North of town on the old highway a derelict truckstop has recently been reopened by an in-town restaurant with essentially the same menu but with rural accents, liberal use of corrugated galvanized, such as that. There’s a fair amount of animal art, mostly whimsical and good-natured, baby pigs racing, kid’s book cows. One piece is framed and under glass, a historic reproduction of a bovine in a barnyard, but the depiction is grossly distorted and strange. I’ve seen paintings of cows like this before.
More peculiar than bug-eyed aliens, the portraits farmers commission of their prize animals present an odd view of reality, realism with certain biases baked in. This particular cow has an almost pearlescent luster, satiny and underexposed, lumpy and bulging. Four little spindles support its great bulk, while the head is impossibly small, like a doorknob on a suitcase. The farmer, you see, doesn’t care about the head or the legs, but lives by producing beef, rectangular and ready to ship as a boxcar. Did the itinerant painter of bygone year learn by trial and error what would look real to a wealthy farmer, somehow even 'realer than real' to his inner heart of hearts? Maybe.
Cows don’t look that way on a holiday drive in the country to people with no personal interest in the cattle industry. They see everything proportional, you know, real. Horses, bred as pets of the aristocracy, have been idealized on canvas around here from time to time, and no one seems to notice. The tiny muzzle, the dreamy eyes, the great arched neck of the painted arabian would be impractical out in the barn, but convention allows it, all romance with blood untainted. Seems safe to say what’s painted is never really ‘there,‘ and the notion of ‘realism‘ is a myth. Even the painting made directly from a photograph, sector by sector, still yields a product more revealing of the artist and their thought process than whatever was in the picture.
Painting is full of mystery, representing a mental code beyond language, creating images that are open and inviting to some, while opaque and unseen by others. A word of caution -- original art contains elements discernible directly that are simply lost in reproduction. Look at all original art, since somewhere an artist is bending what they see to fit your sight too, a friendly warm feeling when you find it, realer than real.
The latest version of the ‘nude show’ is up now, a popular annual event for a local non-profit. So in the paper the executive director said, ‘We’re so used to seeing naked bodies on the wall, we don’t see them anymore.’ That’s why this exhibit which ‘dates back to our founding,’ has ‘evolved’ through the years. Well just for the historical record, I was on the gallery committee which first proposed a nude show, and would like to say something straight up about ‘naked bodies,’ so ordinary, so mundane, so boring these days.
At that time, the hometown was getting used to selling liquor on sunday, just thawing out from the pretense of horsey aristocracy, gentile and prudish. Overall, community standards were repressive and lip-service dishonest, so the sheer notion of nudity seemed titillating to some, a sort of annual sanctified scandal, and, as a fact, it’s popularity was a harbinger of the cultural openness we applaud these days, but that was just a side-effect. It mainly became popular because it offered a platform for painting, a chance to see and judge the work of local and regional artists. Sadly, over the years the exhibit became more and more progressive, and finally degenerated into dissociated parts and deviant suggestion, so conceptual, no one went.
It’s been revived but they feel the need of a hook, some theme to make it more interesting, ‘More than naked bodies on the wall.’ Maybe you guys should look at the paintings as they are, and hold the hot sauce, the fancy hats, the bells and whistles. There are reasons the human body is the most painted object of all time, and possibly the subject most evocative of values and revealing of character. We all grew up in families, we’re all human and have mirrors in the bathroom, it’s a subject we know well. If the painter produces icy crags and snow-laden pine, you’ll have to take his word for it, but we all know bodies, and if you’ve followed art at all you’ve seen them depicted many different ways. Essentially the human body hasn’t changed for a couple of hundred thousand, but the way it’s portrayed varies with the age, with the culture, from artist to artist, and what does that tell you? The painting of a nude reveals nothing new about the human body, that’s for sure, but lots about the age, the culture, and the artist who made it.
The finger pointing at the moon is not the moon, and endless yakking about art isn’t art. If the subject is actual experience of any kind, talking just won’t get you there. Someone with a precise vocabulary, who uses the best word, constructs the most transparent similes, and who also possesses the most insight, the greatest depth of knowledge, can only infer, drop fat hints, offer sideways suggestions. If the listener hasn’t personally had the experience in question, or anything even similar, no amount of talk, books and lectures, college course work is going to inform their understanding, and as a bald-faced irony, may in fact make the experience in question more difficult to comprehend when it comes along.
It’s a whole other field, writing about art, with its own competitive standards. The art itself represents only the raw ingredients for their smarmy stew of cross-referenced, name-dropping, historically contextual associations, so erudite, so clever. Most of it is fairly thick, offering little mental rewards for every wink and nod untwisted, but it won’t get you any closer to the art if you aren’t there, standing in front of it, deciding for yourself. At that point, a new process takes over, anyway. Art goes straight into your brain, doesn’t wait for translation, and four paragraphs in an art magazine will probably seem inadequate to convey the experience.
Of course, not everyone sees the same, and isn’t that revealing? Do you see what’s actually there, what some expert has told you is there, or maybe what all the people all around you seem to be seeing, don’t leave me out. Art will help you find yourself, and you do it by looking at original art every chance, only reading the paragraph on the wall as an afterthought. Images online are at best just abbreviations, and won’t be part of the survey, since many paintings have attributes that can only be perceived in person. This isn’t tedious scholarship, looking is all that’s necessary, and it could be fun. Art can prove friendly to the mildly interested, becoming more intimate and revealing as looking at everything becomes habit, refrigerator door to sistine chapel.
We meet here, at this written word, about the experience of art, and not about art itself. Billions of dollars move world wide for the monogramed fetishes of social status, and that’s not our concern. Art, even reasonably priced neighborhood art, is experienced best, first of all, by looking with an uncluttered eye, and ultimately by owning art that becomes more valuable with time simply because you wouldn’t want to sell it. The system is simple. Look at enough art to begin to recognize yourself slowly coming to the surface, like someone calling your name in your inner ear. For all the farmers and business types, as well as rank upon rank of art professionals, who have never thought of art this way, just these words can never convince you -- go look at art.
So I’m watching olympic trials for figure skating with my wife, and I’m thinking here’s a sport without any sort of ball, without goals, without physical opposition, and yet who could question the athletic ability, or the dedication and accomplishment of the skaters? There are essentially two elements in the sport -- competing up to the very edge of impossibility, while at the same time making a practiced routine look spontaneous and effortless, dancing without friction, leaping in reduced gravity, at one with the music played. The very notion of spending months preparing for a only a few minutes on the ice, and the sheer courage required to face such a trial, represents a pinnacle of artistry. Every member of the audience analyzes like an expert, making their own estimations of degree of difficulty and ease of execution, and together they’ll even pass judgment on the judges, and let them know. They’re an awesomely knowledgable crowd making quick distinctions between bravado and bravery, costume and content, hype and heroism. They use their own eyes.
Painters should be so lucky as to have such an audience. Let’s pretend. What would they look for? First would be degree of difficulty, and figuring it out won’t be easy. With skating, a little personal experience at the rink is helpful, and we’ve all tried art sometime, when the playground was too muddy or the gym was busy, but few bring that experience forward and apply it to the art they see. Remembering how hard it was to draw an animal an adult could recognize might inform their notion of difficulty these days, but seeing and comparing enough original art as an adult eventually does the same. The other element would be spontaneity and economy of execution, personal vision expressed without extraneous ingratiation, simple and direct. Here’s the difference. Skating, dancing, singing, acting are all art-forms best experienced live and in person, and are each ephemeral, once they’ve happened there’s only a memory. Their digital reproduction, no matter how crisp, will still seem second-hand, lacking a perceptual dimension.
A painting, along with all forms of visual art, has duration. It’s a tangible object that embodies those ideals in physical form, projecting the same elements so admired in the skaters, and all the other art-forms, ongoing. What’s been missing so far is a knowledgable audience, who while they may have their own favorites, generally agree on the level of effort and accomplishment, who apply their own experience, and who use their own eyes.
‘Lots of things are invisible, Joey,’ said Dennis the Menace one day in the comics, ‘but we don’t know it ‘cause we can’t see ‘em.’ True dat. There are some things invisible right out in plain sight, and that’s more complicated. For years around here, representational paintings weren’t seen in juried exhibits, weren’t reviewed in media outlets, and couldn’t get a grant for any reason, period. Representational art was being made, studios would come and go, but officially what they were doing was destined to be invisible, out of bounds, not worthy of serious consideration. This continued for decades.
Of course, there’s no real opposition, abstract or referential, and no defining line between. Each artist chooses the form that best conveys their particular personality and point of view. They all have an audience in mind, and in front of the easel they labor to create an image that will be ‘seen,‘ at least by some of the people, and favored enough to receive support, a basic requirement for making more. There are numerous examples of artists who struggled throughout their lives, only to find great success among later generations, art’s oldest cliche’. Why is that?
It must be, that while the art itself didn’t change, the eyes that saw it did. What was once invisible had over time resolved into meaning and immediacy, as the worldview of citizens changed gears. Van Gogh’s artwork was severely inappropriate for the eighteen eighties, too ugly to look at, too distorted and crudely made. He was crazy and it showed in his work. Ten years after his untimely demise, at the approach of a new century, he was already recognized as the obvious precursor to the concerns of modern art, and his paintings began to blaze on the wall.
Art is not a one-way street. The painting itself is inert, a construction of cloth and wood with colors applied, and it says nothing in an empty room. Somewhere on its surface the artist has left a hook, some visual strategy that beguiles the attention long enough to speak, to whisper a personal message into the inner ear where no translation is necessary. For this to happen, the sensibility of the viewing public must become receptive, and sometimes that can take a while, up to several decades. It won’t change overnight, but it can seem that way, with many individuals responding before artwork becomes generally ‘visible,‘ and it might not happen at all.
The successful painting doesn’t recede into the background, and won’t become unnoticed no matter how many times it’s seen during a day. Historical allegory, fruit in a bowl, total abstraction, doesn’t matter -- that’s not part of the test. As a fact, the significant work of art becomes more present, and its influence permeates the interior it occupies more completely, the longer it’s lived with. It’s the way, in the long run, you can tell.
Visual art has gimmicks galore that fool the eye, cloud the mind, and its salesmen manage to change the subject most of the time. Novelty provides a jolt, celebrity porn vamps sensation, and the ‘relics’ of famous artists have fan appeal, but it don’t mean a thing if it doesn’t engage the eye and mind on an ongoing basis. All artists are driven by this one goal, to draw the attention of the viewer, sometimes only for a few seconds, designing logos and fast food menus, movie posters and fine art. Mostly they clomp along together, travel in a pack, all seeking to impinge at the apex of group awareness at the moment, because that’s where the money is.
Our reality these days flashes by minute to minute, but art lasts a long time. The museum has fresh, just-painted looking works from five hundred years ago. Far from being obsolete, the enduring quality of a work of art will become more dear as lives dissolve in digital, that universal solvent melting and merging humanity into an ant farm with barracks for drones, I digress. A standard for quality in visual art becomes important, and how to recognize significance will become a practical matter.
If you’ve never cried in front of a work of art, you may have to take my word for it. Let me explain. When a visual artist manages to touch a place inside that you didn’t know was there, tears come to your eyes. Doesn’t happen very often, can be totally unpredictable and it has nothing to do with being sad. It’s more like a reflex, the automatic response to a tickle deep down, and not totally unpleasant when it happens. Short of that, try visiting a museum after a ten year absence. It can be like meeting old friends, reviving old memories, and a couple the paintings will be glad to see you, welcome back. This experience also requires personal verification.
The object of these essays is to suggest these time-binding qualities can also be found in paintings from the neighborhood, and to acknowledge sincere attempts at self-expression made without the ambition of stardom and fame, or perhaps even the hope of earning a living until conditions improve. When visual art becomes visible to enough of us, earns its attention and respect, there’ll be peace in the valley -- better be soon.
Ran across a miniseries about an itinerant hypnotist, ‘el hipnotizador,’ on latin HBO, and started watching even though it was in portuguese, I think, with subtitles in spanish, and I speak neither. It was visually so rich, the plot seemed so surreal and strange, and the music mingling symphonic emotion with scratchy sound effects was so evocative, scene for scene, that I decided to watch a few of episodes anyway. Some weeks later I discovered the same series with english subtitles and watched again, this time with dialogue.
In the second season, Arenas, the hypnotist, arrives in a strange colony peopled by state-funded zombies, suicides who had been reanimated and implanted with artificial memories, living out bland but contented lives. His presence jostles their memories and they start to recall their prior existences, and why they had wanted to kill themselves. The whole experiment is run by a painter who has put his abstract paintings up all over town as a kind of early warning system. When people start to see butterflies in his paintings, it means they’re about to ‘wake up.’
Now that’s a novel idea, paintings that aren’t static at all but which move and resolve when consciousness changes, still, it’s the most plausible part of the plot. The renaissance is an enshrined example, there in your hometown art museum, of humanity changing its mind, seeing reality in a new way. Linear perspective, an expression of Aristotle’s rationality, redefined the world in paintings first of all, and then in the minds of all who saw them. It’s difficult to imagine how strange the new art must have looked at first to the medieval mind, or how it started clicking into place when another consciousness arose.
Art isn’t frozen on the wall but exists in the interaction between artist and viewer, a collaboration, a conversation. All art is abstract when you think about it. Raphael, himself, was only making colored designs on cloth, and it’s the viewer who perceives depth, recognizes steps, and trees, and clouds. Wouldn’t it be peculiar if a representational painting were suddenly seen as abstract, colors and patterns in relation only to each other, the internal world of the artist made visible? Wouldn’t it be crazy if one day you looked into a piece of art and saw something you’d never seen before, even when you’ve looked at it every day? Would it be like waking up, maybe a little, a bell ringing far away.
The artist doesn’t have answers, only method, yet in the execution at the top tenth of their ability some things come across, how to say, unintended. Universal and poignantly real, no matter what they happen to be painting, certain values of character or wit rise to the surface past the pot of flowers, a desert sunset, the modest portrait of young person unknown, grown old and deceased by now. Are we all hypnotized, they ask this question several times, and no one ever really says for sure, but wouldn’t it be prudent to now and then look at paintings intently, ready to see them change?
from Neuroscience & Mind -- Of Course You Aren’t Living in a Computer Simulation. Here’s Why. Michael Egnor Dec 28, 2017
His reasons weren’t convincing at all, and ended up saying if you were in a computer simulation you couldn’t ask the question, but why wouldn’t that also true of pure organics, whichever we turn out to be. In any case, we ask the question all the time, and have for millennia. It wouldn’t be the first time this reality has had its authenticity called into question. In biblical times there was, so I’ve read, a school of thought that identified Jehovah as a renegade, and his little creation an unauthorized franchise, a second-rate knockoff, but they didn’t know about computers. It’s beginning to seem more plausible these days.
In this moment, bots can do almost anything better than we can, flying our planes and driving our cars, and they can be programed to be reinforcing and friendly, totally empathetic yet devoid of emotion, only feigning any concern or feeling at all. Guess I’m just being sentimental, also not a machine trait, but I like the inefficient part, the quirky mental response to an eon of evolution, storms and drought and wars and wonder at the stars, all coded for us in junk DNA, the part we still can’t decipher. It extrudes in the form of art.
Without a past, it’s difficult to see how machines would ever like art, accepting reality as flat, without irony or humor, joy or regret -- how boring. Well, it’s going to take a lot of simulations before some wise machine ever begins to notice with longing the toxic swirling sunsets on its organically extinct chunk of rock, or doodle it out on its view-screen. In this age, it’s humans making art to express their individual and unique response to being in this maze, attempting to navigate the algorithms of karma, looking for meaning, offering to hold hands.
