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Map of what ended up being our broader route. Most exploration occurred on the streets around Come il Latte and Termini. 

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Exploration of Rome through Dérive

       Lucas, Tess and I started our dérive from the crosswalk of Corso Vittoro Emanuele, as we thought it would be a well-populated area to begin our first step. Our 8 steps for the derive were:

1.Pick a person wearing white and follow them. Stop after they make two left turns

2. Walk straight until we get coerced into buying something on the street.

3. Turn right, and walk until we see a dog.

4. Make a left, and walk until we see a street name that begins with letters T, L, or B, in any order. Turn left onto that street, and walk for two blocks. After two blocks, repeat the same pattern with the two remaining letters.

5. Once complete, walk until we see a gelateria.

6. Turn left, and walk until we see a tour group. Follow them for one stop

7. Walk straight until we see or hear a street musician. Turn right at next street

8. Walk until we find a staircase.

         We came up with several of these steps, mainly following a tour group and finding a street musician, with the assumption that we would remain relatively close to the Campo dei Fiori and Piazza Navona. Contrary to what Guy Debord and the Situationists assert, we experienced a level of chance throughout our dérive. For our first step, the woman wearing a white shirt that we followed got on a bus. In the spirit of the derive, we also got on the bus, and did not get off until we reached Termini. With seven steps remaining, not only did we find ourselves in an area devoid of big groups, street vendors, or musicians, but, because of the Independence Day holiday, there were very few people out and about in this area.

        Interestingly, we found the steps we thought would be easier, such as finding a dog, much more difficult. Also, we anticipated that Step 4 would take the longest, due to its specificity; the letters stand for Tess, Lucas, and Bradley (my middle name - we thought that finding a street beginning with the letter E would be impossible). However, we found streets beginning with those letters within 5 minutes.  

        Overall, I enjoyed our dérive experience, and not just because our gelateria stop happened to be Come il Latte. I thought it was interesting how we ended up in one of the few areas of the city that I had not explored extensively. This supports Debord’s point about the “pathetic” nature of routines. In his Theory of the Dérive, Debord includes an anecdote of a French student’s triangular route from her home, to class, and to piano lessons. Similarly, my derive made me realize the extent to which I entered into a routine, generally speaking, between BHI and the Campo dei Fiori area. Walking in the neighborhood around Termini, I became aware that, even after living in Rome for 3 months, there was still so much left to discover. I also loved doing this exercise at the end of our program. Because I have become familiar with Rome, I felt confident that, even if I was not exactly sure where I was during the dérive, I would be able to find my way home. This was an empowering realization, and I feel proud of my ability to not only acclimate to a foreign city, but to feel like I belong there as well.

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Mark Bradford, The Oculus, 2017. Mixed media, United States Pavilion, Biennale, Venice. 

Phyllida Barlow, Folly, 2017. Mixed media, British Pavilion, Biennale, Venice. 

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My Experience at the Biennale

        I was excited when I was assigned to present on the history of the Giardini and Biennale because, before taking this class, I did not know much about contemporary art, and the Biennale in particular. My research helped me contextualize this institution and what it represents. I was especially intrigued by the connection between the art shown at Biennale and the international political climate.

         I found Mark Bradford’s work in the American Pavilion to be particularly emblematic of this concept. Upon approaching the pavilion, I was immediately struck by the façade. The building is meant to reflect Thomas Jefferson’s estate, Monticello, and thus symbolize American Republic ideals. However, the exterior was purposefully unkempt and dirty, as if left to ruin and decay. Through this presentation, the artist sends a powerful message about the state of the American government today; it strays from the ideals upon which country was founded.

         This theme of deterioration continued throughout the pavilion. The Oculus, the work displayed in what would be the main foyer of the building, looked as if the room was abandoned in the middle of a renovation. Push pins and staples were scattered across walls, giving the sense of impending collapse. This ominous symbol was amplified by the purposefully tinted windows, which gave the whole installation a gloomy feel. Ultimately, Bradford’s work exemplifies the strong political connections and undertones of the art of the Biennale.

         I also enjoyed visiting the Biennale because it allowed me to utilize and further develop the tools for analyzing contemporary art, which helped me appreciate pieces I never thought I would before. For example, I loved Phyllida Barlow’s work in the British Pavilion. It was interesting to discuss her use of material, which inherently affects the address of the sculptures. As the title, Folly, suggests, Barlow purposefully made her forms seem more menacing than they are, for the appearance of rock or stone masks a base material of Styrofoam. Thus, the artist plays with the way in which the viewer analyzes and reacts to her sculptures. For example, one room contained monumental, colorfully painted wooden slabs that attached to a mechanical like structure, with a rope hanging down suspending a Styrofoam “rock.” If the Styrofoam had actually been rock, the entire structure would have fallen over. However, the faux boulder hangs peacefully and, though the colorful wood tilts slightly to one side, the structure is relatively balanced. For me, this work exemplified the artist’s desire to make the viewer question what they see.

         Ultimately, the British Pavilion, and the art of the Biennale as a whole, allowed me to reflect on the development of my appreciation and openness to forms of art that are unfamiliar to me. Before this FSP, I probably would have struggled to understand and internalize the art in the American and British pavilions. The exposure to different kinds of art that the Biennale provides allowed me to test my developed knowledge and analytical strategies for contemporary art, as well as understand the broader political implications of the art.

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Photograph from the first Biennale, 1895, Venice. (source: https://vimeo.com/126659029)

Ernst Haiger, The German Pavilion, 1938. Biennale Giardini, Venice. 

Photograph from student protests at the Biennale, 1968. 

Hans Haacke, Germania, 1993. Shattered marble floor, German Pavilion, Biennale, Venice. 

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Presentation Journal: The History of the Giardini, Biennale, and the Effects of Fascism

        In our presentation, Leila and I discussed the history of the Giardini and Biennale, as well as the effects of fascism on the German Pavilion and this art exhibition as a whole. The Giardini were first designed in 1807 by Gianntonio Selva, who worked under Napoleon, as a public area for contemplation, socializing, and leisure. The Giardini provided a specific attraction for artists, scholars, and art lovers, and thus strengthened Venice’s artistic roots. This was significant because, as the power of trade declined, tourism became the city’s main economic force.

         To celebrate the unification of Italy, Venice hosted an exhibition in the Giardini in 1887 that focused solely on the display of art. The success of this show inspired ideas of reframing Venice as a modern, international city. To do so, the Giardini would host a fixed exhibition to constantly attract tourists and feed the economy of the city. Studying this aspect of the Biennale’s history made me think of our discussion of the Grand Tour, which was an exclusive privilege targeted at the educated elite. Venice officials, on the contrary, made efforts to market their new exhibition with package deals for train and entrance tickets, in order to make this attraction more accessible.

        On April 30th, 1895, the Giardini hosted the first International Exhibition of Art. This first Biennale featured 150 works of art, 100 of which were by Italian artists, and the remaining 50 were the work of international artists. Interestingly, the Biennale had two main committees: the Sponsoring Committee, which oversaw the selection of artists and artwork, and the Sales Office, to put the Venice Biennale on the art market. The 1895 Biennale was a success by the Sales Office, for over half of the artworks featured were sold. In 1907, the first National Pavilion was constructed as a result of complaints by Italian artists about mixing their work with international artists. Thus, the Biennale became a forum for expressing national identity.  

         In 1930, Mussolini transformed the Biennale into a state-run institution in order to carefully display art as propaganda for his Fascist program. For example, in 1942, the Biennale was dedicated solely to the display of military art; interestingly, the least amount of Italian artists participated in this year’s Biennale. In addition, under Fascism, political tensions between nations were exposed through the Biennale. When political relations between Italy and Great Britain reached a breaking point in 1936, Great Britain did not participate in the Biennale. Hitler followed a similar pattern of control for the German Pavilion, which he redesigned to echo a Greek style temple and display Nazi insignia. The architecture reflected the aggressive Nazi ideology; the architect, Ernst Haiger, created a thick, imposing roof and square pillars that loom over the viewer.

        The Biennale reflected the national identities that were altered or created as a result of WWII. In this way, the post-war Biennale, more than ever, was closely associated with globalism and international relations. For example, in 1968, student protests against capitalism were so strong at the Biennale that the show was cancelled, which led to transformative changes within the Biennale to focus more on avant-garde art. Another significant moment of convergence between art and politics occurred in 1993 with Hans Haacke’s work in the German Pavilion. In his installation, Haacke displayed a life size projection of Hitler upon entry and, within the pavilion, he smashed the marble floor chosen by Hitler. This artist used the Biennale as an opportunity to address Germany’s tumultuous history and make a statement of progress for the nation’s about moving forward.

         I loved researching the Biennale, not only because I knew very little about this institution, but also because it exemplified the broader themes of the city of Venice we have discussed in class. For example, we learned that its strategic location on the water allowed Venice to be a trading point of goods, knowledge, values, and stylistic elements. With the creation of the Giardini, Napoleon continued this legacy of trading ideas; after the French Revolution, Napoleon sought to spread Enlightenment ideals through his conquering campaigns. The Giardini would serve as a forum for discussion and creative development. The creation of the Biennale in 1885 expanded this discourse to an international level.

         In addition, I enjoyed tracking the evolution of the exchange of artistic ideas. When I read the interview with Christine Macel, the head curator for this year’s Biennale, I immediately thought of my research for this presentation. She discusses the paradox that art presents; namely, that it can change everything, but nothing at all. This makes me think of Haacke’s work in the 1993 German Pavilion, because smashing the floor cannot change or erase the memory of WWII and the Holocaust. However, it can change how we think of that history in the future; Haacke’s installation represents a call for Germans to move forward, without being held back by the past.

 Sources:

http://www.labiennale.org/en/art/venues/giardini.html

http://www.artandeducation.net/paper/a-brief-history-of-i-giardini-or-a-brief-history-of-the-venice-biennale-seen-from-the-giardini/

https://news.artnet.com/art-world/venice-biennale-curator-christine-macel-interview-942749?utm_content=bufferc14e6&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=socialmedia

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Anne Imhof, Faust, 2017. Inside the German Pavilion, Biennale Giardini, Venice.

Anne Imhof, Faust, 2017. Inside the German Pavilion, Biennale Giardini, Venice.  

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The German Pavilion: Faust

          Before visiting the Biennale, I was not familiar with performance art; however, the German Pavilion still blew me away. I learned about the history of the German Pavilion through the research for my presentation, but I did not know what to expect from this year’s performance, Faust, by artist Anne Imhof. I was impressed with how personalized the experience was. Inside the pavilion, the audience walked across an elevated glass floor; at first, I thought we would be distant, passive viewers, but then I saw the performers come into our space above the glass. Each performer seemed to move freely, encouraging a similar movement from the viewers. Thus, each audience member could choose which performer, or performers, to follow, and create their own, individual experience.

        Also, I was fascinated by the social interactions that arose as a result of the movements of the performers. For example, when performers came into the crowd, the presence of the viewers prevented them from doing any elaborate movements. However, as soon as audience members noticed the performer, they would often jump back and create a ring of space around the performer. I found this interesting because there was no wall text indicating that one had to give the performers room to move; rather, this barrier was created organically by the viewers. As a result, I tried to hold my ground if a performer came close to me, which heightened the emotion of my experience. For example, as one performer approached me, I was hit by a wave of anxiety, because I did not know what would happen next. As he passed me with his hands at his sides, he did not move to make space between us, and his hand grazed my arm. This personal experience impressed upon me the idea that the artist wanted the audience to be physically involved with her performance, even this is something viewers are not used to.

        So often, I feel removed from art when I view it. No matter how much I may like a work, I often cannot ignore the boundary between myself and the subject. I enjoyed the performance in the German Pavilion because I felt fully immersed in the art, which thus allowed me to have an emotional connection and reaction to it. Ultimately, the deeper message or purpose of the performance, if it exists, was not clear to me. Some people struggle to experience and process art of this kind. However, I think it is important to expose oneself to art that is confusing and uncomfortable, for it reveals the extensive, encompassing definition of what art can be.

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Pablo Picasso, The Poet, 1911. Oil on linen, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice. 

Piet Modrian, Ocean 5, 1915. Charcoal and gouache on paper, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice. 

Piet Mondrian, Composition No. 1 with Grey and Red, (1938-1939). Oil on canvas, the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice. 

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The Peggy Guggenheim Collection: Picasso to Mondrian

        I loved visiting the Peggy Guggenheim collection, especially because it provided such a wide range of art. From Picasso to Mondrian, the collection captured a spread of styles and concepts, which underscores the fantastic time in which Guggenheim lived. In the early to mid 20th century, art underwent such a radical transformation. That she, as a woman experiencing the remnants of Victorian ideals, was not only able to witness such an evolution, but also develop such a successful career truly resonated with me.

        The thread of this collection that most interested me was the connection our class made between Picasso and the Cubist composition and Mondrian’s grid. We first looked at Picasso’s The Poet, an analytical cubist painting from 1911. This painting is a “social type” portrait, rather than representing a specific individual. For me, one of most interesting aspects of our conversation in front of this painting was discussing the need for an artist to know the rules before breaking them. In this painting, Picasso displays his skillful drawing with strong lines and a thought-out composition that groups objects towards the center, while obeying the ovular frame by fading the forms close to the edges. However, he is innovative in his reduction of palette to earthy tones, in an effort to not distract from the forms. I was captivated by this painting because, in this class, we have looked at Baroque portraiture and analyzed specific elements such as the subject’s stance, facial expression, and dress. However, with Picasso’s painting, we were able to refine our analysis and discuss the foundations of painting, namely line, palette, and overall composition, rather than focusing on the identity of the subject.

        Later in our visit, we looked at an early Mondrian, Ocean 5 (1915). In this painting, Mondrian creates short, black, horizontal and vertical lines enclosed within an oval on a yellowish-brown background. The viewer can especially see the influence of Cubism on this artist in the attention to line, ovular frame and reduced palette. However, this work also foreshadows Mondrian’s development of the perfectly balanced grid. In the same room, we saw his Composition No. 1 with Grey and Red (1938-1939). Here, Mondrian abandons the oval frame, and the composition is less cluttered. He depicts a white background with intersecting horizontal and vertical black lines, which create rectangles of various sizes. Two of these shapes, in the top left and bottom right corners, are filled in grey, and one thin rectangle is colored red at the bottom of the painting.

         I appreciated analyzing this work right after the first Mondrian because I could clearly see the development of his style. Later in his career, Mondrian restricts his palette even further to include only primary colors. Also, though he does not focus on symmetry, the artist still emphasizes a sense of balance in his construction of the grid, which asserts his goal of adding a small piece of harmony to the world through this painting.

         Ultimately, I enjoyed tracing the stylistic progression from Picasso to Mondrian. What made this experience even better was being able to see the work of both artists in adjoining rooms, rather than on opposing slides in a lecture hall. Analyzing the paintings in person enhanced our analysis and clarified the evolution between the two artists.

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Giorgione, La Tempesta, 1510. Oil on canvas, Galleria dell’Accademia, Venice. 

Gentile Bellini, Procession of the True Cross, 1496. Tempera on canvas, Galleria dell’Accademia, Venice.

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Defining the Venetian Painting Style

        A port city located in Northern Italy, Venice flourished between the 9th and 13th centuries. Because of its prime location, the city had access to both Northern Europe and Eastern nations, which sparked an influx of diverse foreign goods, knowledge, and artistic styles into Venice. In this way, the Venetian painting style is composed of both disegno and colore techniques; however, unlike the art developing in Rome, Venetian painting did not emphasize naturalism.

        One Venetian painting that exemplifies both disegno and colore styles is Giorgione’s La Tempesta (1510). The artist’s use of disegno comes through, for one, in his rich, saturated colors. I was particularly struck by the deep blue chosen for the lagoon, and how it contrasts with the similarly vibrant green grass. The viewer can also discern the influence of disegno in the crisp outline of the architectural features. This pronunciation of architecture, next to the richness of the natural features, draws attention to a nostalgia for the past “terraferma,” meaning a time of pure nature, before the artificial expansion of the Venetian islands.

        However, the disegno-like architecture also stands in contrast to the colore elements of the painting, which are most recognizable in the human figures. For example, the leaves of the trees, though a rich green, appear wispy, as if they blow in the wind, which contrasts with the disegno preference for rigid lines. Also, the seated woman’s skin does not have a defined outline, and the slightly looser brushstrokes on her body evoke softness.

         Another aspect of Venetian painting that was apparent to me was the lack of attention to naturalism of human forms. In our class, we have discussed at length the innovation and fame of Michelangelo, who worked at the same time as Venetian painters such as Gentile Bellini. One of Michelangelo’s signature stylistic elements is his hulking, muscular male forms. For example, his Sistine Chapel frescos display large, biblical figures that epitomize Michelangelo’s naturalistic style. Their flesh and bulging muscles are easily discernable for the viewer.

        Venetian painting, however, does not seem to adopt this stylistic tradition. Gentile Bellini’s painting, Procession of the True Cross in Piazza San Marco (1496), depicts many figures in Piazza San Marco taking part in a religious ceremony. While the artists specifically includes strong linear perspective and accurate depiction of architecture, he does not make an effort to individualize the figures, which appear rigid and statuesque. Looking at this painting closely, it seemed as if the artist repeated many of the forms and poses, in order to create so many figures.

        Ultimately, Venetian painting cannot be defined by one style or pervading element. This style is composed of a mixture of strategies, such as both disegno and colore. In addition, it departs from the work of contemporaneous painters, such as Michelangelo, in that Venetian works, such as Bellini’s Procession of the True Cross in Piazza San Marco, lack naturalism; Bellini seems to prefer larger, multi-figural scenes, rather than those with a more central and concentrated subject, which could explain his lack of naturalism.

         I am familiar with observing the qualities that make certain paintings easily attributable to certain artists, such as Raphael, Michelangelo, or Caravaggio. Thus, I struggled to define the variation of Venetian painting. What ultimately helped me reconcile this complexity was learning about Venice’s history. Because the city was exposed to so many different cultures and influences, it is impossible to singularly label its identity and, specifically, its painting style.

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Canova, Hercules and Lichas, 1796. Marble, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna, Rome, shown with: Pino Pascali, 32 square meters of sea, 1967. Water in metal squares, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna, Rome. 

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Time is Out of Joint: Canova, Pascali, and Klein

         Thinking about the logic of the hang of the exhibitions our class visits is an overarching theme, and privilege, of this FSP. Because we can see works in person, we have the benefit of analyzing art on its own, as well as in relation to what else is in the room. I found this strategy particularly helpful during our visit to the Galleria Nazionale d’arte Moderna. The wall text for the museum as a whole set the tone that each room was carefully curated to fit the theme of breaking from historical chronology. As the title of the exhibition, “Time is Out of Joint” declares, the curators aim to disrupt the automatic, comfortable flow of chronology to see works of art as independent entities.

        I immediately sensed this logic in the first room, whose centerpiece was Canova’s Hercules and Lichas (1796). We spent most of our time in this room discussing this sculpture, specifically in relation to Alex Pott’s article, “Surface Values: Canova.” Though Canova chose a classical subject, he departs from the classical tradition in terms of style and order. From afar, Hercules and Lichas projects a whole, coherent narrative; in a fit of rage, Hercules hurls Lichas over his shoulders as punishment for betrayal. However, a closer view reveals smaller details, such as the intertwining of limbs, bulging veins, and the rage on Hercules’s face. Like with Bernini’s sculptures, we are compelled to move around Canova’s sculpture; yet, unlike my experience viewing Bernini’s David, the narrative did not reveal itself to me through closer observation. Rather, these smaller passages become overpowering, and thus the greater narrative is obscured.

         I found it fascinating to analyze Hercules and Lichas in a room otherwise curated with contemporary art. As a class, we next discussed Yves Klein’s International Klein Blue (1958) and Pino Pascali’s 32 square meters of sea (1967). What struck me was was not just the difference in appearance between these pieces and Canova’s sculpture, but the transformation in discussion about these two types of art. For example, when looking at International Klein Blue, we explored the idea of art standing on its own terms, rather than representing a separate narrative or deeper meaning. Canova’s sculpture, on the other hand, derives its meaning from a historical narrative. Furthermore, when viewing Pascali’s installation, we analyzed the “arte povera” movement, which sought to eliminate the Romantic idea of the expressive hand of the artist. This contrasts with our discussion about Canova’s sculpture, in which we mainly focused on the small details that the artist himself included, such as the arch of Lichas’s back and his hand gripping the hair of the lion’s skin.

          The dichotomy created by the centrality of Canova’s sculpture in the midst of the post-war work of artists such as Klein and Pascali plays into the message behind the curation of the museum. Hercules and Lichas not only confuses the chronology of the room, but also forces the viewer to explore different questions and topics when analyzing artworks. This challenged me to shift gears from the Baroque vocabulary, which included the narrative of the subject and departures from the classical tradition, to a post-war context, such as self referential art and the rejection of the hand of the artist. Though this task was difficult, it helped me develop my analytical vocabulary for contemporary art, which was especially beneficial right before our visit to the Biennale.

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Close up of: Gian Lorenzo Bernini, David, 1623-1624. Marble, Galleria Borghese, Rome. 

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, David, 1623-1624. Marble, Galleria Borghese, Rome.

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The Elapse of Time in Bernini’s David

        Reading Joy Kenseth’s article, “Bernini’s Borghese Sculptures: Another View,” made me even more excited to visit the Galleria Borghese. I found Kenseth’s argument, that the narrative develops as the viewer moves 180 degrees around the front of Bernini’s sculptures, to be particularly compelling. The fact that a sculptor could make an inanimate object tell a story is powerful. I was blown away by the effect Kenseth’s viewing strategy had on my perception of these sculptures, particularly Bernini’s David (1623-1624).

        Starting at a left-rear view, I could only see David’s left shoulder, which reached back for the slingshot. This starts a strong diagonal line that shapes the composition of the sculpture. From this angle, his facial expression is hidden, and his skin appears smooth and naturalistic. Also, the subject pivots, illustrated specifically by David’s arched foot. What surprised me was the lack of exertion perceived in his musculature from this point of view. I could see that David reaches back, but it is unclear what his action will be. This curiosity compelled to continue around the sculpture.

         At a frontal perspective, the diagonal composition that was previously created becomes more pyramidal, thus giving the sculpture verticality. Also, David’s face begins to peak out from over his left shoulder, and his exertion is perceived in his furrowed brow and slightly folded lip, as if he is biting it in concentration. The aspect of this angle that most struck me was that the viewer can now understand the moment in time that Bernini chose to depict; though he is focused and prepared, David has yet to fire the slingshot at Goliath. The suspense from this transitory moment increases the drama of the scene and builds potential energy within David’s figure.

         From the final view, we observed the right side of David’s body in relation to his face. The diagonal composition that was so pronounced on the left side of the figure now disappears, while other details become visible. The matching line of the subject’s shoulders and the slingshot, as well as the folds of his skin, emphasize his contortion. In addition, the viewer notices bulging veins on David’s body, which contribute to the surface tension of the figure. These veins give the sense that David is about to let go of his energy and fire the slingshot.

          What impressed me about viewing Bernini’s David in this way was how vividly the narrative unfolded. The passage of time was palpable as David contemplates his action and makes the decision to pull his slingshot back. The visual evolution of the sculpture as one moves around it also supports this idea. For example, the diagonal line that was established at the first view of David disappears by the final view, which gave the impression that I was looking at two different sculptures. Using this strategy to view Bernini’s David, I would argue that, though it does depart from the classical tradition, Baroque sculpture is not purely external, as many critics claimed. through the development of David’s facial expression and, specifically, the furrowed brow and curled lip, I could detect that the subject experienced a level of internal reflection and contemplation. Thus, Kenseth’s argument for the 180-degree view of Bernini’s sculptures is important for not only revealing narrative, but also for perceiving a greater depth and interiority than Baroque sculpture usually gets credit for.

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Michelangelo, Tomb of Cecchino Bracci, 1544. Marble, Santa Maria in Aracoeli, Rome.