sharpens the mind, no doubt about it. And where the suit is concerned, there’s a new cool attached to this old-school garment. Savile Row in London’s Mayfair, the traditional haunt for men’s bespoke tailoring, is now attracting a younger, more style conscious clientele, all converted to the allure of slick sartorial shape. Whereas before, a suit might have been baggy, basic office attire, now it can be clean, uncluttered, elegant and up-to-date.

There’s a super sharp dresser in the NGA’s collection called Sir Charles, Alias Willie Harris (1972) by Barkley Leonnard Hendricks (b. 1945). Hendricks is an African American painter, who studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in the 1960s, and at Yale’s School of Fine Arts in the early 1970s. Since 1972 Hendricks has taught at Connecticut College in New London. He is famed for realist portraits like this, which he still exhibits to this day.

This work portrays a triple image of its single subject, as if in time-lapse. Sir Charles adopts different attitudes in his three simultaneous incarnations: he’s eyes-tight-shut on the left, with his back to us in the centre and and gazing into space on the right. The painting (in oil on canvas) presents the subject as over life size (214 x 183 cm overall), which means he cuts a serious dash.

See how the work is tailored to offer precise and clean detail. Hendricks often places his subjects in front of a flat and monochrome field, which sharpens and needles our focus onto the individuals he paints. Hendricks has said that a portrait by the Flemish master Anthony van Dyck (which he saw during a visit to the National Gallery in London of Art in 1966) partly inspired this picture. Others have compared Sir Charles to the iconic three graces, which are the (usually female) artistic muses as portrayed by European old masters such as Botticelli and Rubens. Their positions usually approximate those of Sir Charles here.

In any case, the most salient and sharp muse for Hendricks must surely have been his own life and times: this figure is an icon of 1970s fashion and pop culture. The huge pointed collar, tight white turtle neck, slightly flared trousers and natty shoes all signal savvy dressing of the era. But the triple-exposure and plain background does more than bring us into the suit: it’s also about personal presence and a the assertion of black identity in the generation following the civil rights era.

Hendricks has seamlessly stitched together his ideas here: the man and his self-presentation become one. He seems to be saying that a suit puts you in a certain frame of mind and can get you the respect and results you’re after.

Grace Kelly was the girl who got the fairy tale: an actress who married a prince and lived a charmed life. Decades after her death, we’re still captivated by her style: a major new exhibition (Grace Kelly: Style Icon) just opened at the V&A Museum in London. There’s also a new book (A Touch of Grace: How To Be A Princess, the Grace Kelly Way), by Cindy de la Hoz, who takes readers through the steps to princess poise. Here’s a honed-down hit-list ladies:

1. Follow your dreams: Grace pursued a career in the arts, in spite of disapproving parents.

2. Be prepared to change: Grace ditched her Philly accent to develop her perfect diction.

3. Stand on your own two feet, and get recognition for your achievements.

4. Be realistic: Grace was honest about the transient nature of fame.

5. Don’t be a diva: one of Grace’s wardrobe women said “she’s undemanding.”

6. Find a signature look and stick to it: she had an instinct for what looked good on her.

7. Don’t try too hard: a sophisticated yet unpretentious style works best.

8. Be a smart shopper: Grace was famously frugal and wore clothes for years.

9. Cherish friendships: she kept up correspondence with those she cared about.

10. Make him do the running: she said ‘those who love me, follow me.’

11. Know how to choose the right man for you: “I have never wanted to marry a man who would have allowed himself to become Mr Kelly.”

12. Don’t be afraid to love: Grace and Prince Rainier of Monaco had spent fewer than 24 hours in each other’s company before deciding to marry. She said “it seemed right and it felt right, and that was the way I wanted it.”

For me at the NGA, it’s only Sargent’s society portraits that perfectly exude the sense of glamour, sophistication and finesse that we still find so alluring in Grace Kelly. John Singer Sargent (1856 – 1925) was one of the most sought-after and financially successful artists of his era and made his most indelible marks as a painter of portraits. An American who lived in Europe (he was born in Florence) he was much in demand on both sides of the Atlantic.

I’m doing something a little different today (please let me know whether you like it or not), and bringing you a few different pictures by the artist. Collectively, they convey Sargent’s unique ability to capture the essence of his sitters and their lifestyles.

Miss Beatrice Townsend (1882):

Miss Grace Woodhouse (1890):

Mary Crowninshield Endicott Chamberlain (1902):

Miss Mathilde Townsend (1907):

In each case the loosely bluffed-in background allows full-on focus on the sitter. There’s an Impressionistic quality to Sargent’s brush (he was a supporter of the avant-garde and admired Monet, Manet and other contemporaries), that lends freshness and vitality to the subjects. See the opulent, dancing surface of Mathilde Townsend’s shawl or the slicked, glossy coat of Beatrice Townsend’s pup. The pale, pastel tones of the shimmering dresses (in all but one of our pictures) allows the luminous skin tones to shine.

Just sometimes, Sargent was criticized for superficial characterization, but for me, based on these, he was capable of projecting real personality and punch. See particularly Beatrice Townsend, whose youthful vim and vigor come across in her confident stance and steady gaze. Sargent was popular among women sitters, since he made them look modern and self-possessed at a time when they were asserting their independence. Do you think we could say that style and strength are two of the most enduring aspirational female attributes?

Roll up! Roll up! The circus is back into town! But you’d better forget all about the traditional big top, with its tail-wearing ringmaster, smattering of clowns splattering water and the mangy tiger whipped into standing on a stool. Because it looks like the circus, in its 2010 incarnation, is edgier, grittier and far more glamorous than ever before.

These days, rather than an alligator wrestler and a snake charmer, you’re likely to find a whole host of new, unexpected, intoxicating characters. Like Ukrainian Yulia Pikhtina, whose turns the ancient art of hula hooping into a spectacular display that’s both erotic and exotic. She’s performing with the award-winning troupe La Clique, which is putting a whole new spin on a big night in the ‘big tent’. La Clique has performed sold-out seasons in Sydney, Melbourne, Montreal, Dublin, New York and Edinburgh, and is now in an extended run in London, where it’s being raved about by critics (‘spellbinding, sexy and stunning’ said Time Out magazine).

With its heady cocktail of cabaret, burlesque, circus sideshow and contemporary variety, shows like La Clique are updating the image of the circus, taking it from fusty and flat to fast and fabulous. Performers like Miss Behave (the last female sword-swallower in the West) and David O’ Mer (combination of wet jeans and awe-inspiring aerial ballet) are making circus sexy again.

One of the greatest celebrators of the circus in art was Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973), whose prodigious career provides the backbone of 20th-century art. Picasso proved a precocious student, winning art competitions by the age of 15. As a young man, he moved to Barcelona from his native Malaga, before settling in Paris in 1904. This huge painting (213 x 230 cm) is called Family of Saltimbanques (1905) and sees him in the early stages of his career.

We often associate Picasso with clear stages of evolution and innovation and this work signals one of his ‘phases’: from 1904 to 1906 he focussed on the theme of the saltimbanque, or itinerant circus performer. There was already a long tradition in art and literature of looking at the circus and its performers, but Picasso also got inspiration from the Cirque Médrano, which was near his home in Montmartre. The painting shows repeated re-workings as Picasso added figures and altered the composition. The blotchy sky and desolate landscape are patched in with blocky brushwork. The composition is asymmetrical and yet appears balanced, the middle-ground huddle on the left countered by the foreground figure on the right. The colors are muted and melodious, a sparse mix of beiges, blues, roses and reds.

What makes this picture memorable is the moment you realize that each figure is totally psychologically isolated from the others, and from the viewer. In his circus (or rose) period (1904 – 1906), Picasso eased up on the pungent pathos of his earlier blue period (1901 – 1904). But this painting (considered the masterpiece of this phase), is filled with a mood of extreme introspection and sad contemplation. Circus performers were regarded as social outsiders, and it’s suggested Picasso identified with the alienation they felt (his critical and financial success only came later). As such, Family of Saltimbanques may stand as an autobiographical image of Picasso and his circle.

A recent book called Freaks and Fire: The Underground Reinvention of Circus (J. Dee Hill) describes the anarchic, creative world of the contemporary circus, beyond the historical confines of Ringling Bros. and the über-kitsch of Cirque du Soleil. Who knows, if it weren’t for Picasso’s powerful note of warning, we might all actually be pretty tempted to run away with the circus someday.