art

Speaking of magic

1.

“If someone asked you to describe the psychological aspects of personhood, what would you say? Chances are, you’d describe things like thought, memory, problem-solving, reasoning, maybe emotion. In other words, you probably list the major headings of a cognitive psychology text-book. In cognitive psychology, we seem to take it for granted that these are, objectively, the primary components of “the mind” (even if you reject a mind/body dualism, you probably accept some notion that there are psychological processes similar to the ones listed above)… In fact, this conception of the mind is heavily influenced by a particular (Western) cultural background… To the extent that you agree that the modern conception of “cognition” is strongly related to the Western, English-speaking view of “the mind”, it is worth asking what cognitive psychology would look like if it had developed in Japan or Russia. Would text-books have chapter headings on the ability to connect with other people (kokoro) or feelings or morality (dusa) instead of on decision-making and memory? This possibility highlights the potential arbitrariness of how we’ve carved up the psychological realm – what we take for objective reality is revealed to be shaped by culture and language.”

- Sabrina Golonka, How Universal Is The Mind?

2.

“Three centuries earlier, the new discipline of physics could not proceed until Isaac Newton appropriated words that were ancient and vague—force, mass, motion, and even time – and gave them new meanings. Newton made these terms into quantities, suitable for use in mathematical formulas. Until then, motion (for example) had been just as soft and inclusive a term as information. For Aristotelians, motion covered a far-flung family of phenomena: a peach ripening, a stone falling, a child growing, a body decaying. That was too rich. Most varieties of motion had to be tossed out before Newton’s laws could apply and the Scientific Revolution could succeed. In the nineteenth century, energy began to undergo a similar transformation: natural philosophers adapted a word meaning vigor or intensity. They mathematicized it, giving energy its fundamental place in the physicists’ view of nature.”

- James Gleick, The Information

3.

“In the eighteenth century and since, Newton came to be thought of as the first and greatest of the modern age of scientists, a rationalist, one who taught us to think on the lines of cold and untinctured reason. I do not see him in this light. I do not think that any one who has pored over the contents of that box which he packed up when he finally left Cambridge in 1696 and which, though partly dispersed, have come down to us, can see him like that. Newton was not the first of the age of reason. He was the last of the magicians, the last of the Babylonians and Sumerians, the last great mind which looked out on the visible and intellectual world with the same eyes as those who began to build our intellectual inheritance rather less than 10,000 years ago.”

- John Maynard Keynes, Newton, the Man

art / science — No Comments
26
Feb 09

Are we drawn to art, or is art drawn to us?

I’m confused. Denis Dutton in Edge Magazine:

This experience taught me something crucially important: that New Guinea standards for greatness and for excellence are as far as I could determine the same as those of knowledgeable European curators, connoisseurs, and collectors… the people who really know the good work in museums, who are very deeply familiar with New Guinea art but who have never set foot in New Guinea, oddly have the same taste patterns as New Guinea carvers themselves. And this shows that with the art form, knowledge and familiarity with the whole field determines a convergence of taste. And that, again, has to be explained.

Dutton sees evolution’s hand at work in the development of human artistic capability. Well, maybe; but that seems to be overlooking a far simpler explanation.

Let’s assume the following factors are in play:

Historically Guinean art would have been expropriated without sale on the basis of what appeared to be most valuable rather than most beautiful;
Currently Guinean carvers sell their work, normally getting the highest prices from foreign collectors, and normally reserving their best work for those collectors.

These two assumptions appear relatively non-controversial. The first factor means that expert outsiders who have never been to Guinea will tend to have seen the “best” (most valuable) works, and so their taste will have been shaped by it. The second factor means that carvers now have a strong incentive to match their work to the tastes of expert outsiders who in large part determine the market for their carvings. If the two groups are in an economic relationship that has caused the tastes of both sides to converge around a certain set of aesthetics, it would explain why their tastes are so similar – while the tastes of the average joe are not:

I’m not saying that the New Guineans would make judgments that would coincide with every naive tourist — newcomers to the art — who gets off the boat. Tourists in my experience make very bad choices in buying New Guinea arts.

This example doesn’t present much, if any, evidence for a theory of evolved aesthetics, but it does serve as an excellent example of how our culture is shaped silently by our economic relationships. I’d be more interested to see a thesis that examines the influence that art might have played in economic terms rather than evolutionary terms, but I should also declare a vested interest, in that I’d rather make some money from my own writing…

art / politics — 2 Comments
24
Jan 09

There are outsiders, and then there are …

Whimsley is rarely wrong¹, and today he skewers the outsider manoeuvre. It’s a tedious form of self-justification posing as self-deprecation, offering the artist a flabby excuse for their art. Plenty of artists aren’t outsiders, plenty of outsiders aren’t artists; the link between the two is weak, to say the least. The existence of Outsider Art suggests that many claims to outsider status may be a bit premature unless you spend a fair amount of time being physically restrained or chemically sedated.

Which brings us neatly to politics. Claims to outsider status are the symptom of an individual building a narrative about themselves. Where the artist is concerned, this narrative is mainly for themselves, as well – but where the politician is concerned, the narrative is definitely for public consumption. American politicians are particularly susceptible to this, and apparently the American electorate is as well – claims to be marching on Washington, prepared to sweep aside the old order with a new broom, a broom that only an outsider can wield – these sorts of claims play very well indeed.

You can see the hard form in John McCain’s rhetoric about being a “maverick” or Sarah Palin’s entire persona:

I’ve stood up to the old politics as usual, to the special interests, to the lobbyists, the big oil companies and the ‘good old boy’ network… If you want change in Washington, if you hope for a better America, then we’re asking for your vote on the 4th of November.

but the softer form is also present in Barack Obama’s speeches, when he says things like “Change doesn’t come from Washington. Change comes to Washington” – and means every word.² The point is not whether these statements are true or false – it’s that the speaker believes them to be true, and wants you to believe as well.

Whimsley is right that we should never, ever trust these claims, no matter who makes them. Claims to outsider status are true or not depending only on where you draw the line of outsider status, but usually people who make such claims are trying to sell you something – whether it’s a film or a presidential campaign.

By which I mean that I nearly always agree with what he writes, of course, rather than making any epistemological claims on his behalf. [↩]
Andrew Keen points out the flaws in this argument with his usual panache. [↩]

art / comics — 1 Comment
12
Oct 08

Home is run. No. More.

One definition of genius is somebody who pursues a singular artistic or scientific vision that is recognisably and uniquely their own, a vision that remains broadly the same throughout their creative lifetime and around which all their work is wrapped. Their work continually plays and replays variations on that vision, the themes it unlocks, always finding new ways to unfold them in different patterns.

Okay, I admit it, that’s a very personal definition of genius. But it works for me.

By my lights, Grant Morrison is a genius. Unfortunately he’s also writes comics, which means that his work doesn’t reach the large audience it merits. From his earliest work on Zoids through Animal Man and Doom Patrol (which were like a crash course in postmodernism to my young mind) to the philosophical gangbang of The Invisibles all the way through to the fever dream that was Seven Soldiers. Morrison has chased that vision. If you want to know what that vision is, then you’ll just have to read the books.

So where does We3 fit into this scheme? It was one of three series that Morrison wrote at around the same time – the other two being the radio rental SeaGuy and the not-quite-as-insane Vimanarama – presumably as a way of excising some of the toxic byproducts generated by working on mainstream comics. Pop comics, each series three issues long, packed with hook moments and throwaway ideas woven together with some fantastic art – and none more so than We3, where the man Frank Quitely handles the picturing. And if you know Frank Quitely, expect some serious handling.

The short version: We3 is Plague Dogs with heavy weapons. Yet while the action sequences are some of the most visually stunning work I’ve ever seen, the scene that made the most impact on me manages to sum up the entire series in a single line. After unsuccessfully trying to save a man – and despite having earlier killed several – Weapon 1 (the friendly dog) takes the initiative to bring all 3 of the weapons to safety.

“Home is run. No. More.” makes me well up inside. That’s right, you insensitive jerks, even a mountain man such as myself can cry at a comic. For anybody who’s ever been in trouble of the deep and enduring kind, this is the definition of home – the place where you can stop running, the sanctuary that will sustain you. At the same time, that home doesn’t really exist – and that trouble that you found? It’ll always find you, even if it has to follow you home.

So we watch the weapons trying to find a place where they can stop running, even though we know they’ll never find it. The tragedy is that while they’re smart, they’re not smart enough to realise that; the twist of the knife is that we recognise ourselves in them. The tragedy at the heart of We3 is not something amenable to persuasion.

In fact I am wrong, as I frequently am. It turns out that We3 (or at least two of them) will find a place where they will run no more. The last issue of the 3-part series scales up the action with a battle sequence with the monstrous Weapon 4, but bottles out right at the end. Morrison is strong on closure – think of The Filth, with it’s last line of “We have love” – but he isn’t usually afraid to make that closure painful for the reader. We3 gives us a Hollywood ending – perhaps designed for the inevitable bidding war over movie rights – but as a result my disappointment was palpable.

I’ve got no fundamental objection to Hollywood endings, but if you’re going to flirt with tragedy, eventually you have to consumate the relationship. Otherwise you’re selling everybody short: readers, characters, yourself. We all need to know that the flaws in our personalities hold, that we don’t live happily ever after, that the battle is more important than the victory (because the outcome of the battle is a foregone conclusion).

So We3 makes me cry twice – once for the truth of Run No More, and once for the lie that the ending tells us, a lie that lessens the truth.

art — No Comments
27
Sep 08

Picasso Bez Naziva

And so to the Museum of Modern Art in Dubrovnik, where an exhibition of Picasso graphics was about to close. This was nothing less than a revelation for me, revealing the extent of Picasso’s draughtsmanship, his command of different forms and – most strangely – his sense of humour. It was a world away from the sometimes forbidding cubism for which he became famous, and the better for it – I’ve always found cubism to be a bloodless exercise. I can see how it works, how it captures something that realism never could, but that doesn’t make it speak to me.

The exhibit included three sets – Suite Vollard, Suite 156 and the Tauromaquia. Suite 156 was the most familiar, with cubist elements in place, drawn out at the end of Picasso’s life. It was in 156 that his sense of humour came out most, with sly digs at other paintings, other painters and even at himself – with pieces like “Old Man and Woman with Athlete and Dwarf”, how could it be otherwise? This lightheartedness was countered by the sequence of etchings depicting Rape, in which themes found in the Suite Vollard thirty years previously – the Minotaur on the woman, the female toreador on the bull – were echoed, but with far more venom. The rapist looks almost placid, his expression blank in the classical style seen in other parts of the suite, while the woman contorts beneath him in barely-human positions. I found them difficult to look at, but not as difficult as the Tauromaquia.

The Tauromaquia is a sequence of pictures depicting the exact sequence of a bullfight, a subject close to Picasso’s heart. Like all fans of the corrida, he clearly sees a beauty there which will escape me forever; I cannot overcome my feelings of injustice enough to enjoy these drawings much.¹ I can appreciate the technical skill displayed, however. Each of the pictures is a miniature composed of nothing more than brief, narrow strokes – there is no detail, no perspective and no movement to be seen, yet each picture is a perfect snapshot of a precise moment of the event, from the arrival at the stadium to the final departure of the toreador on the shoulders of his admirers. My sympathy remains with the bull; the picture that stands out most is titled “Dragging out a bull that is not belligerent enough”; make love, not war.

Make love is exactly what the bull – or at least the minotaur – does in the Suite Volland, when he’s not being blinded and lead around by a young girl. The Suite divides into roughly three sections. The bulk of it is neoclassical studies of the sculptor and his models, the sculptor being both Picasso and Zeus, the models being both powerful and dominated. A significant remainder shows the minotaur, taking the place of the sculptor with his models, then being injured, then walking blinded through unwelcoming city streets. The text reminds us that this was a novelty, the minotaur, traditionally a symbol of virile aggression, laid low by the weapons of man. The cheers of the bullring echo in the minotaur’s ears as he picks up the stick that will be his guide for the rest of his life.

The third section is simple: three portraits of Picasso’s sponsor, Ambroise Vollard. These were added to complete the suite up to 100 pictures, but they were done in a much more naturalistic style than the others. Lined up in a row on the wall, at the heart of the museum, they look like nothing less than Andy Warhol working in pencil; an identical pose repeated with variations only in shading and tone. They look nothing like we’d expect a portrait by Picasso to look, but they show the essence of a painter, the need to capture somebody at that moment in time. Vollard didn’t just commission this particular suite; he was responsible for Picasso’s initial financial success, the security that made his later work possible.

These portraits could easily show the money, the respect that the money paid for, the debt of the painter to the patron; but they just show a man, plain and simple, sketched out lightly and frowning slightly at us through our many years of over-exposure to Picasso, reminding us of the simple skill of the artist.

Yet I’m aware that my reaction towards these is more extreme than my reaction to the rape pictures, which is of course both mystifying and unacceptable to me. [↩]

art / balkans — 5 Comments
14
May 08

the road to eurovision

I will always remember the things of the past

and I have no need

to bow down to the golden calves of the future

which sleep in the cattle wagon

on the road to the new Europe

and its abattoirs

which have been turned into discos.

- Delimir Resicki

(HT: Greg Dotzauer @ Der Tagesspiegel Via signandsight)

art / london / Sought My Company Voluntarily, Now Regretful — No Comments
11
May 08

Untitled Artists: Soodad al-Naib

In 2003 I worked for some weeks in Baghdad following the invasion of Iraq, based at the UN headquarters in the Canal Hotel. As many of you probably remember, the Canal Hotel was bombed up on 19 August – shortly after I left the mission – killing many of my friends and colleagues. This is a long way of explaining how I first met Soodad al-Naib, one of the Iraqi staff working in the Humanitarian Information Centre while I was there.

Soodad was injured in the Canal Hotel bombing but after moving to London, she’s made an amazing recovery and is now pursuing a career as an artist. Her paintings are dark and deep, almost abstract but with a mythic storytelling quality. Her work is going to be part of the Untitled Artists Fair in London this year, from Saturday 31st May – Sunday 1st June at Chelsea Old Town Hall. Admission is free but you need to have tickets – download them from this link. Come on, free art! What more could you ask for?

While reading this post, you should be listening to

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by Art Brut.

The Unforgiving MinutePaul Currion struggles to explain himself.

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