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thecoleopterawithana · 5 years ago

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The Painter of Sunflowers and The Man in a Red Beret

— The Painter of Sunflowers (Portrait of Vincent van Gogh), by Paul Gauguin (1888).

— Paul Gauguin (Man in a Red Beret), by Vincent van Gogh (1888).

–

It’s like trying to compare Gauguin and Van Gogh. They were friends, as well.

— John Lennon talks with Robert Hilburn from The LA Times (10 October 1980).

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Certain relationships are charged with an intensity of feeling that incinerates the walls we habitually erect between platonic friendship, romantic attraction, and intellectual-creative infatuation. One of the most dramatic of those superfriendships unfolded between the artists Paul Gauguin (June 7, 1848–May 8, 1903) and Vincent van Gogh (March 30, 1853–July 29, 1890), whose relationship was animated by an acuity of emotion so lacerating that it led to the famous and infamously mythologized incident in which Van Gogh cut off his own ear — an incident that marks the extreme end of what Sir Thomas Browne contemplated, two centuries earlier, as the divine heartbreak of romantic friendship.

— ‘Gauguin’s Stirring First-Hand Account of What Actually Happened the Night Van Gogh Cut off His Own Ear’ by Maria Popova for Brain Pickings.

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Imagine all the people living life in peace

Arles [town in the South of France where van Gogh had moved to on February 1988]; Wednesday, 3 October 1888

My dear Gauguin,

[…]

I must tell you that even while working I never cease to think about this enterprise of setting up a studio with yourself and me as permanent residents, but which we’d both wish to make into a shelter and a refuge for our pals at moments when they find themselves at an impasse in their struggle.

[…]

Now I’d like to see you taking a very large share in this belief that we’ll be relatively successful in founding something lasting.

[…]

I believe that if from now on you began to think of yourself as the head of this studio, which we’ll attempt to make a refuge for several people, little by little, bit by bit, as our unremitting work provides us with the means to bring the thing to completion — I believe that then you’ll feel relatively consoled for your present misfortunes of penury and illness, considering that we’re probably giving our lives for a generation of painters that will survive for many years to come.

[…]

About the room where you’ll stay, I’ve made a decoration especially for it, the garden of a poet […]. And I’d have wished to paint this garden in such a way that one would think both of the old poet of this place (or rather, of Avignon), Petrarch, and of its new poet — Paul Gauguin.

However clumsy this effort, you’ll still see, perhaps, that while preparing your studio I’ve thought of you with very deep feeling.

Let’s be of good heart for the success of our enterprise, and may you continue to feel very much at home here.

Because I’m so strongly inclined to believe that all this will last for a long time.

Good handshake, and believe me

Ever yours, Vincent

–

We’re all going to live there, perhaps forever, just coming home for visits. Or it might just be six months a year. It’ll be fantastic, all on our own on this island. There some little houses which we’ll do up and knock together and live communally.

— John Lennon, on his plan to buy a Greek island where the Beatle family could live together (1967). In The Anthology.

–

We were all going to live together now, in a huge estate. The four Beatles and Brian would have their network at the centre of the compound: a dome of glass and iron tracery (not unlike the old Crystal Palace) above the mutual creative/play area, from which arbours and avenues would lead off like spokes from a wheel to the four vast and incredibly beautiful separate living units. In the outer grounds, the houses of the inner clique: Neil, Mal, Terry and Derek, complete with partners, families and friends. Norfolk, perhaps, there was a lot of empty land there. What an idea! No thought of wind or rain or flood, and as for cold… there would be no more cold when we were through with the world. We would set up a chain reaction so strong that nothing could stand in our way. And why the hell not? ‘They’ve tried everything else,’ said John realistically. 'Wars, nationalism, fascism, communism, capitalism, nastiness, religion – none of it works. So why not this?

— Derek Taylor, in his autobiography Fifty Years Adrift (1984).

–

— Self-Portrait with Portrait of Émile Bernard (Les misérables), by Paul Gauguin (1888).

Readers of the Mercure may have noticed in a letter of Vincent’s, published a few years ago, the insistence with which he tried to get me to come to Arles to found an atelier after an idea of his own, of which I was to be the director.

At the time I was working at Pont-Aven, in Brittany, and either because the studies I had begun attached me to this spot or because a vague instinct forewarned me of something abnormal, I resisted a long time, till the day came when, finally overborne by Vincent’s sincere, friendly enthusiasm, I set out on my journey.

I arrived at Arles toward the end of the night and waited for Dawn in a little all-night café. The proprietor looked at me and exclaimed, “You are the pal, I recognize you!”

A portrait of myself which I had sent to Vincent explains the proprietor’s exclamation. In showing him my portrait Vincent had told him that it was a pal of his who was coming soon.

Neither too early nor too late I went to rouse Vincent out. The day was devoted to getting settled, to a great deal of talking and to walking about so that I might admire the beauty of Arles and the Arlesian women, about whom, by the way, I could not get up much enthusiasm.

The next day we were at work, he continuing what he had begun, and I starting something new.

— The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

I don’t admire the painting but I admire the man. He was so confident, so calm. I so uncertain, so uneasy.

— The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

My memory of meeting John for the first time is very clear. … I can still see John now - checked shirt, slightly curly hair, singing ‘Come Go With Me’ by the Del Vikings. He didn’t know all the words, so he was putting stuff in about penitentiaries - and doing a good job of it. I remember thinking, ‘He looks good - I wouldn’t mind being in a group with him.’ … Then, as you all know, he asked me to join the group, and so we began our trip together. We wrote our first songs together, we grew up together and we lived our lives together. And when we’d do it together, something special would happen. There’d be that little magic spark. I still remember his beery old breath when I first met him here [Woolton church fete] that day. But I soon came to love that beery old breath. And I loved John. I always was and still am a great fan of John’s.

— Paul McCartney, in Bill Harry’s The Paul McCartney Encyclopedia (2003).

–

In the beginning he was a sort of fairground hero. He was the big lad riding the dodgems and we thought he was great. We were younger, me and George, and that mattered. It was teenage hero worship. I’ve often said how my first impression of him was his boozy breath all over me—but that was just a cute story. That was me being cute. It was true, but only an eighth of the truth. I just used to say that later when people asked me for my first memory of John. My first reaction was never simple—that he was great, that he was a great bloke, and a great singer. My REALLY first impression was that it was amazing how he was making up all the words.

He was singing “Come Go with Me to the Penitentiary,” and he didn’t know ONE of the words. He was making up every one as he went along. I thought it was great.

— Paul McCartney, according to Hunter Davies annotations of their phonecall on 3 May 1981.

–

And if I say I really knew you well What would your answer be?

Between two such beings as he and I, the one a perfect volcano, the other boiling too, inwardly, a sort of struggle was preparing. In the first place, everywhere and in everything I found a disorder that shocked me. His colour-box could hardly contain all those tubes, crowded together and never closed. In spite of all this disorder, this mess, something shone out of his canvases and out of his talk, too. […]

In spite of all my efforts to disentangle from this disordered brain a reasoned logic in his critical opinions, I could not explain to myself the utter contradiction between his painting and his opinions. […]

One thing that angered him was to have to admit that I had plenty of intelligence, although my forehead was too small, a sign of imbecility. Along with all this, he possessed the greatest tenderness, or rather the altruism of the Gospel.

— The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

I could just often be the sort of baddie in a situation, and he could be a real soft sweetie, you know? Took everyone by surprise, that!

— Paul McCartney, interviewed by David Frost (1997).

–

I was feeling insecure…

From: Vincent | To: Paul | Wednesday, 3 October 1888

I find my artistic ideas extremely commonplace in comparison with yours.

I always have an animal’s coarse appetites. I forget everything for the external beauty of things, which I’m unable to render because I make it ugly in my painting, and coarse, whereas nature seems perfect to me.

Now, however, the energy of my bony carcass is such that it goes straight to the target; from that comes a perhaps sometimes original sincerity in what I make, if, that is, the subject lends itself to my rough and unskilful execution.

–

Tony Sheridan: [John] never saw himself as a very good singer, for instance.

Interviewer: Really?

Tony Sheridan: No. He never saw himself as comparable to Paul McCartney, even. Which, you know, he was playing with a guy, writing songs with a guy whom he thought was better than he was in many ways. So he had this immense ego and this immense sort of – it was like a motor in him that had to go to new lengths and reach new heights in order to impress somebody or the whole world or whatever.

— In A Long And Winding Road (2003).

–

“Most people in Britain think I’m somebody who won the pools, you know,” he says drily, drawing on a Gauloise. “Won the pools and married a Hawaiian dancer or actress somewhere. Whereas in the States, we’re treated like artists. Which we are! Or anywhere else for that matter,” he added. “But here, it’s like, the lad who knew Paul, got a lucky break, won the pools and married the actress.”

— John Lennon, interviewed for Melody Maker (2 October 1971).

–

It may have been the one that had my song, 'Here, There and Everywhere.’ There were three of my songs and three of John’s songs on the side we were listening to. And for the first time ever, he just tossed it off, without saying anything definite, 'Oh, I probably like your songs better than mine.’

— Paul McCartney, interviewed by Joan Goodman for Playboy (1984).

–

Knowing that love is to share

From the very first month, I saw that our common finances were taking on the same appearance of disorder. What was I to do? […] I was obliged to speak, at the risk of wounding that very great susceptibility of his. It was thus with many precautions and much gentle coaxing, of the sort very foreign to my nature, that I approached the question. I must confess that I succeeded far more easily than I should have supposed.

We kept a box, – so much for hygienic excursions at night, so much for tobacco, so much for incidental expenses, including rent. […] We gave up our little restaurant, and I did the cooking on a gas stove, while Vincent laid in provisions, not going very far from the house. Once, however, Vincent wanted to make soup. How he mixed it I don’t know; as he mixed his colours in his pictures, I dare say. At any rate, we couldn’t eat it. And my Vincent burst out laughing and exclaimed: “Tarascon! La casquette au père Daudet!” On the wall he wrote in chalk: Je suis Saint Esprit. Je suis sain d’esprit. [I am the Holy Spirit. I am sane.]

— The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

You’ve got to hide your love away

On several nights I surprised him in the act of getting up and coming over to my bed. To what can I attribute my awakening just at that moment?

At all events, it was enough for me to say to him, quite sternly, “What’s the matter with you, Vincent?” for him to go back to bed without a word and fall into a heavy sleep.

— The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

All I can ever say about it is that I slept with John a lot because you had to, you didn’t have more than one bed - and to my knowledge John was never gay.

— Paul McCartney, in The Brian Epstein Story (2000).

–

To say “I love you” would break all my teeth.

— The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

You can actually say, “I love you,” to someone, but it’s quite hard. And so that’s why it’s usually easier when you’re a bit drunk. It’s like ‘Here Today’ [on 1982’s Tug of War], which was for John, and there is the line, (sings) “Du du du du du du du, I love you,” and it is a bit of a moment in the song. It would be a bit like Keith Richards saying to Mick, “I love you.” I mean he does, but I’m not sure he’s going to say it. I’m sure the Gallaghers love each other on some level, probably quite deeply, but that certainly isn’t going to get said soon. I think it’s quite an interesting subject and I felt it most recently with [wife] Nancy, I knew I loved her but to actually say, “I love you,” you know, it’s just not that easy.

— Paul McCartney, interview with Pat Gilbert for MOJO (November 2013).

–

Hear me, my lover I can’t be held responsible now For something that didn’t happen I knew you for a minute Oh, it didn’t happen Only for a minute

–

During the latter days of my stay, Vincent would become excessively rough and noisy, and then silent. […]

The idea occurred to me to do his portrait while he was painting the still-life he loved so much – some ploughs. When the portrait was finished, he said to me, “It is certainly I, but it’s I gone mad.”

That very evening we went to the café. He took a light absinthe. Suddenly he flung the glass and its contents at my head. I avoided the blow, and, taking him bodily in my arms, went out of the café, across the Place Victor Hugo. Not many minutes later Vincent found himself in his bed where, in a few seconds, he was asleep, not to awaken again til morning.

When he awoke, he said to me very calmly, “My dear Gauguin, I have a vague memory that I offended you last evening.”

Answer: “I forgive you gladly and with all my heart, but yesterday’s scene might occur again and if I were struck I might lose control of myself and give you a choking. So permit me to write to your brother and tell him that I am coming back.”

My God, what a day!

When evening had come and I had bolted my dinner, I felt I must go out alone and take the air along the paths that were bordered by flowering laurel. I had almost crossed the Place Victor Hugo when I heard behind me a well-known step, short, quick, irregular. I turned about on the instance as Vincent rushed toward me, an open razor in his hand. My look at the moment must have had great power in it, for he stopped and, lowering his head, set off running towards home.

Was I negligent on this occasion? Should I have disarmed him and tried to calm him? I have often questioned my conscience about this, but I have never found anything to reproach myself with. Let him who will fling the stone at me.

With one bound I was in a good Alesian hotel, where, after I had enquired the time, I engaged a room and went to bed.

I was so agitated that I could not get to sleep till about three in the morning, and I awoke rather late, at about half-past seven.

Reaching the square, I saw a great crowd collected. Near our house there were some gendarmes and a little gentleman in a melon-shaped hat who was the superintendent of the police.

This is what had happened.

Van Gogh had gone back to the house and immediately cut off his ear close to the head. He must have taken some time to stop the flow of the blood, for the day after there were a loto f wet towels lying about on the flag-stones in the two lower rooms. […]

When he was in a condition to go out, with his head enveloped in a Basque beret which he had pulled far down, he went straight to a certain house where for want of a fellow-countrywoman one can pick up an acquaintance, and gave the manager his ear, carefully washed and placed in an envelope. “Here is a souvenir of me,” he said. Then he ran off home, where he went to bed and to sleep. […]

I had no faintest suspicion of all this when I presented myself at the door of our house and the gentleman in the melon-shaped hat said to me abruptly and in a tone that was more than severe, “What have you done to your comrade, Monsieur?”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, yes… you know very well… he is dead.”

I could never wish anyone such a moment, and it took me a long time to get my wits together and control the beating of my heart.

Anger, indignation, grief, as well as shame at all these glances that were tearing my person to pieces, suffocated me, and I answered, stammeringly: “All right, Monsieur, let us go upstairs. We can explain ourselves there.”

In the bed lay Vincent, rolled up in the sheets, humped like a guncock; he seemed lifeless. Gently, very gently, I touched the body, the heat of which showed that it was still alive. For me it was as if I had suddenly got back all my energy, all my spirit.

Then in a low voice I said to the police superintendent: “Be kind enough, Monsieur, to awaken this man with great care, and if he asks for me tell him I have left for Paris; the sight of me might prove fatal to him.”

— On the events of 23 of December 1988. In The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

Auvers-sur-Oise, c. 17 June 1890

My dear friend Gauguin,

Thank you for having written to me again, my dear friend, and rest assured that since my return I have thought of you every day. I stayed in Paris only three days, and the noise, etc., of Paris had such a bad effect on me that I thought it wise for my head’s sake to fly to the country; but for that, I should soon have dropped in on you.

And it gives me enormous pleasure when you say the Arlésienne’s portrait [above], which was based strictly on your drawing, is to your liking. I tried to be religiously faithful to your drawing, while nevertheless taking the liberty of interpreting through the medium of colour the sober character and the style of the drawing in question. It is a synthesis of the Arlésiennes, if you like; as syntheses of the Arlésiennes are rare, take this as a work belonging to you and me as a summary of our months of work together. For my part I paid for doing it with another month of illness, but I also know that it is a canvas which will be understood by you, and by a very few others, as we would wish it to be understood.

–

There are only about 100 people in the world who understand our music. George, Ringo, and a few friends around the world. Some of the artists who recorded our numbers have no idea how to interpret them. […] When Paul and I write a song, we try and take hold of something we believe in – a truth. We can never communicate 100 per cent of what we feel, but if we can convey just a fraction, we have achieved something. We try to give people a feeling – they don’t have to understand the music if they can just feel the emotion. This is half the reason the fans don’t understand, but they experience what we are trying to tell them. Lack of feeling in an emotional sense is responsible for the way some singers do our songs. They don’t understand, and are too old to grasp the feeling. Beatles are really the only people who can play Beatle music.

— John Lennon, Lennon & McCartney Interview for Flip Magazine (May 1966).

–

My friend Dr. Gachet here has taken to it altogether after two or three hesitations, and says, “How difficult it is to be simple.” Very well - I want to underline the thing again by etching it, then let it be. Anyone who likes can have it.

Have you also seen the olives? Meanwhile I have a portrait of Dr. Gachet with the heart-broken expression of our time. If you like, something like what you said of your “Christ in the Garden of Olives” not meant to be understood, but anyhow I follow you there, and my brother grasped that nuance absolutely.

[Here Vincent drew a sketch of the “Cypress with Star.”]

I still have a cypress with a star from down there, a last attempt - a night sky with a moon without radiance, the slender crescent barely emerging from the opaque shadow cast by the earth - one star with an exaggerated brilliance, if you like, a soft brilliance of pink and green in the ultramarine sky, across which some clouds are hurrying. Below, a road bordered with tall yellow canes, behind these the blue Basses Alpes, an old inn with yellow lighted windows, and a very tall cypress, very straight, very sombre.

On the road, a yellow cart with a white horse in harness, and two late wayfarers. Very romantic, if you like, but also Provence, I think.

— Road with Cypress and Star, by Vincent van Gogh.

I shall probably etch this and also other landscapes and subjects, memories of Provence, then I shall look forward to giving you one, a whole summary, rather deliberate and studied. My brother says that Lauzet, who does the lithographs after Monticelli, liked the head of the Arlésienne in question.

But you will understand that having arrived in Paris a little confused, I have not yet seen your canvases. But I hope to return for a few days soon.

[Here was drawn a sketch of “Ears of Wheat.”]

I’m very glad to learn from your letter that you are going back to Brittany with De Haan. It is very likely that - if you will allow me - I shall go there to join you for a month, to do a marine or two, but especially to see you again and make De Haan’s acquaintance. Then we will try to do something purposeful and serious, such as our work would probably have become if we had been able to carry on down there.

Look, here’s an idea which may suit you, I am trying to do some studies of wheat like this, but I cannot draw it - nothing but ears of wheat with green-blue stalks, long leaves like ribbons of green shot with pink, ears that are just turning yellow, lightly edged with the pale pink of the dusty bloom - a pink bindweed at the bottom twisted round a stem.

— Ears of Wheat, by Vincent van Gogh.

After this I would like to paint some portraits against a very vivid yet tranquil background. There are the greens of a different quality, but of the same value, so as to form a whole of green tones, which by its vibration will make you think of the gentle rustle of the ears swaying in the breeze: it is not at all easy as a colour scheme.

— Unfinished unsent letter from Vincent van Gogh to Paul Gauguin.

–

— Auvers-sur-Oise. — Sunday 27 July, a man named Van Gogh, 37, a Dutch fellow, painter, on his way through Auvers, shot himself in the fields and, being only wounded, returned to his room where he died two days later.

–

Here is what I know on his death.

That Sunday he went out immediately after breakfast, which was unusual. […] When we saw Vincent arrive night had fallen, it must have been about nine o'clock. Vincent walked bent, holding his stomach, again exaggerating his habit of holding one shoulder higher than the other. Mother asked him: “M. Vincent, we were anxious, we are happy to see you to return; have you had a problem?”

He replied in a suffering voice: “No, but I have…” he did not finish, crossed the hall, took the staircase and climbed to his bedroom. I was witness to this scene. Vincent made such a strange impression on us that Father got up and went to the staircase to see if he could hear anything.

He thought he could hear groans, went up quickly and found Vincent on his bed, laid down in a crooked position, knees up to the chin, moaning loudly: “What’s the matter,” said Father, “are you ill?” Vincent then lifted his shirt and showed him a small wound in the region of the heart. Father cried: “Malheureaux, [unhappy man] what have you done?”

“I have tried to kill myself,” replied Van Gogh.

[…]

Vincent had gone to the wheat field where he had painted previously […]. Vincent shot himself with a revolver and fainted. The freshness of the evening revived him. On all fours he sought the revolver to finish himself off, but could not find it (and it was not found the following day). Then Vincent gave up looking and came down the hill to regain our house.

[…]

In the morning of the following day, two gendarmes of the Méry brigade, probably alerted by a public rumour, appeared at the house. […] The gendarme then entered the room, and Rigaumon, always in the same tone, questioned Vincent: “Are you the one who wanted to commit suicide?”

- Yes, I believe, replies Vincent in his usual soft tone.

- You know that you do not have the right?

Always in the same even tone Van Gogh replied: “Gendarme, my body is mine and I am free to do what I want with it. Do not accuse anybody, it is I that wished to commit suicide.”

[…]

Theo arrived by train in the middle of the afternoon. I remember seeing him arrive, running. […] But his face was marked by sorrow. He immediately climbed up to his brother who he kissed and spoke to him in their native language. Father withdrew and did not help them. He did not go back in during the night. After the emotion that he had felt on seeing his brother, Vincent had fallen into a coma. Theo and my father kept watch on the casualty until his death, which occurred at one o'clock in the morning.

— Memoirs of Vincent Van Gogh’s stay in Auvers-sur-Oise (1956), by Adeline Ravoux (aged 76).

–

Paris, 5 August 1890

To say we must be grateful that he rests - I still hesitate to do so. Maybe I should call it one of the great cruelties of life on this earth and maybe we should count him among the martyrs who died with a smile on their face.

He did not wish to stay alive and his mind was so calm because he had always fought for his convictions, convictions that he had measured against the best and noblest of his predecessors. His love for his father, for the gospel, for the poor and the unhappy, for the great men of literature and painting, is enough proof for that. In the last letter which he wrote me and which dates from some four days before his death, it says, “I try to do as well as certain painters whom I have greatly loved and admired.” People should realize that he was a great artist, something which often coincides with being a great human being. In the course of time this will surely be acknowledged, and many will regret his early death. He himself wanted to die, when I sat at his bedside and said that we would try to get him better and that we hoped that he would then be spared this kind of despair, he said, “La tristesse durera toujours” [The sadness will last forever]. I understood what he wanted to say with those words.

A few moments later he felt suffocated and within one minute he closed his eyes. A great rest came over him from which he did not come to life again.

— Letter from Theo van Gogh to Elisabeth van Gogh.

–

Vincent van Gogh did not kill himself, the authors of new biography Van Gogh: The Life have claimed.

Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith say that, contrary to popular belief, it was more likely he was shot accidentally by two boys he knew who had “a malfunctioning gun”.

The authors came to their conclusion after 10 years of study with more than 20 translators and researchers.

It has long been thought that he shot himself in a wheat field before returning to the inn where he later died.

[…]

But author Steven Naifeh said it was “very clear to us that he did not go into the wheat fields with the intention of shooting himself”.

“The accepted understanding of what happened in Auvers among the people who knew him was that he was killed accidentally by a couple of boys and he decided to protect them by accepting the blame.”

He said that renowned art historian John Rewald had recorded that version of events when he visited Auvers in the 1930s and other details were found that corroborated the theory.

They include the assertion that the bullet entered Van Gogh’s upper abdomen from an oblique angle - not straight on as might be expected from a suicide.

“These two boys, one of whom was wearing a cowboy outfit and had a malfunctioning gun that he played cowboy with, were known to go drinking at that hour of day with Vincent.

"So you have a couple of teenagers who have a malfunctioning gun, you have a boy who likes to play cowboy, you have three people probably all of whom had too much to drink.”

He said “accidental homicide” was “far more likely”.

“It’s really hard to imagine that if either of these two boys was the one holding the gun - which is probably more likely than not - it’s very hard to imagine that they really intended to kill this painter.”

Gregory White Smith, meanwhile, said Van Gogh did not “actively seek death but that when it came to him, or when it presented itself as a possibility, he embraced it”.

He said Van Gogh’s acceptance of death was “really done as an act of love to his brother, to whom he was a burden”.

— by Will Gompertz for BBC News (17 October 2011).

–

Now everybody seems to have their own opinion Who did this and who did that But as for me I don’t see how they can remember When they weren’t where it was at

–

For a long time I have wanted to write about Van Gogh, and I shall certainly do so some fine day when I am in the mood. I am going to tell you now a few rather timely things about him, or rather about us, in order to correct an error which has been going around in certain circles.

— In the introductory chapter of The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

I’d like to say this is just as I remember it, if it hurts anyone or any families of anyone who’ve got a different memory of it. Let me say first off, before you read this book even, that I loved John. Lest it be seen that I’m trying to do my own kind of revisionism, I’d like to register the fact that John was great, he was absolutely wonderful and I did love him. I was very happy to work with him and I’m still a fan to this day. So this is merely my opinion. I’m not trying to take anything away from him. All I’m saying is that I have my side of the affair as well, hence this book. When George Harrison wrote his life story I Me Mine, he hardly mentioned John. In my case I wouldn’t want to leave him out. John and I were two of the luckiest people in the twentieth century to have found each other. The partnership, the mix, was incredible. We both had submerged qualities that we each saw and knew. I had to be the bastard as well as the nice melodic one and John had to have a warm and loving side for me to stand him all those years. John and I would never have stood each other for that length of time had we been just one-dimensional.

— Paul McCartney, in the introduction of Many Years from Now.

–

All the rest everyone knows who has any interest in knowing it, and it would be useless to talk about it were it not for that great suffering of a man who, confined in a madhouse, at monthly intervals recovered his reason enough to understand and furiously paint the admirable pictures we know.

The last letter I had from him was dated from Anvers, near Pontoise. He told me that he had hoped to recover enough to come and join me in Brittany, but now was obliged to recognize the impossibility of a cure:

“Dear Master” (the only time he ever used this word), “after having known you and caused you pain, it is better to die in a good state of mind than in a degraded one.”

He sent a revolver shot into his stomach, and it was only a few hours later that he died, lying in his bed and smoking pipe, having complete possession of his mind, full of the love of his art and without hatred for others.

In Les Monstres Jean Dolent writes, “When Gauguin says ‘Vincent’ his voice is gentle.” Without knowing it but having guessed it, Jean Dolent is right.

You know why… . .

— The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

At one point during the evening at the Waldorf-Astoria, McCartney answers a random question with, “No, I always felt much closer to John.” Out of the mouth of anyone else, “John” is just a name, a mere monosyllable. But when the name is uttered by McCartney, the ghostlike presence of John Lennon suddenly descends on the evening. Lennon’s name, so simply invoked by McCartney, takes on the power of a talisman, conjuring up an entire shared cultural scrapbook of images defining musical collaboration and the purest of camaraderie. McCartney owns the pronunciation of “John” the way Katharine Hepburn made “Spensah�� Tracy her own.

— In the Paul McCartney interview The act you’ve known for all these years: McCartney today, by Andrew Marton for the Boston Globe (3 December 2000).

–

How long did we remain together? I couldn’t say, I have entirely forgotten. In spite of the swiftness with which the catastrophe approached, in spite of the fever of work that seized me, the time seemed to me a century.

Though the public had no suspicion of it, two men were performing there a colossal work that was useful to them both. Perhaps to others? There are some things that bear fruit.

— The Intimate Journals of Paul Gauguin by Paul Gauguin (1936).

–

[And amalgamation of often imperfect (and other times scary) parallels that possibly led John to compare his relationship with Paul to that of Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin. An overly long self-indulgent post.]

More on the painters series:

The Surrealist | Lennon - McCartney & René Magritte

#lennon mccartney #macca #johnny #vincent van gogh #paul gauguin #we were more artsy #the person I actually picked as my partner #meta #my stuff #Early Days #The Pound Is Sinking #Here Today #Imagine #Jealous Guy #here there and everywhere #Hide your Love Away

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perennialphilosophy · 6 years ago

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Loving Vincent

‘One can speak poetry just by arranging colours well, just as one can say comforting things in music.’ Vincent van Gogh

I imagine that not many of you know this but I completed a Masters degree a couple of years ago in Philosophy (of Art), specifically in the history of art and how what we value in works of art has changed over time, with particular focus on Dutch Art. What started out as an interest in the work of Aelbert Cuyp very quickly found itself fascinated by Vincent van Gogh, not necessarily because of his oh so famous works such as Starry Night and Sunflowers but more because I wanted to know who this character was who emerged during Impressionism in a very different way to other more classic members such as Monet and Renoir.

I have been reading a lot on van Gogh at the moment, visiting exhibitions etc. and I think there is enough documented on how unhappy he was, but let us look at the little happiness we can take from it all. Vincent lived a very sad and lonely life, struggling to find himself for much of it. From the tender age of sixteen he worked as an assistant in an art gallery for seven years, but this was not what suited him and he did not suit it. He later worked as a teacher in England, as well as in a bookshop, learning languages such as Latin and Greek in Amsterdam. He not only struggled to find himself as a person but also as an artist, which is evident in the change in his style of painting over the years.

It was the movement of Impressionism that moved him particularly, which was emerging in French society at the time. Artists that particularly moved him included Monet, Renoir, Gauguin, Cézanne, and Ernest Quost’s Garden of Hollyhocks. During the years of 1886 and 1887, Vincent’s style can be seen to be very similar to that of the more traditional impressionists, including his painting Montmartre: Behind Le Moulin de la Galette 1887 (pictured below). It was not just the paintings that he admired during this time, but the artists themselves and Vincent longed to have friends who would inspire him and who he could inspire also – to start a little circle of artists. He hoped that those joining him in this circle would be those he admired most, namely impressionist painters of the time, sadly nothing came of this.

It was in the last moments of his life and in death that Vincent found happiness. Following unsuccessful attempts at selling his work and several mental breakdowns, Vincent’s brother (Theo) wrote to him on 16th July 1889 with great news, that in January 1890 there would be an exhibition in Brussels called Les Vingt (The Twenty) that would feature twenty avant-garde artists of the time, of which Vincent was invited to be one. Not only was this the first time that he would be asked to exhibit his work but he would have the opportunity of displaying his work alongside those he admired and longed to be with, including Renoir, Cézanne and Toulouse-Lautrec. As much as we know of his unhappiness, it is important to note that during Vincent’s last days, he did begin to get recognition for his work. Although Les Vingt gained mixed reviews, both by other artists and the public, many did enjoy his work.

A month after the closing of Les Vingt, Vincent was given another opportunity to showcase his work, this time in Paris in March 1890 as the Société des Artistes Indépendants, in which he put ten works up for exhibition. At this exhibition, the master of the impressionists Monet described Vincent’s work as being ‘the best in the exhibition’, Theo told Vincent.

Tragically, this recognition is not enough to pull Vincent out of the state he is in and he ultimately shoots himself in the stomach, managing to make his way back to his bedroom where he dies two days later, with his brother by his side. Theo writes to his wife Jo that Vincent’s last words include that ‘this is how I wanted to go & it took a few moments & then it was over & he found peace he hadn’t been able to find on earth’. At his funeral, there were twenty attendees, half of which were artists. There were his canvases hung all around him, decorating the room like a halo.

Vincent’s friend Bernard notes that ‘the coffin was covered in a simple white cloth and surrounded with masses of flowers, the sunflowers that he loved so much, yellow dahlias, yellow flowers everywhere.’ Theo also writes to his wife, once more, that ‘there were masses of bouquets and wreaths. Dr Gachet arrived first with a magnificent bunch of sunflowers because he [Vincent] loved them so much’.

Shortly after the funeral, Vincent’s memory was already largely engrained in the minds of many. Quost who painted the Garden of Hollyhocks, which Vincent loved so much, gifted this to Theo with a note on the back that read ‘To Theo van Gogh. This painting that my friend Vincent loved so much.’ Sadly, Theo too passed away only six months after Vincent’s death, having been stricken with Syphilis. In 1914, Theo’s remains were taken to be buried with his brother, having played such a large part in Vincent’s growth and life as an artist and man.

The van Gogh’s graves constantly had sunflowers planted on them from their death to 1950, by Dr Gachet and then by his son Paul. When France had been occupied, the Germans asked permission to be able to lay flowers at their final resting place.

Perhaps Vincent did not find quite what he wanted in life, knowing mostly loneliness and being largely misunderstood. In death however, he has been immortalised as one of the greatest artists to have ever lived. It is impossible to not love a man who loved others so deeply, who loved the world and the flowers and the stars. It is nothing short of a tragedy to think it was not long after his death that he began to gain true recognition and sell paintings, not long at all. But life gives with the same hand with which it takes.

#art #vangogh

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ummaannex · 5 years ago

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Let’s Get Label-Conscious: Making a Museum Vice a Museum Virtue

By: Kathryn Holihan

On November 3, 2018 artist Michelle Hartney secretly hung her own labels next to prominent works by Picasso and Gauguin at the Metropolitan Museum of Art New York. Her self-titled “Hang and Run” performance calls for museums to “separate the art from the artist,” for both Picasso and Gauguin share exploitative and chauvinistic pasts, yet continue to be venerated by museums across the world. Quoting feminist scholar Roxanne Gay and comedian Hannah Gadsby, Hartney’s labels prompt the question: “what is the responsibility of the art institution to educate viewers and turn the presentation of an artist’s work into a teaching moment?”

Michelle Hartney’s “Hang and Run” performance: https://www.michellehartney.com/correct-art-history

Though Hartney’s website has little to say about her decision to craft guerilla museum labels, this act undoubtedly hits the museum where it hurts. Museums are label-conscious. Nearly every object on display comes paired with a label (sometimes lovingly referred to as a “tombstone”), listing basic information, including the title, artist, date, medium, and inventory number of a work. Some labels offer additional content, be it a visual description of the work, an explanation of the artistic process, or other information to assist the viewer in the act of observation. In just a few lines (because who wants to read a long museum label?), they pack a lot of punch. They should address a target audience, use accessible language, engage with the object, and, perhaps, even raise a provocative question. And though you won’t find this listed among the International Council of Museums (ICOM) standards or the V&A’s ten points to writing a gallery text, I suspect museum professionals (as museum-goers themselves) also know that in the galleries—perhaps more than we’d like to admit—our eyes dart right for the label, after only a passing glance at the artwork itself. The label is our collective museum vice, but museum professionals might make it a virtue.

Egon Schiele, UMMA, and #MeToo

A recent exhibit at UMMA’s State Street entrance showcased a new acquisition of works by the Austrian expressionist and controversial figure, Egon Schiele. In preparation for the show, Associate Curator Laura De Becker studied Schiele’s career, including the allegations lodged against him for sexual misconduct in the early twentieth century. The vagaries surrounding the circumstances of the charges, however, far exceeded what De Becker would be able to recapitulate in a mere tombstone caption. Whereas the exhibit’s digital announcement cited Schiele’s problematic status, a conventional label listing the title, artist, date, and medium, was all that accompanied the featured works in the museum gallery. “We received a complaint about this,” De Becker reported, “and we decided to write that label,” referring to an additional text she penned in response to visitor feedback, titled “Curator Laura De Becker reflects upon Egon Schiele in the #MeToo era.”

Female Nude in Black Stockings, Egon Schiele

In this additional caption, De Becker contextualized the controversy surrounding Schiele, the moral panic prompted by his “pornographic” nudes, and his exhibition of work to a minor, for which he served a short prison sentence. De Becker further embedded Schiele’s polemical past within contemporary debates regarding consent and the treatment of women, invoking conversations reenergized by the #MeToo movement. “Museums are reevaluating their practice in displaying and discussing works by artists such as Schiele,” the new caption explained, reflexively gesturing to the ways in which artists are being “scrutinized anew” not only at UMMA, but in many other museums. In the 2018 exhibition Klimt and Schiele at the Museum of Fine Arts (MFA) Boston, for example, curators revised wall texts to bring Schiele’s transgressions to light. The text, however, confined to a small series of Schiele’s early works, minimized the artist’s culpability to a specific period of his artistic career. In so doing, the MFA passed up the opportunity to, as Becker puts it, “review historical practices through the lens of evolved thinking,” be it in an ethical, moral, or legal sense.

In writing the additional caption for the Schiele exhibit at UMMA, De Becker reported, “I did not offer up any truths. This is a complicated issue, which museums are still dealing with.” Above all, she explained, “this prompted the centuries-long question: Can we disconnect art from its maker?” Using the label to prompt critical questions, De Becker embraced the politics of the label. Responding to visitorship, she mobilized the caption, not as an “objective” museal tool, but as a means to engage the public and perhaps prompt a different reading of the artwork in light of its historical past. Among a set of challenging questions contained in the new label, De Becker asked, “How do such issues affect how we look at these images now and what role does the viewer play when seeing and admiring them?”

“Race-ing through the Archive”

Shortly upon assuming her role as deputy director of curatorial affairs and curator of modern and contemporary art at the University of Michigan Museum of Art (UMMA), Vera Grant and her colleagues began a concerted “deep drive” through UMMA’s holdings. Grant calls this ongoing venture “race-ing through the archive,” for the “elusive task of digging through the [museum] archives” is at its core an assessment of the many dimensions of race, gender, and sexuality manifest in UMMA’s encyclopedic collection. Grant’s use of the word “archive” here is deliberate, as the UMMA staff considers issues of representation—who, how, and what is being represented and to whom—from level of the artwork’s subject matter down to the language of its accompanying label. The ultimate goal, Grant attests, is to “share our own dilemmas and thoughtfulness in how we address these matters.”

Though denoted as a standard museum protocol, the act of labeling is far from simple or standardized. The label is at once liberating and limiting. “It is part of a spatial grid within which we move and interact in this world,” Grant explains. As a form of categorization, the label provides a certain sense of comfort in a complex world. “It’s almost like a form of conquering and then we can move on” she adds. But by the same hand, a label is severely limiting, as Grant notes, “that’s how labels work—they don’t tell many stories, they tell one.” A strong statement on the wall might create a miscommunication or prevent engagement across cultures. Despite the serious advantages and disadvantages of the object label, one thing is clear: it is powerful. It can elicit an array of reactions, as Grant speaks from experience about the “abundance of responses to a bit of square footage on the wall.”

One initiative stemming from “race-ing through the archive” was to address “the charged and unexamined nature of lingering object captions,” Grant reports. Take, for instance UMMA’s re-examination of the uncritical, original caption paired with the charged work J. Marion Sims: Gynecological Surgeon. Both the label and illustration lionize Sims, who stands with his arms folded at the head of the hospital scene. The illustration reproduces a racist, medical gaze, as it prompts the observer to join the ranks of other visiting surgeons who ogle the patient—an Alabama slave known only by her first name, Lucy. The caption centers less on Lucy, and more on the heroic and mythical biography of James Marion Sims, the so-called “father of gynecology.” A portion of the troubling description (below) served as the illustration’s official caption since the illustration’s accession to the University collection:

Little did James Marion Sims, M.D., (1813-1883) dream, that summer day in 1845, as he prepared to examine the slave girl, Lucy, that he was launching on an international career as a gynecologic surgeon; or that he was to raise gynecology from virtually an unknown to respected medical specialty. Nor did he realize that his crude back-yard hospital in Montgomery, Alabama, would be the forerunner of the nation's first Woman's Hospital, which Sims helped to establish in New York in 1855. Dr. Sims, who became a leader in gynecology in Europe as well as in the United States, served as president of The American Medical Association, 1875-1876; and was honored by many nations.

Contextualizing and reframing this object and text pairing, UMMA hopes to wield the power of the label to address contemporary issues, in this instance, the entanglement of violence, slavery, and medicine. Performing an academic “hang and run” of their own, Grant and her colleagues are getting label-conscious. While “race-ing through the archive,” UMMA hopes to leverage the label as a tool for grappling with artistic limitations and interrogating the museum’s own authority. Welcoming visitors into the fold, labels solicit a public response to the same questions facing museum curators: how might we use tensions manifest in the collection to reflect on the past and present and the evolution of cultural understanding? In the galleries, the visitor’s eye might still dart right to the label, but now it talks back.

Kathryn Holihan is a doctoral candidate in German Studies at the University of Michigan, where she is also a graduate of the Museum Studies Program and a participant in the Science, Technology, and Society Program. Her dissertation project Staging the Somatic: The Popular Hygiene Exhibition in Germany, 1882 1931 examines a series of hygiene exhibitions staged in twentieth-century Germany. She investigates how a group of curators, politicians, medical officials, and artists wielded public display to produce and popularize knowledge about the body. Kathryn has taught German and History courses including the original course Unsolved Mysteries: Crime, Criminology, and the Detective in Modern Germany. Kathryn is a member of a Think Tank Act conducting research on museums and public efficacy. She is also the education and curatorial assistant at the University of Michigan Museum of Art.

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guylty · 5 years ago

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How quickly time flies. If Besotted hadn’t reminded me in the comments, I would’ve completely forgotten that I had a last episode of The Impressionists to catch up with. Forgetting the Re-Watch is symptomatic. I may have enjoyed the show, and the wide smiles that Armitage was allowed to brighten the screen with were certainly welcome, but somehow this mini-series was never – and never will be – my favourite of Richard’s works.

It’s not *all* because of the wig and look of Claude Monet. *That* is easily balanced out by the wide smiles! My lukewarm feelings about this mini-series has more to do with my general lack of enthusiasm for impressionism. I fully appreciate the importance of this arts movement for the development of painting and art in general, and I understand the impressionists’ value. In many case I actually do find their paintings particularly evocative, beautiful and touching. I guess, my problem with them is that they have become too popular – which usually makes me turn away from something. That’s unfair – but unfortunately true. But I totally concede that – particularly Monet’s – Impressionist paintings are incredibly beautiful.

Quick Summary

We pick up again in episode 3 of TI with the group celebrating Edouard Manet’s formal recognition as an artist after he has been awarded the Légion d’Honneur. However, Manet is suffering from syphilis and his health deteriorates. He dies in 1883. Monet, OTOH, is living with Alice Hochedé after his wife’s death. The two of them become a couple, marry and eventually settle in Giverny. Monet develops his serial painting technique, always following the changing light.

A large part of this episode is taken up with the life and travails of Paul Cézanne who is seen as a revolutionary new painter by the impressionists. Despite an affluent background, he lives in poverty with his working class wife and illegitimate son. First shunned by the art world, Cézanne’s genius is eventually recognised and he joins the Impressionists as the most celebrated painters in the world. They overcame all the obstacles and changed painting – and art – forever. So much for the summary of episode 3.

Beards and Hair

I was quite amused in this episode about the changing hairstyles of Claude Monet. Starting out with short hair and a pipe, the next scene in a café he had long hair again. Continuity was a bit lax there, I thought 😂. But at least we could see that RA really knew how to smoke. Yep, as an ex-smoker (almost 6 months to the day) I notice such things. – Eventually the episode settled into short hair for Claude. And I couldn’t help but feel reminded of my personal hero Leon Trotzky…

Tenuous. I know. But fun. Right down to the left eyebrow.

However, let’s stay quickly with the look – ok, I am a not a fan of facial shrubbery at all, and particularly not these kind of standalone shrubs on upper lip and chin. If there has to be facial hair, give me a full blown meadow that covers all (beard) or stay with the manicured lawn aka stubble. Looking at the overgrown goatee on Richard’s chin, however, I am wondering whether it is actually his own. Not only because he has always been so proud of his fast growth and thus the conclusion lies near. No, but also because of the tell-tale triangle underneath his lower lip. Mr Armitage has, indeed, a rather pretty beard-growth pattern (see evidence on right).

Elder statesman or ill-fitting wig?

I was quite taken with the elder statesman look he was given in the latter part of the episode, once Monet had settled down with Alice and concentrated on creating Giverny as his inspirational garden. (I don’t really think that Richard has an old man’s face, yet, though, so I finally was reconciled with Julian Glover playing Monet senior in the framework plot.) In fact, I found myself fascinated by the grey temples and the short hair, and I kept screen-shooting.

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I also enjoyed that his eye crinkles came into play…

Things I Loved

As always, Richard – even considerably younger and less experienced than today – was a pleasure to watch. I loved the scenes where he glowed with enthusiasm, happiness and lust for life, smiling widely with glowing teeth. But I especially liked the scenes where you could hear him laugh. It really doesn’t happen very often at all that you can hear Richard Armitage laugh in one of his roles. He is the go-to man for scowling (Guy of Gisborne, John Thornton), growling (Francis Dolarhyde, Thorin Oakenshield) and frowning (John Porter, Daniel Miller). And yet his laugh is an absolute joy. In German we call his kind of laugh “gurgling” – but that doesn’t quite hit it in English. What I like about it is not what it looks like (although I believe that *every* laugh looks beautiful), but what it sounds like. Reminder:

youtube

That’s what he laughed like in his younger years. (I think his laugh now has become slightly deeper, more baritone, whereas it sounded more tenor way back in the early 2000s.) And it is infectious. Bookmark and keep near for any rainy day. It definitely works.

Ok, moving on. The old fogey in me also quite enjoyed the mature-lovestory-section of this episode. We were discussing it somewhere in the comments, I believe, and the series didn’t really get into it, but there are suspicions that Monet and Alice Hoschedé started their relationship even before she split with her husband and moved in with the Monets. Her youngest child may even have been by Monet. In that sense, it was lovely that the series spent a little time with Monet’s and Alice’s relationship. I wasn’t quite convinced by Richard’s choice to play Monet as out of breath as if he had just raced a marathon when he catches Alice in the garden and proposes. But this completely balanced everything out:

Why yes, Mr Thornton, I am coming home with you.

Not to mention this:

Gorgeous crinkles, like arrows pointing at happy eyes.

Ok, bonus for the romantics among you:

Yeah, man, this was such a clean show, it almost seemed as if it was made for school TV. You know what I mean? Your history/art/literature teacher wheeling in the big TV and the VCR, and then you’d sit through an hour of veritable and highly educational but mindnumbingly clean-and-boring docudrama? Well, to be suitable for teenagers, no tit may be shown, no mention of sex may be made and no tongue may be used. 😂

And Where It Went Wrong For Me

And maybe that is what ultimately irked me about this show, or what prevented me from saying ” I love Love LOVE The Impressionists!!” It’s not that I need sex in every TV show to keep me engaged. And I am a big fan of contextualising history and presenting it in a way that the viewers can relate to. In that sense it was great that this mini-series made an attempt at showing the personal sacrifices all those pioneering painters had to make in order to succeed with their art. From losing Bazille in the war, via Manet’s syphilis, Degas’ eye illness and declining fortunes, to the overwhelming poverty of Monet and Cézanne, TÍ is not simply a list of artistic milestones in the painters’ lives, but a look at how they progress as painters as well as men. And herein may also be the problem for me – I never fully committed to the show, and maybe so because of the lack of women in the narrative. Don’t get me wrong – of course I “saw” Camille and Alice, and Mme Manet, Mme Cézanne and various models. But that’s exactly it, “various models”. Sure, you don’t have to explain to me that the 19th century was still a time dominated by men. But that doesn’t mean that in their private lives, men were uninfluenced (and untouched) by women. Or that women artists did not exist or not contribute to the development of art. Berthe Morisot and Eva Gonzalez were part of the impressionist set – they don’t even turn up in passing in this series. The wives and women remain in their traditional role as nurturer, house-keeper and mothers.

Women. Reduced to nurturers and parasol-bearers?

(Left-field thought: Maybe it is also because this show was made in 2006 that women aren’t represented more prominently?) And all that may also be due to the limited amount of time available (3 hours) for a group of painters. In fairness, it would’ve been impossible to depict the lives and times of the impressionists in detail, and hence also a number of *male* protagonists of the movement (Pissarro? Gauguin? Sisley? Matisse?) had to be left out in order to contain the show. However, for me the whole show remained somewhat one-dimensional.

The Disclaimer

For fans of Richard Armitage, however, TI is definitely a worth-while show to watch. The smiles, the laugh, and the mannerisms that are just delightful to recognise. From Richard’s insistent innovative use of his teeth, to delicate hand movements and holding his head at *that* characteristic angle, there are certain “trademarks” in his acting repertoire that superfans such as us have no trouble identifying.

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And Richard convincingly acts emotions and draws the audience into the emotional world of the sensitive artist.

Lastly I want to commend the mini series for producing beautiful images. I loved the wide shots especially because they illustrated so clearly what the impressionists were after.

These shots play with the impressionists’ emphasis of depicting the *moment*, pinpointing the changeability of art, and the transience of life. The impressionists’ penchant for working plein air is ideally illustrated here. And the series is obviously also conscious of depicting movement rather than static subjects, and the different qualities of light – during the day, the seasons, inside and outside, in rain, sun or locomotive steam – as these are impressionist characteristics that are often also attributed to film (and photography). In that sense the series puts the theory into practice.

Last note: Just as I was watching episode 3 of TI, the news came through that a Monet painting has set a new record price for works by the artist. From the “haystack” series of paintings, the picture was sold for $110m in New York. An indication of how *right* the impressionists were.

I finish with a quote by Berthe Morisot, of all people.

It is important to express oneself… provided the feelings are real and are taken from your own experience.

The impressionist painters did that beautifully, and showed us that it can be done and *should* be done. No one better to portray “real” feelings than Richard. And I am always happy to see how he expresses them.

Re-Watching The Impressionists [part 3] – Finale How quickly time flies. If Besotted hadn't reminded me in the comments, I would've completely forgotten that I had a last episode of

#Claude Monet #Re-Watch #Richard Armitage

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kalluun-patangaroa · 6 years ago

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An Audience With… Brett Anderson

UNCUT Magazine

December 2010

Interview: John Lewis

Brett Anderson has some fans in odd places. This month, Uncut’s email boxes are positively heaving with questions from adoring fans in Peru, Serbia, Japan, New Zealand, Belgium, South Africa, Slovenia and Russia. “I’m quite popular in odd places,” he says. “Suede had No 1s in Chile and Finland. We were massive in Denmark. If asked why Denmark, my stock answer was that, well, I’m a depressed sex maniac and so are most Scandinavians. We toured China long before most Western pop groups. I remember playing Beijing, to a crowd divided by armed soldiers facing the audience. That was pretty scary.” Anderson is currently back in the Far East, speaking to Uncut as he overlooks Kowloon Harbour, preparing for solo dates. Later in the year he’ll be in London for a big O2 show with Suede (sans original guitarist Bernard Butler, although the two remain good friends). “I wanted to check out what the stage was like at the O2 Arena,” he says. “So I went to see The Moody Blues with my father-in-law. Come on, you can’t argue with ‘Nights In White Satin’. What a tune!”

I presume you’re aware of the ‘reallybanderson’ Twitter account purporting to be by you. Amused or offended? Helen, Birmingham

Twitter is one of those strange things, like Facebook, that I don’t have anything to do with. But I have to grudgingly admit that the reallybanderson Twitter updates are rather funny [starts giggling]. And the guy doing it is obviously a bit of a Suede fan, because there are some very detailed references to b-sides and bla-di-blah. I can’t exactly complain about it without coming across as a real tit. It’s just fun and no-one really thinks it’s me, it’s a cartoon version of me reflected through some fairground mirror. I don’t think anyone reads it and thinks, ‘Oh, Brett Anderson has Jas Mann from Babylon Zoo doing his washing up, or Brett punched Damon in the street.’ It is, ha ha ha, quite witty. Having shown them the picture inside the Best Of Suede CD, my kids would like to know why you refused to feed me for five years? Also – can my mum have her top back? And are you around for a trip to the Imperial War Museum? Bernard Butler

Yes, what most fans don’t realise is that we kept Bernard in a cage for five years, and fed him edamame beans and tap water. Regarding his mum’s top – he should know that it’s long been ripped up and destroyed by the front row of the Southampton Joiners, or somesuch venue. Now, the Imperial War Museum – me and Bernard were talking about getting older the other day and he said: “Are you finding yourself increasingly interested in British military history?” And I have become oddly fascinated with watching WWI docs on YouTube. It’s not just the personal tragedies, but the sense of it being a shocking transition point between the Victorian world and modernity. The idea that they were going into war on horseback, and by the end of it they were in tanks. Blimey. So tell Bernard I will be going to the museum, soon… What’s your favourite Duffy song? Kris Smith, Wembley

I thought “Rockferry” was a very beautiful, stirring track. So that’s the only one I know well, but I’m really pleased for Bernard that that was a big success [Butler co-wrote and produced much of the album]. He’s an incredibly talented person and works incredibly hard, and he’s one of those people who is just obsessed with music. People like that deserve success. Did I ask him to join the Suede show at the O2? No. I told him about it, but he’s moved on so far from Suede that it would have been odd, and we’ve had a completely different lineup since he left. I don’t think he’d want to be jumping around a stage again! He’s much happier doing what he does now, I think he’s really found his calling. Do you still have your cat, Fluffington? Claire Vanderhoven, Holland

Unfortunately, he’s ascended to cat heaven. He had 15 long years of adoration. Am I getting another cat? Well, I recently got married, and my wife brought two Italian greyhounds with her. I don’t know if anyone is aware of them, but Italian greyhounds are like little cats. Ours are eight years old but look like miniature foxes, bonsai greyhounds. But incredibly fast, like little bullets. When they’re not running they spend their whole life under the duvet. Someone once told me they were bred by the Pharaohs as bedwarmers! Brett, do you have a copy of the single I recorded with Suede: “Art” b/w “Be My God”? If so, could I have one? Mike Joyce

Mike, I think I destroyed my copy years ago. I’m not one to keep memorabilia. They’re about 100 quid on eBay. Mike was an early member of Suede. We were advertising for a drummer and listed The Smiths as an influence. Then at an audition, their drummer pokes his head through the door and says, “Hello, lads!” Ha! It was a bit Jim’ll Fix It. I don’t think anyone thought it was going to last, Mike was far too big a name for us. But he just took us under his wing, guided us through the industry, and was so charming. I still keep in contact with him. What’s the weirdest story you’ve heard about yourself? Badabingbadaboom

Someone once told me that they’d heard a story about me wanting to shit in someone’s mouth. But I also heard the same story about David Byrne, so I think it’s one of those urban myths that gets transferred from one slightly kooky pop star to another. That’s probably the most unsavoury thing I’ve heard about myself. Maybe I should give it a go. Which actors would you like to play the lead members of Suede in a biopic? James Kumar, Manchester

This is the kind of thing we talk about on tour. Matt Osman is convinced I should be played by Peter Egan, who was in Ever Decreasing Circles. I think Nic Cage should play Matt. Arsène Wenger reminds me of Bernard. That’s what Bernard will look like when he’s 60. Billy Idol could play Simon Gilbert, couldn’t he? Would you ever consider working in musical theatre? Neil Tennant

It’s funny he should ask that, because only the other day, I was listening to the album Neil and Chris did with Liza Minnelli in the late ’80s. Results, I think it’s called, with “Losing My Mind”. That sounded great, so emotive, and real. I’m a big fan of the Pet Shop Boys, they’re one of those amazing bands that almost created their own genre. But anyway, musical theatre. Yeah, I think I would. Sondheim? Rodgers and Hart? Definitely. I’m always open to new ideas. Musical theatre sounds like it’s going to have camp undertones, but I’d love to do it in an interesting way. What’s the worst song you’ve ever written? Mark Catley, Christchurch, NZ

That’s a good question. I wrote lots of terrible songs that were never recorded in the early days. But there’s a song called “Duchess” – a B-side to something from the Head Music era [actually to 1997 single ��Filmstar”] – which is pretty rubbish. I’ve often regretted the production on certain songs, like “Trash” and “Animal Nitrate”, even though they’ve been pretty good songs. But you can’t go messing around with things like that. You start to interfere with what people originally liked about it. I also think people like your mistakes, as they give your work humanity. I quite like that about Prince. He seems to throw stuff out – some of it genius, some unlistenable – but all quite honest. I respect that. Do you enjoy art? Excited about Gauguin at the Tate? Katarina Janoskova, London

Absolutely. I’m a big fan of Gauguin and the post-impressionists. My favourite visual artist, if I had to narrow it down to one, would be Manet, the pre-impressionist. Not Monet, who doesn’t do it for me. But Manet had this revolutionary technique of painting on black, which gives his pictures a real depth, there’s something very sumptuous about his paintings. And further back, the kind of medieval-style stuff like Holbein and Brueghel – they’re so well observed and so real. You look at these pictures of people who lived 500, 600 years ago, you can imagine them walking down Tottenham Court Road now, the same face, they’re so real. It’s a little window into the past. I’ve quite got into art recently. It’s all part of expanding yourself and your education, appreciation of beauty in life, innit? Now that you’re no longer coming to work in Bow, how are you coping without the salad pitta? Leo Abrahams, musician and producer

Ha ha! I’ve been working on an album with Leo, in his studio, and I have an unhealthy obsession with East London’s kebab shops. You don’t get many good kebab shops in west London. It reminds me of being a student. I’m surprised Leo’s got the time to email you questions! He’s far too busy producing Eno or Grace Jones or Florence & The Machine. He also does these bizarre things where he plays entirely improvised gigs, no rehearsals. And that inspired the latest solo LP I’ve done with him. It was based on improvs. Me, Leo, Seb Rochford on drums, and Leopold Ross on bass just jammed for days, cut up them up and improvised, and did overdubs. It’s a full-on rock record. I love Leo, he’s great. He never takes the easy option. He pushes you a bit, which can be terrifying. Can you give us not-so-slim-in-2010 Suede fans some health tips? Simon Quinton, Oxford

My wife is a naturopath – she’s conscious of what she eats, so we eat a lot of sushi and seeds. I’ve got into cycling recently, particularly living in London, through the parks and the backstreets. It makes you fall back in love with the city. I cycled to Bow the other day from my house in Notting Hill. So that’s staving off the fortysomething belly. I’m sure I’ll get it when I’m fiftysomething. I’m looking forward to that. What do you think of Gorillaz? Ruiz, S��o Paulo, Brazil

To be honest, I don’t know much about them. I like the drawings. I guess that’s a veiled question about my relationship with Damon? Well, we don’t have a relationship to talk about. We all have things that happened years ago, rivalries and so on, and people assume that they’re still on your radar and part of your life. It’s like some musical soap opera, often one that’s been fabricated, without much substance. I have different issues in my life now. Is the art of songwriting dead? If it isn’t, who is flying the torch? Paloma Faith

Oh, it’s not dead at all. I’m constantly inspired by new music. If you look on YouTube, there’s a clip of me singing Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful”. When you’re covering stuff it’s interesting to try things that are out of your genre, which gives it a frisson. So I always try songs that aren’t, you know, British indie, stuff like Blondie, or The Pretenders. That Christina Aguilera song is amazing. I try not to look at songs as the finished product, I look at it as the chords and the melody and the words, like sheet music to be interpreted. You’ve got to keep moving with your musical appreciation. I loved the last Horrors record, I liked The National, The Drums, These New Puritans, lots of stuff. I never listen to the records I grew up with. Why bother? It’s all in my head! Brett, you’re from Haywards Heath. What’s the deal with the swimming pool there? It’s deep in the middle, not at one end. What’s your take on that? And were you ever caught out by it? P Newman, Brighton

I don’t know what they’re referring to at all, but funnily enough my dad used to work there as a swimming pool attendant. And I don’t really know how he got the job because he couldn’t swim. It’s lucky there weren’t any accidents. Every Tuesday, we had to troop down to the local pool, and everybody would be pointing at my dad saying, “Oh look there’s your dad, he’s working as a pool attendant.” And I was hoping none of them would start drowning, ’cos my dad wouldn’t be much use. Still, this was the early ’80s, and I guess we all thought the world was going to end any second with a nuclear bomb. Ha ha.

#suede #brett anderson #press #interview #bernard butler #mike joyce #neil tennant #leo abrahams

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nancywheeeler · 2 years ago

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this is a ridiculous number of questions so you don’t have to answer them all if you don’t want to but i always wanna know more about “believe in me, as i believe in you” so: 1 2 3 4 5 6 8 9 11 + tell me about why there’s a nosebleed motif!

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

i explored bits and pieces of colin hughes's Deal in previous fics (the closest to also be on a full-on character study is macaroni & cheese for the young athlete's soul) but it wasn't enough. it is never enough where colin hughes is concerned. i wanted to dig into things we probably won't have addressed in a (potential) coming out arc in S3 and follow up on some of his devastating one-liners (the poor man got a box of his grandmother's shit left to him in her will after he being relegated with his home team at 18!!!) originally, i was only going follow Colin's childhood and career chronologically through Ted joining Richmond because i wanted the fic to be evergreen come S3, but it would have been a massive bummer. i opted instead for the past / present structure to show how far colin has come since we met him in S1 and how much farther he can still go heading into the final season!

2: What scene did you first put down?

for once, i’m pretty sure i wrote the opening scene first! the opening line—“He was five years old when he first kicked a football”—then set up how i would open the other past sections by age / major event.

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

“The hook-up currently en route had told him, with pride, he had never seen a minute of a football match willingly. The stupid irony is that makes Colin kind of hate him.” from a scene that had to be in the fic, even if it hurts my heart. just the pain of having two major parts of your life feel completely irreconcilable.

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

“Any time I’m at a museum, I’m just blown away by how many different ways someone can paint a sunset or the ocean. It’d be boring if everyone painted them the same.” He finally steps into the locker room and stops just in front of Colin, his face as impassive as ever but not unkind. “And it wouldn’t just be boring,” he says, placing a hand on Colin’s shoulder. “We’d be missing a lot. The museum would cease to function like it’s supposed to.”

i really liked writing the above as a response to nate’s painter metaphor to colin in S2. not everyone is going to be picasso or gauguin! and a team full of dani’s and jamie’s would be a total disaster! as beard said, it would cease to function. also, beard is the only person who heard what nate said to colin directly and given how brutal it was, i wanted a scene where beard implied, “hey you know that was all bullshit right?” without it devolving into “you’re just as good / important as jamie and dani!” because honestly colin isn’t and he knows it but he’s still a vital member of the team and deserves to hear that.

5: What part was hardest to write?

the present sections!!! partly because they were dialogue-heavy scenes with characters who have very strong voices (...writing roy kent intimidates me so much...) and partly because i was worried they’d just be kinda boring since the fic isn’t really plot-forward. i hope there was enough variety to make them interesting!

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

i had used a similar past / present structure in my skull island fic, nothing’s gonna change my world, and that was the closest i had come to writing a character study. but this is the first fic where i was really trying to shade in details of a character’s backstory using what canon has given us. shout out to casey for calling colin a one-liner delivery machine, that lives in my head rent free and it’s so true, and every one-liner makes me want to write a ten page essay. again, this is a man who had his grandmother stop talking to him when he was eighteen. he makes every single instagram post about welsh independence. his mantra is “i am a strong and capable man. i am not a piece of shit.” he is the only player we see going talking to dr. sharon more than once. this background character has layers!

8: Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?

not particularly, but the present sections (especially those with ted / beard / roy) are based in things i would really like someone to tell colin next season.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

i did kinda answer this in 1, but there was a version that would have only been the past sections, but that would have been a misery sandwich between two slices of misery bread and our boy deserves some bright spots.

11: What do you like best about this fic?

colin <3 but writing about his experience with relegation, as depressing as it was, and the family fallout was my favorite part. i loved being able to contrast his first experience at cardiff—being so young, feeling like he let his family and team down, the aftermath of then picking up and leaving his home for london—with his experience at richmond and, even though there’s still a lot of disappointment, he’s older and he actually likes the people he’s playing with and the management he’s working under and how being in an environment where he feels protected and supported might eventually lead him to feel comfortable coming out, if not publicly than at least privately to the team. a little nugget i love in the final scene is colin deciding not to shield his phone screen while showing sam something even if it means sam sees the grindr icon and puts two and two together (though sam, bestie beloved, would probably not lol). but it’s about not having to guard himself from people he loves!

annnnnnd the nose bleed motif.

so, when i wrote the opening scene, this line: “His ma used to show anybody the least bit interested photos of him in a Cardiff City kit, size nothing, covered in spaghetti sauce in the dribbled pattern of a bloody nose” didn’t originally have the last part.

i then went along writing and finished the scene where colin gets injured in the present via giving himself a bloody nose during a game. later, while i was doing an edit of the opening scene, i added that bit about spaghetti sauce and really liked the line but realized “wait it’s kind of weird and repetitive to have this and a whole scene about a bloody nose.....unless......”

so, i began adding references to bloody noses in other sections (colin worried the first boy he kissed will punch him, specifically in the nose, his nan and grandad only being able to afford nosebleed seats at cardiff matches when they first met, etc.) it’s a nod to colin’s S1 role of “guy perpetually being injured” but i also like that the nosebleeds could be tied to many different aspects of colin’s life i was exploring (how he feels like he’s always the one fucking up, how he’s kind of a mess, how he’s scared of what would happen if he was ever outed). here’s hoping colin doesn’t suffer any head injuries next season though.

put one of a fic title in my ask + questions about it

#thank you for the questions about our boy!!!#ask #my writing

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artinmovingframes · 6 years ago

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The Bitter Irony of Commander Lawrence’s artworks in The Handmaid’s Tale

[CW: physical and psychological violence against women, violence against minors, murder, racism]

These are my thoughts regarding the relation between the art displayed in the set and the tv show The Handmaid’s Tale. Over-interpretation is part of the reflexion, but please let me know if anything I said may have hurt you or seemed to be completely misconstrued.

In the 12th episode of the second season of The Handmaid's Tale, we were introduced to a new character, Commander Lawrence, who "welcomes" Emily (Alexis Bledel) into his house. The whole setup is somewhat disorienting and the artworks displayed are an important part of it, so I would like to give you my train of thoughts when we were introduced to the house and its inhabitants.

Aunt Lydia (Ann Dowd) accompanies Emily and comments on how no-one wanted her, following her history of revolt. Of course we are intrigued as to whom would open their house to her, in the context of Gilead. And when the door opened for the first time on a one-eyed Martha, Cora, I had two very opposite insticts, which were then kept up during the episode:

first I thought the Commander would be a cruel cruel man, taking the women nobody wanted anymore to do whatever he wanted to them, a sadist even worse than the "norm" in Gilead.

then I hoped it'd be a kind and considerate man, trying his best to help the scorned, tortured women, (since Emily has also suffered inhumane mutilation).

We then enter the house, a cluttered house full of trinkets, books, paintings unlike the ones we've been accustomed to before (naked bodies, abstract and expressionist art etc.). Quick side-note: most of the art on display in Commanders' houses so far were Impressionnist works, Monet in Waterford's office, Pissarro in Emily's previous commander's bedroom.

Aunt Lydia is surprised, as we are. The maid freely "jokes"(?) and talks back to the Commander as though there wouldn't be any consequence, or maybe she doesn't care about the consequences.

In the staircase, two paintings:

"Julius Caesar on Gold", Jean-Michel-Basquiat, 1981, Sotheby’s "Dark tree trunks", Georgia O'Keeffe, 1946, Brooklyn Museum

Contemporary art in these households?

But then, Commander Lawrence appears. And of course we know Bradley Whitford from The West Wing, but the role which he's now associated with is that of Dean Armitage in Get Out (what, you haven't seen Get Out? Go watch it and come back thanks). In Get Out, his racism (and that of his family) is for the first part of the movie contained to a "fascination" towards black people, hypocrite statements and intrusive behaviour. And the same uneasiness transpires through his character in The Handmaid's Tale.

During this episode, we learn from his wife, seemingly mentally broken and abused, that he is the founder of the Colonies system. We also learn that she was an Art professor.

“Life didn’t turn out the way she wanted it to. She was an art professor. She wanted everything to be beautiful.”

And like Mrs. Waterford who's in charge of the decoration in her home and chose impressionnist paintings (we can assume stolen from museums) to reflect her love of watercolor, it might be an indication that she at least participated in the decoration of the place, maybe even collected these pieces before Gilead existed. However, like everything in this world, and an earlier scene of Commander Waterford supervising the hanging of a family portrait reminds us, men are in charge, and the art surrounding them reflects on the taste and character of these men.

According to me, the art in the Lawrence household is very loud, and talkative.

The Handmaid's Tale has handled very poorly its treatment of race relations (or lack thereof), even though the Colonies are a shameless parallel to slavery and plantations. Here, the casting choice of Bradley Whitford combined with the artworks is voluntary, even though no explicit commentary is made. The irony of a Basquiat representing a black Julius Caesar hanging in the home of what would clearly be described as a white supremacist is not lost on us. O'Keeffe's paintings are known for their erotic symbolism, but here, deprived of any woman agency, the dark trunks might be an echo of a (black?) woman's body, dehumanized. This point of view is reinforced when Commander Lawrence forces his wife back to (her or their) room, and you can see in the background a painting representing two naked women, akin to the orientalist harem paintings of the late 19th century.

This manipulation of art, described as "the elite absorbing the Rebellion" is also evident in the painting by Sidney Nolan featured in the dining room during their last talk.

“After Glenrowan Siege (Second Ned Kelly series)”, Sidney Nolan, 1955, MoMA

The artwork depitcs Ned Kelly, a bushranger, an ambiguous figure of Australia's history, a defender of worker's rights, also associated with the killing of policemen. As an ultra-conservative religious system based on strict order, we could hardly see them align with the politics of Kelly; but as a sectarian minority who imposed their law by force, they might see themselves as rebels (remember the right always complaining of being oppressed by people wanting to be treated equally and respectfully...)

Gauguin is featured as well, surrounded by sculpted women torsos. in my opinion joining the contradictions of this Commander. The painting is that of christian Britton women in a landscape. For the post-impressionnist, Britanny was already an elsewhere, a place of wonder, deep religious fervor even though he was anticlerical, but not enough. He then traveled to French Polynesia where his "fascination" for the autochtones led him to abuse women, minors. We remember the art as one lauding the simple state of nature, with bright colors, celebrating pleasure and harmony, even though that art emerges from his imperialistic and machist desires and abuses.

“Landscape with two Breton Women”, Paul Gauguin, 1889, Boston MFA

The invasive and creepy conversation imposed by Commander Lawrence on Emily is ambiguous at best. I have little hope that we are presented with a respectful, righteous man. Even though in his turns of phrases he seems to disregard the hypocrite politeness of Gilead, and even their beliefs, as he seems to recognize Emily as a woman married and with a child, and not a gender traitor. But his interest is that of a man who maybe enjoys the brutality itself, celebrates genius and intellect and thinks art strives only from pain. So he appropriates that struggle, that of the artists, their history and fights. He is as entitled as the rest. His wife, complicit to a point, may have understood too late, may have felt guilt over their actions (her panick is shown as an illness when she is a voice of reason). She participated in that art deal, because she felt she could make the world beautiful, evidently according to her vision of beauty, so she bought, decorated, put varnish on a system that stripped creators from their agency, perverted their voice, or hid away their true nature.

At one point, Emily, who, as a woman, is not allowed to read, leaned over an open copy of Art Spiegelman’s Maus. The graphic novel is (as best as I can remember), about the artist learning about his family's history, the Shoah. This, too me, is as perverse as the game gets for Lawrence. He purposefully let that book open, at a page where people are shown hanged. We can imagine in this world how "provocative" art could be burnt, destroyed; maybe Aunt Lydia thought so when she entered. Commander Lawrence knows how Gilead could be compared to Nazi Germany (interestingly enough, right wing conservatives who call everyone nazis for wanting gun control, abortion rights etc. always feel offended when Trumpism and their "free thinking is called out as fascist, but I digress). Lawrence shows the totality of his power, how he controls her no matter how free she thinks she can be (by reading). He controls the narrative.

There is something potent in art, especially when we consider who owns it. Because there we either see the limit of the works, or that of the owner's honesty. The apparent failure of a piece brings about that of the person who chose to select it. Therefore, the failure, the crackling varnish, is not only that of Lawrence, whose perversity filters through his presence onscreen and not just because of how the artworks mirror his ambiguity, but a failure of the show itself, either because I gave them too much credit where it is not due, or because this awareness reflects on its previous flaws. I really hope I am wrong about this character, that he is in fact charitable, that the art is there for the wife, and allowed because he’s such an important member of Gilead (think of the high ranking officials who kept artworks for themselves in Nazi Germany). However, I wanted not to give a diagnostic but merely to try and think of ways to interpret art as reimagined in their fictional surrounding. For more debate I invite you to check the Handmaid’s Tale subreddit (as I did... after writing all this down urgh) here here and there. Other mentioned artworks I seem to have missed include Cézanne, Klimt (another wink at Nazi spoils)...

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timespakistan · 4 years ago

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Sacred images | Art & Culture Paul Gauguin’s largest and “perhaps the finest work” titled, Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? (1897), “reads from right to left, in the oriental fashion”. Coming across this description on the French post-impressionist’s painting in the Time-Life Library publication, one speculates about the direction of viewing a work of art, as if deciphering a written page. There can be many links between images and words. In several societies, images were treated as signs to be decoded, and words were put as visuals, to be enjoyed for their aesthetic qualities – also. In Muslim cultures, for some obvious reasons, artists and audience preferred calligraphy in contrast to portraying living beings. The reluctance seems only for replicating human figures, because all other species are depicted by Muslim painters and carvers. Call it faith, tradition, custom, or a general consensus, during Ramazan, several art galleries in Pakistan are inclined to hold calligraphic exhibitions – perhaps to join the pious bandwagon. The tendency is not different from those, who stop petty crimes and forbidden practices, and start praying five times a day – only in the month of fasting. Probably for some galleries, the regular course of art is an addiction and a superfluous indulgence; therefore, across the country shows of calligraphy are organised, along with some modern and enticing twists. An exhibition, called Script, opening on Ramazan 6, is bound to generate the idea of similar, typical and usual display of sacred verses, religious quotes or devotional poetry at O Art Space Lahore. However, a viewer climbing up to the gallery space realises that Script is not about holy text, nor some divine content, not even the script. The exhibition, a project of Studio RM (being held from April 19 to May 10), corresponds to layers of language: readable, recognisable, and enjoyable. Apart from two canvases by RM Naeem, and one by Shiblee Munir, which include names of the Holy Prophet (peace be upon him) and his family and references of Arabic text, the artists have treated script as a tool to convey different versions and possibilities of writing. Language in their hands appears not unlike the chewing gum that loses its initial form with grinding, shifting, inflating, yet retains its identity (like language) once emerges from the mouth. A number of artists have dealt with the theme of script in a private manner. Adeel uz Zafar, in his Scripture I, a handmade book of seven pages, expands the definition of script. Meticulously and laboriously drawn lines, resembling weave of a muslin fabric, resonate the act of writing – line after line. The inkjet prints also, suggest presence of a parchment, a lost language, an inaccessible hieroglyph, because the act of incising these marks seems similar to the practice of inscribing words. Words, no matter in which language they are written – are always composed in sequences; a singular line or sets of lines (paragraphs) arranged on a sheet. Taking linear aspect as a point of reference, Rehana Mangi constructs circles made of human (and horse) hair in her The Lives of Line I, and Circle. In both works, form of a circle is either repeated or stretched, but due to the material, the artist’s drawings appear to be a segment of a script – a dot. Shah Abdullah also deals with dot (which in Arabic script is more a square than a circle) in his Nuqtas. The representation of this small, insignificant element of script becomes important as Abdullah renders it in Persian ink on gold leaf surface. In his other imposing and impressive Rabbana, Abdullah paints a section of incomprehensible writing, enlarged on a huge (90×174 inches) canvas. The letters grade in varying tones so what we read is a pattern, which like the language of music communicates on a sensory level. To some extent, the work reminds us of French artist Pierre Soulages, who enlarges the mark of brush strokes, and it is up to the viewer to understand it as language, or enjoy it as an abstract image. In both cases, the physical power of the visual is unavoidable, like Shah Abdullah’s canvas that covers a wall of the O Art Space. As languages are found in every part of the world, script can be deciphered in every possible format. Jorge Luis Borges in his story The God’s Script conjures up an Aztec magician, a captive to Spanish conquistadors, who is confined to a cell surrounded by a cage with a jaguar; and seeking “a magical sentence with the power” written by God on the first day of Creation; “a formula of fourteen random words” in every form of nature, which he believes “would suffice to make me all powerful”, only to recognise that it was written on the coat of the tiger in the cage next door. To no avail, because “the mystery lettered on the tiger dies with me”. The language written on the wings of a butterfly may also possess the same mystery, magic and meaning. Muhammad Zeeshan in his Untitled produces 49 images (using the technique of laser scoring) of butterflies, as if preserved in boxes. Their wings – what else is in a butterfly – are rendered as letters of an unknown script. Not readable, yet communicating ideas of beauty, harmony and perfection. Mohammad Atif Khan in his hand-stamped prints A Book Reopened II and Love Letter II constructs pages of a book with ants and flowers, composed in such a scheme that these look like a script, whether we understand it or not. This gap between recognisability and readability is witnessed in Meher Afroz’s Kashf I and Kashf II, and in Mohammad Ali Talpur’s Raig Mahi. In these works, you are aware of the presence of language but you cannot access it (except for a few words in Afroz’s mixed media on paper). This may allude to the noise of rhetoric, impotency of vocabulary or language turning into a pattern; or just the joy of texture of language when it is spoken, and (hand) written. Because like every person’s voice and way of speaking, each individual’s handwriting turns the overpowering and ancient body of language into something personal, private and living. Talpur’s addition of a dead reptile underneath his incompressible text suggests the death of language, from the voice of a living being to the marks of alphabets on a piece of paper. A mummified version of a spoken tongue. Ayaz Jokhio in his painting indicates that state of language, which was once alive in someone’s brain, uttered through vocal cords, heard by the ears of those present, but is now preserved like a corpse. His immaculately painted book (Still-Life/The Blue Book) is shut, with a book mark in the middle, confirming that even if a script is in our hands, it is still a closed book – like a work of art that you see, examine, analyse and write about, purely as a post script. The writer is an art critic based in Lahore https://timespakistan.com/sacred-images-art-culture/17673/

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whileiamdying · 4 years ago

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Uncovering Van Gogh’s infamous days in Arles: Was Van Gogh arrested in Arles on the fateful night that he severed his own ear?

Martin Bailey 17 December 2016

Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear (detail; 1889), Vincent van Gogh. Courtesy The Courtauld Gallery, London

Vincent van Gogh was at the height of his powers in Arles, painting with intense colours under the strong sun of Provence. Paul Gauguin later joined him at the Yellow House, but tragically this collaboration was brought to an end by Van Gogh’s self-mutilation – an incident that has sparked endless speculation. Why did Van Gogh cut off his ear and take it to a brothel? Behind this sensationalist query lies a more serious conundrum. What led such a creative artist to become so destructive? As Claude Monet put it, ‘How could a man who has loved flowers and light so much and has rendered them so well, how could he have managed to be so unhappy?’ [1]

Nearly a century after Monet’s comment, interest in Van Gogh’s 444 days in Arles only grows. In the past few months there has been a spate of publications: Bernadette Murphy’s Van Gogh’s Ear: The True Story (Chatto & Windus), my own Studio of the South: Van Gogh in Provence (Frances Lincoln), and Bogomila Welsh-Ovcharov’s Vincent van Gogh: The Lost Arles Sketchbook(Abrams). The Van Gogh Museum has also tackled the artist’s medical problems this year in an exhibition, ‘On the Verge of Insanity’ (15 July–25 September). [2]

The Yellow House (left) and avenue de Montmajour, Arles, in a postcard of c. 1905. Image courtesy the author

But there is always more to discover, even about such a famous artist and much studied events. As my book was going to press, I discovered a 1933 article in a Dutch newspaper, which has escaped the attention of specialists. This includes the revelation that Van Gogh was ‘arrested’ over the ear incident. [3] The claim in De Groene Amsterdammer might be dismissed as a sensationalist embellishment, but it was based on an interview with Alphonse Robert, the policeman who had gone to the brothel and went on to become chief warden at the municipal jail. The article was written by Benno Stokvis, one of the best informed early Van Gogh scholars, who was also a distinguished lawyer. Both men would have been well aware of the legal meaning of the word ‘arrest’.

In De Groene Amsterdammer, Robert recalls being on duty in what Van Gogh called ‘the street of the kind girls’, the rue du Bout d’Arles. [4] A prostitute summoned him to see her patronne, Madame Virginie Chabaud, who told him: ‘Look, Monsieur Gogh who just departed from here, left this for that girl’. Inside the gruesome packet was a severed ear. Robert took it to his superior, who ordered two other policemen to help search for Van Gogh. They found him on his bed. Stokvis recounts: ‘Robert’s colleagues shortly afterwards arrested Vincent, and the doctor from the hospital, who had been warned in the meantime, had the painter transported to the Hospices Civils de la Ville d’Arles.’

The intriguing question is why was Van Gogh arrested? We can only speculate, but the police may well have regarded him as a threat to others, perhaps following a complaint from Gauguin. In his memoirs, Gauguin wrote that Van Gogh had threatened him with a razor near the Yellow House, although this claim has often been dismissed by those who feel that Gauguin was trying to evade responsibility for what occurred. Gauguin then added that he had escaped to ‘a good hotel’. A long-forgotten reference in a 1928 German magazine records this as the Hotel Thévot, in rue du Forum, very close to the café terrace which Van Gogh had painted in the Place du Forum. [5]

The Place du Forum, Arles, showing the Hotel Thévot in a postcard of c. 1905. Image courtesy the author

This year the young woman in the brothel who received the ear has been identified. The strength of Murphy’s book is her research into the people in Van Gogh’s milieu in Arles. She laboriously built up a database of the people, tracing the family and business relations of Van Gogh’s neighbours around Place Lamartine. [6] Murphy says that she worked out the identity of the young woman in the brothel, but had promised her descendants that she would never reveal the surname. Based on clues in Van Gogh’s Ear, I named her as Gabrielle Berlatier. [7] It is now possible to add further details. On 15 October 1890, nearly two years after the ear incident, Gabrielle married Jacques Achard, a butcher, and they settled in the village of Pont de Crau, two kilometres south-east of Arles. Their daughter Marthe was born nine months after their wedding.

But who was Gabrielle? Murphy says that she was not a prostitute, but a maid. She was only 19, and prostitutes in legal premises had to be 21, although this law was not always observed. [8] Whatever her status, Gabrielle was at the brothel at 11.30pm when Van Gogh appeared, and in the late evenings some of the inebriated customers may well have thought that she was available.

In searching for the trigger for the self-mutilation, most writers have put the blame on Gauguin, who had threatened to leave Arles after relations with Van Gogh became strained. But I believe that the immediate cause was fear of abandonment from another quarter – by Vincent’s brother Theo, who had become engaged to Johanna (Jo) Bonger after a whirlwind romance. Vincent is known to have received a letter from Theo that arrived in the morning of Sunday 23 December 1888. [9] Based on an analysis of family correspondence, I am convinced that this letter, now lost, included news of the engagement. Around 12 hours after its arrival Vincent mutilated himself.

What has escaped the attention of Van Gogh scholars is that Theo’s fiancée Jo received a telegram of congratulations on 23 December from her older brother Henry (this is mentioned in an unpublished letter from Theo to his sister Lies). [10] It is very likely that Theo and Jo would have informed both elder brothers on the same day, which adds to the evidence that news of the engagement reached Arles on 23 December. The envelope of a letter from Theo, quite possibly the one about the engagement, appears in Still Life with Onions and Letter, painted a month later.

Vincent feared that Theo’s marriage would mean that he would lose the financial and emotional support of his brother. Vincent, who could not sell his paintings, was able to survive as an artist only because of the regular allowance he received from his brother. Marriage was likely to lead to children, and Theo would have considerably less money available. The two brothers were also very close to each other, and Vincent worried that he would lose his brother’s affection. Fear of abandonment was the probable trigger for the mutilation.

Van Gogh’s underlying medical and psychological condition still baffles specialists. A symposium at the Van Gogh Museum on 14–15 September assembled experts to discuss a diagnosis, but even this gathering of specialists proved unable to reach a clear consensus. Interestingly, one of the conditions proposed, borderline personality disorder, is characterised by a fear of abandonment. [11]

Separating Van Gogh’s life from his art is difficult; both are so closely intertwined. But it is the art which has the lasting importance and is the primary focus of my new book, Studio of the South: Van Gogh in Provence. Coming from the Netherlands and Paris, Van Gogh was immediately struck by the strong light of Provence – the powerful sun and vibrant colours. Living in the Yellow House just outside the ramparts of Arles, he was only a few minutes’ walk from the countryside. It was in Provence that Van Gogh really became a landscape artist. For the first time, he described himself as such, rather than simply calling himself an artist. Four months after his arrival in the town, he first used the term, and when he was hospitalised after the ear incident he formally gave this as his profession for registration as a patient. [12]

Van Gogh set out to capture the blossoming fruit trees, the golden tones of the wheatfields, the waterways and their bridges, the hills of the Alpilles with the ruined abbey of Montmajour, and seascapes at Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. The Yellow House was his home and base, but the surrounding countryside became his ‘studio’, as he worked outside. Despite the fact that Van Gogh’s medical problems rendered him unable to work for some of his final months in Arles, he completed around 200 paintings there – an average of more than three a week. Half of these were landscapes.

While in Arles, Van Gogh was on the verge of winning recognition. He had given one of his finest orchard scenes to his cousin Jet, the widow of the artist Anton Mauve. In Jet’s house, Pink Peach Trees was spotted by Jozef Israëls, the most distinguished Dutch painter of the time. On seeing the picture, the elderly Israëls commented that Van Gogh was ‘a clever lad!’ This astonishing comment was passed on in a letter to Theo on 23 December 1888. [13] Had Vincent heard this accolade from an artist he had long admired, would he still have picked up the razor?

The Harvest (1888), Vincent van Gogh. Courtesy Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

The latest of the Van Gogh publications is Vincent van Gogh: The Lost Arles Sketchbook, due to be launched at an international press conference in Paris on 15 November (just after Apollo had gone to press). The book reproduces 65 newly revealed drawings, which are presented as pages from a sketchbook that Van Gogh used from May 1888, soon after his arrival in Arles, up until shortly before he left the asylum at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence in May 1890. It is being published by two well established specialists – its author, Welsh-Ovcharov, and Ronald Pickvance, who has provided the foreword. Welsh-Ovcharov says that Van Gogh gave the sketchbook to Dr Félix Rey in Saint-Rémy in May 1890 (a visit unrecorded in Vincent’s letters). Rey then delivered it a few days later to his friend Marie Ginoux, who ran the Café de la Gare in Arles. On Marie’s death in 1911 the sketchbook passed to her niece Marguerite Crevoulin, who died in 1927. Crevoulin’s ownership is undocumented and the book does not name the owners since then.

In 1944 the sketchbook (along with a small notebook used to record the running of the Café de la Gare in 1890) was found in a partially bombed building near the Yellow House. The unnamed woman then gave the sketchbook to her daughter for her 20th birthday in 1964 (suggesting that the current owner is now aged 72). Neither the late mother nor her daughter apparently guessed the drawings might be by Van Gogh until recently, although they are both said to have frequently visited the Yellow House at a time when the artist had long become famous. Three of the sketches actually depict the Yellow House (with views similar to that of Van Gogh’s well known painting), so it is surprising that the two women never guessed who might have made them. There may be a firm provenance stretching back to Marie Ginoux, but further details would be helpful.

Welsh-Ovcharov describes the unsigned sketches as for ‘Van Gogh’s eyes only’. They were ‘rapidly executed “first drafts” of motifs observed in situ, meant to be kept and reworked at a later date, or explored as a first idea for a painting’. [14] It therefore has to be asked why Van Gogh gave away two years of preparatory work to Marie Ginoux. On the basis of reproductions, the drawings seem somewhat crude in style and technique. It is unfortunate that the sketchbook and accompanying notebook were both disbound in recent years.

Genuine Van Gogh discoveries are rare – with perhaps one drawing or painting being authenticated every decade. Here we have 65 drawings, so Pickvance describes it as ‘the most revolutionary discovery in the entire history of Van Gogh’s oeuvre’. If the sketchbook is accepted as authentic, then specialists will need to rethink Van Gogh’s creative process in Provence. The sketches were apparently not submitted for a full examination at the Van Gogh Museum, which has the best group of specialists, an extensive archive, and the appropriate scientific equipment. In particular, the ink (and its fading) needs further analysis. Although not infallible, the museum is the best judge of authenticity. In the meantime, caution would be advisable.

Martin Bailey, who completed his article immediately before publication of the Lost Sketchbook, now comments: ‘Having studied the available evidence, I do not believe the drawings are authentic’.

After publication, the Van Gogh Museum issued a statement dismissing the sketches as ‘imitations’ of the artist’s work.

Seuil, the French publisher of the Lost Sketchbook, responded with a counter-statement on behalf of its author, Bogomila Welsh-Ovcharov, arguing that the drawings are authentic.

[1] Léon Daudet, Écrivains et artistes, Paris, 1927, vol. 1, p. 154.

[2] I also published a detailed account of the ear incident in ‘Drama at Arles: New Light on Van Gogh’s Self-mutilation’, Apollo, vol. CLXII, no. 523 (September 2005), pp. 30–41.

[3] De Groene Amsterdammer, 30 December 1933, p. 8. The Dutch article uses the word ‘arresteerden’, presumably a translation of the French ‘arrêté’.

[4] Letter from Vincent to Theo van Gogh, 18 September 1888 (this translation is from the 1958 edition of the letters).

[5] The archival records of arrests in Arles do not record Gauguin or Van Gogh, but the surviving documents may be incomplete. For Gauguin’s memoirs, see Mercure de France, October 1903, p. 130. For the Thévot reference (based on information from Dr Félix Rey), see Max Braumann, Kunst und Künstler, vol. XXVI (September 1928), p. 453 (my thanks to Teio Meedendorp, of the Van Gogh Museum, for this reference).

[6] For instance, Murphy identifies Van Gogh’s cleaning lady as Thérèse Balmossière (p. 94) and suggests names for two of his portrait sitters (Thérèse Catherine Mistral as ‘the Mousmé’ [p. 96] and François Casimir Escalier as ‘the Peasant’ [p. 98]).

[7] The Art Newspaper, September 2016. The key evidence was in the archive of the Institut Pasteur in Paris, where there is a record of Berlatier’s treatment for rabies in January 1888.

[8] A few months before the ear incident a ‘patronne’ in rue du Bout d’Arles employed underage prostitutes (Le Forum Républicain, 22 April 1888).

[9] The letter which arrived on 23 December 1888 is mentioned in Vincent’s letter to Theo, 17 January 1889.

[10] The telegram is referred to in Theo’s letter to Lies, 24 December 1888 (Van Gogh Museum archive, b918).

[11] Nienke Bakker, Louis van Tilborgh and Laura Prins, On the Verge of Insanity: Van Gogh and his Illness, exh. cat., Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam, 2016, p. 125. Van Gogh may not have suffered from borderline personality disorder, but it is a possible diagnosis.

[12] Letter from Vincent to Wilhelmina (Wil) van Gogh, 16–20 June 1888; hospital registration quoted in Alfred Massebieu, Mercure de France, 1 December 1946, p. 232.

[13] Letter from Wil to Theo and Jo, 23 December 1888 (Van Gogh Museum archive, b2387).

[14] Bogomila Welsh-Ovcharov, Vincent van Gogh: The Lost Arles Sketchbook, New York, 2016, p. 57.

#apollo magazine #vincent willem van gogh #arles

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sartle-blog · 5 years ago

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Mental Health Art History: Artists with Depression, Part 3

Depression is a nasty condition. Most of the time it leaves you feeling worthless, hopeless, and so fatigued that you have no energy at all. It’s an astounding feat that so many artists have managed to create in spite of their battles with depression. They rise out of the fog just long enough to put something amazing onto the page or canvas. Then, most likely, they crawl back into bed. Here are seven more of those artists across time who made memorable creations despite depression.

1. Gilbert Stuart

Gilbert Stuart’s work has posed problems for a lot of people in the art world because of controversies around whether or not he really created all of it. Sometimes his work would be of outstanding caliber. Other times it looked like an inferior assistant showed up and did a half-assed job just to get it done. The debate about who did what work has raged for a long time. But more recently, another theory has popped up: what if Stuart did create all of this work but it’s so wildly different because of his own changing mental health issues? It’s possible that he had bipolar depression, working wildly different when he was “up” than when he was “down.”

One specific situation speaks to his likelihood of depression. He was commissioned to complete a full-length portrait of John Quincy Adams. He desperately needed the money from that commission. And yet, he refused to finish the job. If he had depression, perhaps he just couldn’t. In depression, you often beat yourself up for your inability to do things “well enough” and so you just become immobilized and don’t do them at all. Then you feel terrible that you didn’t get it done, so you beat yourself up some more. He was known to retire to bed for weeks at a time.

He was also well-known for long periods of winter inactivity. He would start paintings, but then he would set them aside for months at a time. When springtime came around, he’d resume his work. That’s a hallmark of seasonal affective disorder, which is a type of cyclical depression. By midlife, he knew himself well enough to only work when he felt well enough. The thing about depression is that even though it doesn’t necessarily resolve over time, some people are able to understand their own patterns with it well enough to get through them, hanging on until things get better again.

2. Michelangelo

It’s problematic to look back across history and try to diagnose people with mental health issues after the fact. Nevertheless, many are in agreement that Michelangelo likely suffered from recurring depression.

Michelangelo sometimes took longer than objectively necessary to finish his works of art, to the point where at times others had to complete projects for him. Take the Florentine Pieta, for example. He worked on it for eight years, and, in the words of one biographer, “poured his depression over his life into statue.” Depression doesn’t make a piece look so great and Michelangelo finally got so frustrated with the dismal results that he murdered the statue with a chisel. Sculptor Tiberio Calcagni finished that piece.

Michelangelo may be best recognized above all for painting The Sistine Chapel. It’s a monumental achievement, no doubt, but great success doesn’t mean that he escaped great depression. Letters indicate that he dragged through the work in a state of exhaustion and depression. The world is lucky that he managed to complete it at all.

Although Michelangelo was known for his sculpture and painting, he was also a prolific poet. One of his poems, the unfinished canzone, laments the sadness of time lost. Some believe that the poem is a reflection of the depression that he felt during the time that he wasted three years creating the facade of San Lorenzo.

Depression, like all mental health issues, has biopsychosocial roots. In other words, it’s the combination of nature and nurture - our brain chemistry, our genetics, and our environment that lead to depression. We don’t know anything about Michelangelo’s brain chemistry. But we do know that his mother died when he was just 6 years old. And we know that he battled internally with guilt and shame about a homosexual orientation that was considered terribly sinful in his time and place. These things, combined with the stressors surrounding some of his art (such as the unfinished San Lorenzo piece he was commissioned for then not allowed to complete) likely triggered his depression.

3. Paul Gauguin

Paul Gauguin had every intention of being a successful suicide. He went off to the mountains alone, drowning himself in arsenic. But he drank just a little bit too much. He made himself so sick that he vomited out all of the poison and became terribly ill but didn’t die. Defeated, he came down off of the mountain, and more or less stopped attempting to create art at all.

Absinthe played an interesting part in Gauguin’s relationship with depression in another way: it linked him to the final moments he spent with Vincent Van Gogh before that other depressed artist cut off his own ear. Gauguin had reportedly gone to spend time with Van Gogh in order to report back to Van Gogh’s brother Theo about his mental state. They got in a huge fight, Van Gogh threw absinthe in Gauguin’s face, and eventually Gauguin just left, shortly after which the ear drama occurred.

Gauguin likely dealt with his own depression for some time before the suicide attempt. After all, the man fled his family for Tahiti where he lived a mostly lonely existence besides the copious amounts of sex he used to keep himself entertained. A few years before the suicide attempt, around the time that he painted Self-Portrait Near Golgotha, he wrote a letter sharing that a number of trials and tribulations (including financial troubles that left him without access to food or medication) were making him feel suicidal. There are hallmarks of depression all over the self-portrait - from the posture to the coloring, it reeks of fatigue. In another letter he wrote that he felt discouraged “to the point that I no longer dare paint and I drag my old body along the shores.”

4. Joan Miró

It’s no secret that Miró suffered from depression. Not only did he share about it widely through his own letters and interviews, but subsequently biographers and critics have done detailed analysis of the role that his depression played in his artistic output. He had chronic recurring depression, the earliest known period of which happened at the age of 18. He basically stayed in bed for an entire season of that year. Although that was the first period of noted depression, he shared that he felt lonely and isolated throughout much of his childhood, with a temperament that naturally leaned towards depression. He frequently described himself as a pessimist, as though depression were a natural state of being for him.

There is a reason that art therapy exists; art can heal us. Reports suggest that perhaps it played this role for the artist. He said in a 1947 interview that when he doesn’t paint he gets “black ideas” that lead to worry, fretting, and gloominess, suggesting that when he does paint the depression eases a bit. He reportedly used meditation, introspection, and spiritual belief to make the darkness work for him, channeling it all into his art. His self-portraits in particular, show not only his mood changes, but also a deep desire to transcend his own depression.

5. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

Perhaps the best succinct description of Kirchner comes from the title of a "New York Times" art review: “A Tormented Expressionist, Overlooked in a Brutal Time.” His depression is inextricably linked with world history. He joined the German Army during WWI but quickly couldn’t hack it, had a mental breakdown, and was discharged. That marked the beginning of a long substance addiction with alcohol and morphine, which would become entangled with depression for the rest of his life. He had his first, but not last, stay in a sanatorium after his Army discharge.

Fast forward to WWII. He had spent his life trying to revive German art but Nazi Germany labeled him a degenerate and destroyed more than 600 pieces of his artwork. Kirchner was living in Switzerland, saw the Nazis encroaching on the territory and was certain that they were coming to destroy him just as they had his art. He wanted to die by his own hand before that could happen. He reportedly tried to convince his girlfriend Erna to join him but she didn’t want to die. He went outside and shot himself through the heart.

Notably suicide and depression aren’t always linked; although one commonly goes hand in hand with the other, it’s possible to commit suicide without being depressed. So we can’t say for sure that depression motivated the suicide. But Kirchner’s long history of depressive periods is well documented. His own self-portraits offer the greatest depiction. In particular, Selbstbildnis als Soldat (Self Portrait as a Soldier) and Selbstbildnis als Kranker (Self Portrait as a Sick Man) (shown above), both of which were completed around the time of his first sanatorium stay, show a markedly depressed human being. Interestingly, one of his final paintings, Flock of Sheep, completed just before he died, looks considerably calm and peaceful. This can happen when someone has decided that they are ready to die by suicide; having accepted the fate, they feel less tortured. This doesn’t diminish the torturous nature of depression but reveals that having found a way out from it offers some relief.

6. Henri Matisse

Depression isn’t easy to cure but sometimes you can find ways to circumvent the symptoms. Matisse found dance, singing, and if all else failed, whistling could help him deal with his most depressive periods. And he was certainly inclined to depression, but he also tried desperately both to understand it and to escape it. At one point he created a “scale of suffering” to determine of all his worries what bothered him least (lack of money) and what bothered him most (losing his love for his work).

But he couldn’t always reach understanding. Sometimes his moods would get black. Then he would try to dance, and if he couldn’t dance, he would try to sing, but sometimes even the simplest melody would elude a depressed mind so then he would whistle. And it wouldn’t fix the problem but he’d get a little bit of a lift in his depressed move, enough that he could move forward, in spite of the depression.

Matisse wasn’t the only one in the family to struggle with depression. In 1911, he spent time apart from his wife Amelie, and their letters suggest that both of them struggled with depression during this time. He suffered from alternating feelings of panic, insomnia, and exhaustion and said that the only thing that ever made him feel better was Amelie. In turn, her letters reflect feelings of aimlessness, boredom, irritability, and gloom. Matisse would write her back with practical lists of simple tasks to take care of, which may sound cold but when you’re dealing with depression, sometimes a practical “get at least one thing done today” approach is all that can muster you out of bed. Given his own knowledge of depression’s workings, he may have just been trying to help.

Olga Meerson by Matisse

Interestingly, Matisse seems to have been drawn to women struggling with depression. One summer he and his wife were doing well when their happy time was marred by the fact that Henri invited his model/student Olga Meerson along, causing jealousy and arguments and generally stirring up drama. It didn’t help that Meerson, too, had a history of “black thoughts” that caused insomnia, worry, and depression. It’s unclear of Amelie was also depressed during this time but if not then she was probably just holding it back as much as possible. She was known for holding in all emotion to the point where finally she just completely broke down, both mentally and physically.

7. Albrecht Dürer

The Sick Durer

Before we called it depression, we called it melancholia (which is arguably only one form of depression as we understand it today). Albrecht Dürer has an engraving of the same name, and some say that it’s a self-portrait of his own depression. The medical understanding of depression was, obviously, different during his time. People still followed medical ideas based on The Four Humors, a Greek idea from Hippocratic medicine relating different symptoms (such as phlegm) with different illnesses and temperaments. We don’t have to get into all of the ancient medicine here but the argument goes that the spleen was ultimately linked with melancholy and that Durer both drew and mentioned his spleen several times throughout his life, perhaps in an effort to try to get doctors to pay attention to his depression.

In particular, he has a 1913 drawing called The Sick Durer, a self-portrait pointing to his yellowed spleen. This follows on the heels of a decade of stressors, including watching his father die. In 1913 and 1914, his godfather and mother both died as well. Grief can turn into depression when not properly processed. That brings us to the Melencolia I etching. The name itself clues us in to the topic. Dark features, slouched posture, and the inclusion of symbols that represent depression all help drive the point home. And this takes us back to the Greeks because Melancholia itself was one of the four humors - associated with cold, dry qualities, black bile, and depression - but also with creativity and art.

This post is part of our continuing series on Mental Health Art History: Artists Creating Despite A Diagnosis. In addition to our posts on other artists with depression (also see Part 2), we’ve covered bipolar artists and artists with schizophrenia.

Cover image by Emma Darvick

By: Kathryn Vercillo

#art history #history of art #mental disorders #depression #gilbert stuart #Ernst Kirchner #joan miró #michelangelo #paul gauguin #vincent van gogh #theo van gogh #henri matisse #albrecht durer #melancholia #mental health art history #serious art history #art therapy

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mozgoderina · 7 years ago

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Martin Puryear Bears Witness (Hyperallergic)

According to the wall text in the not-to-be-missed exhibition Martin Puryear: Multiple Dimensions at the Morgan Library & Museum (October 9, 2015–January 10, 2016), the artist was in “the Peace Corp in Sierra Leone, West Africa” from 1964 to ’66. While there, “he [taught] English, French and Biology, as well as “[learned] traditional craftsmanship from local carpenters.” In 1966-68, Puryear was “enrolled in the printmaking program at the Royal Swedish Academy of Art” in Stockholm.

I mention these biographical facts for a number of reasons. First, Puryear was in West Africa and Sweden during the latter half of the 1960s, a period in which America got further mired in the Vietnam War, as well as witnessed race riots and the assassinations of Malcolm X, Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. It was in 1965, shortly after Malcolm X’s assassination, that LeRoi Jones started the Black Arts Movement, specifically the Black Arts Repertory Theater, in Harlem. The Black Arts Movement advanced the view that a Black poet’s primary task is to produce an emotional, lyric testimony of a personal experience that can be regarded as representative of Black culture—the “I” speaking for the “we.” Ethnic writers and artists have to become witnesses who lay out the evidence.

Second, rather than bring a camera to Sierra Leone, Puryear decided to make drawings and woodcuts as a record of his experience. While it was easier to take a picture, he wanted to document his engagement with a particular subject, whether it was a person, a hut, a beetle or a cactus, all of which became subjects of his drawings and woodcuts. One sees in these early works the seeds of his preoccupation with certain processes, materials, and forms. I am thinking of his woodcut of a boy hauling wood, a pen and black ink drawing of a thatched hut and a graphite drawing of “Gbago”, a man wearing a hat that anticipates the artist’s interest in the Phrygian cap, or ‘liberty cap,’ which was the inspiration for some of his recent sculptures. Again, the wall text is instructive, as it quotes Puryear as saying that his development is “linear in the sense that a spiral is linear. I come back to similar territory at different times.” In 1966, he would make a drypoint etching, “Gbago,” based on his earlier drawing, with particular attention paid to the hat.

Third, during his time in Sweden, Puryear made the etching “Quadroon” (1966–67). The title is a loaded term historically used to define individuals of mixed race ancestry, specifically someone who is one-quarter African. In using this title to inflect an abstract circular form made of four sections, he opened it up to a history that includes slavery and official categories imposed by the dominant society to define who is subordinate and why. What Puryear recognizes in “Quadroon” is that everything — including color — has a history, which the dominant group in a society may choose to suppress or marginalize when it is convenient to do so.

As I see it, “Quadroon” marks a crucial transition in Puryear’s development. He has moved away from the figural, anecdotal records and studies he made in West Africa, and he has begun to infuse an abstract form with the history of categorization, without shying away from the official terms designed to limit an individual’s possibilities. Moreover, the print reveals Puryear’s sensitivity to color (skin tones), and the meaning it might embody. It is also in this early etching that one senses why he would reject Minimalism’s ideal of making pure, non-referential objects. The idea that a work need only to have presence — and, as Donald Judd states “only needs to be interesting” — denies history.

This is how Puryear described his response to Minimalism (and, by implication, Frank Stella’s credo: “What you see is what you see.”):

I looked at it, I tasted it, and I spat it out.

Puryear’s response is visceral rather than intellectual, and most likely refers to the time he was a student in the Yale MFA Program (1969–71), where the visiting artists included Richard Serra and Robert Morris. As the title “Quadroon” suggests, he had by this time recognized that he could not assimilate into society or, in the context of the art world, the dominant mode of production. His choices at this stage were significant because in some deep way he would never fit in, never become part of the establishment. The point is to remain true to that understanding of difference no matter what the consequence, something that Puryear has done admirably.

At the same time, Puryear’s early experience in West Africa and Sweden gave him access to a very different understanding of race, history and craft. It seems to me that his experience in the Peace Corps, working in a society that was predominantly black, with a history that was very different than the one he experienced in Washington, DC, where he was born and raised, has exerted a strong influence on his entire approach to art making. Abstraction, and his understanding that traditional craftsmanship, such as he learned in Sierra Leone, embodied a rich cultural history, enabled him to move away from the paradigm of the “I” speaking for the “We” without forgetting his personal experience.

If one aspect of modernist art, beginning with Paul Gauguin and Pablo Picasso, is about appropriating from so-called “primitive” cultures, Puryear seems bent on recovering that which was taken or supposedly lost. More importantly, it is wrong to see Puryear’s work as a reaction to Minimalism, or as an anomaly, or as a throwback to the age of craftsmanship. There is a commonly accepted narrative that stresses sculpture’s abandonment of craftsmanship and traditional materials for fabrication and modern materials. Within this highly exclusive telling, the history of the discrete abstract sculpture begins with Brancusi, passes through David Smith, to the Minimalists, before dissipating in the expanded field.

There is another narrative, however, that has been routinely ignored, where Brancusi leads to Isamu Noguchi and Ruth Asawa, both of whom anticipate Puryear, and is picked up by artists as diverse as Mel Kendrick, Arlene Schechet and Patrick Strzelec. Two other artists that I would connect to Puryear are the sculptor Mel Edwards and the Cuban-born modernist painter, Wifredo Lam, whom Puryear remembers seeing when he was in Sweden, though he did not talk to him. In Mel Edwards’ sculpture, “Some Bright Morning” (1963), a heavy chain and a collar-like form open up modern materials — steel and iron — to a history that included blacksmithing, slavery, and the physical pain inflicted by metal restraints. Both Edwards and Puryear recognize that abstraction does not have to necessarily culminate in non-referentiality, that it can be open to suppressed, marginalized and lost histories.

In “The Jungle” (1942–43), Lam used everything he had learned from Pablo Picasso and the European avant-garde to articulate a complex set of characteristics that were entirely his own. Made after he returned to Cuba from France, Lam wanted to recover the Yoruba gods and goddesses of his childhood, as well as depict the plight of the descendants of African slaves in Cuba. This is how Lam described what he was up to:

"I decided that my painting would never be the equivalent of that pseudo-Cuban music for nightclubs. I refused to paint cha-cha-cha. I wanted with all my heart to paint the drama of my country, but by thoroughly expressing the black spirit, the beauty of the plastic art of the blacks. In this way I could act as a Trojan horse that would spew forth hallucinating figures with the power to surprise, to disturb the dreams of the exploiters. I knew I was running the risk of not being understood either by the man in the street or by the others. But a true picture has the power to set the imagination to work, even if it takes time."

Lam’s words came back during my second visit to the Puryear exhibition, while I was looking at his white bronze sculpture, “Face Down” (2008), which I had been haunted by since first seeing it.

The sculpture is an elongated head lying face-down on a pedestal. Its shape recalls a Fang Ngil mask worn by members of a secret society of judges. The silvery patina of the white bronze reminded me that the masks were covered with the white pigment of kaolin clay, which the Fang people believed to be the color of the dead or of spirits. The head’s orientation makes it appear as if the mask’s face is sunken into the pedestal. Puryear has hidden the face (that is to say, the part that Picasso and other European artists had appropriated); he has both given it a proper burial and turned it into a memorial, all while turning its face away from the viewer. The neck, a cylindrical form extending up at a slight angle, can be read as a handle, implying the object might be used for an unstated purpose. Finally, might not “Face Down” also be seen as Puryear’s response to Brancusi’s “Sleeping Muse” (1910) — one archetypal form talking to another?

For “Vessel” (1997–2002), which rests on the floor, Puryear made a large open structure out of sections of wood. The shape of “Vessel” is the same as “Face Down,” right down to the contour of the ears articulated on either side. Enclosed within its open structure is a large ampersand covered in tar. Just like the wood joinery that holds the sculpture together, the ampersand (an abstract, seated figure) conveys Puryear’s belief in the capacity of the individual consciousness to make connections, to join one thing to another. The head becomes a vessel and a repository, the site of imagination. And yet, if I had not seen “Face Down,” I might not have recognized that “Vessel” can be viewed as an abstract head.

Informed by Puryear’s knowledge of Fang art, the head occupies the “similar territory” that he has returned to throughout his career. In “Maquette for Bearing Witness” (1994) and a related drawing, Puryear once again uses the elongated shape associated with Fang masks. Again, it is as if the face has been sheared off, leaving only the back of the head and neck, an abstract column. Puryear’s title is open-ended and can be read a number of different ways, from “baring” or uncovering the witness, to one’s deportment, or bearing, to a ball bearing, to possessing a relation or connection to a particular subject (“to have a bearing on”). All these readings seem pointedly relevant when we consider where this colossal public sculpture has been placed. According to the GSA website (General Services Administration), “the sculpture stands in the grand, semicircular courtyard in front of the Reagan building’s Woodrow Wilson Center. “

As anyone who has followed the news knows, a group of Princeton students recently occupied the university president’s office, demanding that Woodrow Wilson’s name be removed from two of the school’s buildings. While Wilson was the president of Princeton, he declared that it was “altogether inadvisable” for blacks to apply. As Governor of New Jersey, he refused to confirm the hiring of blacks in his administration. Finally, as President of the United States, he pushed for segregation in government departments, undoing the desegregation that had slowly started to happen since the end of the Civil War. I am sure that Puryear is aware of this history. Again from the GSA website:

In a 1998 Sculpture magazine interview, Puryear stated: "This is one of the more challenging pieces I’ve done, because it’s in such an official public place … Its context is weighted. For myself, I wanted my work to be directed toward people rather than toward the government. In a democracy, the people talk back to the government."

In Puryear’s transformation of a Fang mask, a faceless monument becomes an eloquently mute speaker talking back to the government. This is what Puryear shares with Lam, “the power to set the imagination to work.”

While Puryear’s ability to convert history and traditional craftsmanship — from basket-weaving to ship building — into powerfully expressive presences is unrivaled, I believe he is driven by a stronger motivation. On one level, it is his determination to recover that which has been marginalized, lost or appropriated, but that I think this is only part of what makes his work so necessary and important. It seems to me that his deepest concern is with dignity, with restoring self-esteem and honor. Originally, a judge wore the Fang mask. Now, you might say it can represent anyone and everyone who knows the true story.

Source: Hyperallergic / John Yau. Link: Martin Puryear Bears Witness Illustration: Martin Puryear [USA] (b 1941). 'Face Down', 2008. White bronze (152 x 38 x 49 cm). Moderator: ART HuNTER.

#art #contemporary art #martin puryear #sculpture #article #brainslide bedrock great art talk #hyperallergic

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perennialphilosophy · 7 years ago

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Mask of Happiness

‘The sunflower is mine, in a way.’ - Vincent Van Gogh

Moving to Arles, France, Van Gogh lived a quiet and lonely life and often gave himself up to the clutches of depression. He dreamt of a life where he would set up a community of artists that would find its base in the yellow house he was renting.

In the Spring of 1888, Van Gogh invited - painter and impressionist - Paul Gauguin to join him and that summer he began to paint sunflowers. The sunflowers were to adorn the walls of the room in which Gauguin would stay and would symbolise the happiness and optimism he felt for the new life that was to start. Such enthusiasm and hope was a rare occurrence in Van Gogh, whose symptoms now correlate with those of a person suffering from bipolar disorder.

When Gauguin arrived, however, it seemed the two disagreed on much including Van Gogh’s style of painting. Saddened, Van Gogh’s mental stability was shaken further, only to be made worse when Gauguin left that December. On the 23rd of December 1888, Van Gogh had rushed at Gauguin with a razor in a frenzy only to stop and turn away, and that night he (famously) cut off his own ear, which he tried to give to a prostitute at the brothel he visited that night.

The following February, the residents of Arles demanded that he be sent to an asylum for the disruption he was causing the public. It is in the second asylum he stayed that Van Gogh shot himself.

The contrast between the bright and hopeful colours used in the painting and the sad history of its creation is one that stands the test of time. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers are loved and admired worldwide and promise happiness to come soon.

#philosophy #art

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caveartfair · 6 years ago

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Why Highly Creative People Often Work in Pairs

Paul McCartney and John Lennon on Stage, Maryland , 1966. Harry Benson TASCHEN

Highly creative people often work in pairs, but two people working together doesn’t necessarily translate to twice the ideas and twice the brainpower. It does, however, help with productivity. As James Somers wrote in his New Yorker profile of Jeff Dean and Sanjay Ghemawat, the Silicon Valley duo that transformed Google: “Everyone falls into creative ruts, but two people rarely do so at the same time.”

Author Joshua Wolf Shenk, who wrote a book on the benefits of working with a partner, Powers of Two: Finding the Essence of Innovation in Creative Pairs (2014), found during his research that one of the most compelling things about these duos is not their output, but rather how ubiquitous they are. Whether it’s revolutionizing home computers or writing pop songs, creative duos have been busy transforming seemingly every facet of our lives since the days of Adam and Eve.

These creative pairs can exist as close collaborators or couples, working together to achieve shared goals, or as friends or acquaintances who further each other’s independent achievements. Take, for example, a famous pair of modern painters: Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin. In early 1888, Van Gogh, then in his mid-thirties and already known to be a mercurial and emotionally unhinged artist, moved from Paris to Arles in the South of France. Soon after, he was joined by his friend Gauguin, per the request of Van Gogh’s brother, Theo, who paid him to do so.

Gauguin was eager to live and share his work with a fellow artist; as soon as he arrived in Arles, he bought a massive roll of jute canvas. The two roommates cut their canvases from it, made portraits of each other, critiqued each other’s work, and swapped paintings. Gauguin even painted Van Gogh’s portrait while he was working on one of his famous sunflower paintings.

Self Portrait Dedicated to Carriere, 1888-1889. Paul Gauguin Seattle Art Museum

Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 1889. Vincent van Gogh The Courtauld Gallery, London

However, the two painters disagreed on almost everything; they would get into heated discussions about the work of their forebears, like Rembrandt and Eugène Delacroix. In a letter to Theo, Vincent once described their conversations about artists as “excessively electric.” He added: “We sometimes emerge from it with tired minds, like an electric battery after it’s run down.” Their differences extended to their core artistic values: Van Gogh aspired to capture the essence of life, while Gauguin sought to depict the products of his imagination.

Just before Christmas in 1888, Van Gogh and Gauguin had their final row. Some believe that the falling out was so intense and devastating that it may have played a role in Van Gogh cutting off his ear (or that Gauguin sliced it off for him). Two days later, Gauguin left France for Tahiti. Their creative relationship and their time as roommates lasted a whole 63 days. But in that time, these two giants of modern art produced some of the most significant and memorable works of both their careers. Looking back on their creative relationship, Van Gogh is often cast as the true genius, who was pushed to greatness by Gauguin’s criticism and support. So while Van Gogh’s sunflowers may appear to have little to do with Gauguin, the latter is a critical part of their origins.

Creative pairs and (not always romantic) power couples are everywhere. According to Shenk, we’re not primed to acknowledge the great prevalence of such duos due to our inability to detach the idea of a “couple” from any romantic implication and our obsession with narratives of lone geniuses. “We have an impoverished understanding of relationships, generally,” Shenk recently explained, “especially as it pertains to creative work.”

He offers the examples of Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, who, through years of one-upmanship, pushed each other to helm the most influential tech companies the world had ever seen; and John Lennon and Paul McCartney, who, at one point as Beatles, wrote songs like mad libs, taking turns to add to each other’s song lyrics. Broad City’s Abbi Jacobson and Ilana Glazer make their friendship the subject of their hit TV show. These duos all seem to share a mystifying essence, a sort of covert chemistry or language that manifests in wild success.

Shenk calls it “creative intimacy,” noting that it blooms when two (or more) people share what he describes as “an extraordinary rapport and sense of self-identification,” as well as an “extraordinary difference.” In most successful and innovative pairs he studied, Shenk was shocked to find “that any two people could have that much in common,” and “that any two people could be that different,” he said.

Steve Jobs and Bill Gates at “D5: All Things Digital” conference, 2007. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

Indeed, art-world titans Christo and Jeanne-Claude had some shocking similarities, though they supported each other through their differences. They were both born on the same day, June 13, 1935 (Jeanne-Claude in Morocco and Christo in Bulgaria); and they were both 23 when they met and fell in love in 1958. By 1960, Jeanne-Claude left her husband of three weeks to have a baby with Christo.

While Christo taught Jeanne-Claude about art, she opened his eyes to the creative potential of working at a massive scale. Together, they created groundbreaking installations that often involved surrounding or wrapping land masses or gargantuan structures in fabric, like the islands of Miami’s Biscayne Bay and Pont Neuf in Paris. For decades, Christo was credited for being the artistic visionary, while Jeanne-Claude was cast as his secretary or muse. It seemed almost impossible for outsiders to understand that two people could have a creative relationship in which both contribute equally.

According to Shenk, this is “in part because of this overwhelming myth of the lone genius and the way that that shapes discourse about creative work.” Conceptually, Jeanne-Claude and Christo functioned as one artist. “The only things I do myself is write the checks, pay the bills and pay the taxes,” Jeanne-Claude once told a reporter. “Everything else is Christo and Jeanne-Claude, including the creativity. It’s about time that people correct this mistake.” Until Jeanne-Claude died in 2009, the two worked as one. Christo told The Art Newspaper last year that it was their differences that fueled their creativity: “She was extremely argumentative, very critical,” he said. “She was always asking questions.”

Though the prospect of working with a friend, lover, or family member may sound like a terrible idea, as Shenk points out, all relationships are a form of collaboration. And for the most successful creative pairs, he said, “there may be a very fluid movement between the so-called personal and the so-called professional.”

Jeanne-Claude and Christo, 1996. Photo by Weychardt/ullstein bild via Getty Images.

Architectural gods Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron have built their success while maintaining 60-plus years of friendship. Before they ran one of the world’s most renowned architectural firms and became famous for designing institutions like Tate Modern’s Switch House in London and the Pérez Art Museum in Miami, they were childhood friends. Born less than a month apart in 1950, they grew up 200 yards away from each other in the Swiss town of Kleinbasel.

“Whatever we’ve done, it’s always something we’ve done together,” Herzog told WSJ. Magazine in 2018. As children, they discovered a shared desire to create with their hands, and were equally obsessed with roller-coasters and ships. But in interviews today, de Meuron speaks little, and Herzog takes the lead. “I think we accept our own weakness and the strengths of the other,” de Meuron explained.

Like shoes, arm holes, and pant legs, the fashion world is also teeming with pairs: from Dolce & Gabbana to Rodarte’s Mulleavy sisters and the Olsen twins (who have a famous Morse code–like handshake). Designer duo Viktor & Rolf have managed to upend our very understanding of what clothes can do—like a laser-cut ball gown that gives the illusion of a model cut in half, or sheets and a pillow attached to a model’s body to make her look like she’s sleeping upright. In short, they could arguably take the prize for fashion’s most creative pair.

Viktor Horsting and Rolf Snoeren met when they were both 18, while taking exams to get into art school in the Netherlands. They collaborated on a project for a design contest, and as soon as the judge called for “Viktor and Rolf to come to the stage,” they knew they were meant to be a pair. “I don’t think we ever made a conscious choice to start working together,” Snoeren told The Guardian.

Now 50 years old, the pair behind the fashion house Viktor & Rolf still sit beside each other at the same table when they work. And still best friends, they share a “nonjudgmental partnership,” Snoeren said, “whatever the other is saying is valid and we talk about it.” Horsting added, “It’s like a constant ping pong game.”

Viktor Horsting and Rolf Snoeren, 2013. Photo by Pascal Le Segretain via Getty Images.

Despite their ubiquity, not all creative partnerships are properly understood. In the case of Van Gogh and Gauguin, some scholars believe that Van Gogh was in love with Gauguin. A Harvard Magazine article relates that the men had a “stormy homosexual affair.” Historically, we’ve tended to ignore the parts of a relationship that aren’t easily defined; and in this case, the creative nature of the artists’ relationship gets lost.

But so what if they were lovers? Two people can be in a relationship that is at the same time romantic, sexual, productive, and creative. But, as Shenk lamented, “there’s very little space in the culture to hold a model of that kind of relationship.” He added that the conversation around creative pairs can be inhibiting, as well, preventing others from opening themselves up to the possibilities of such a relationship. Take, for example, writer Tom Wolfe, who parted ways with his editor and close friend, Maxwell Perkins, because people began to question whether Wolfe was the sole author of his work. The myth of the lone genius puts pressure on pairs to make the authorship of their work clear.

But the ubiquity of creative pairs, relationships, and collaborations highlights a larger truth: There’s a strong alternative to working alone. Even on a cultural and historical level, we all learn and borrow from each other, because no one exists as an island—not even the lone geniuses.

from Artsy News

#Artsy News

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