The parthenon (fig. 15.9) in athens is an example of the ________ style of architecture.

THE HUMANITIES THROUGH THE ARTS

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THE HUMANITIES THROUGH THE ARTS

N i n t h E d i t i o n

F. David Martin Professor of Philosophy Emeritus

Bucknell University

Lee A. Jacobus Professor of English Emeritus

University of Connecticut

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THE HUMANITIES THROUGH THE ARTS, NINTH EDITION

Published by McGraw-Hill Education, 2 Penn Plaza, New York, NY 10121. Copyright © 2015 by McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Previous editions © 2011, 2008, and 2004. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of McGraw-Hill Education, including, but not limited to, in any network or other electronic storage or transmission, or broadcast for distance learning.

Some ancillaries, including electronic and print components, may not be available to customers outside the United States.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

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ISBN 978-0-07-352398-9 MHID 0-07-352398-4

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Martin, F. David, 1920– author. The humanities through the arts / F. David Martin, Bucknell University; Lee A. Jacobus, University of Connecticut–Storrs.—Ninth Edition. pages cm Includes index. ISBN 978–0–07–352398–9 — ISBN 0–07–352398–4 (hard : alk. paper) 1. Arts–Psychological aspects. 2. Art appreciation. I. Jacobus, Lee A., author. II. Title. NX165.M37 2014 700.1’04–dc23 2013041627

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v

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

F. David Martin (PhD, University of Chicago) taught at the University of Chicago and then at Bucknell University until his retirement in 1983. He was a Fulbright Research Scholar in Florence and Rome from 1957 through 1959, and he has received seven other major research grants during his career as well as the Christian Lindback Award for Distinguished Teaching. In addition to more than 100 articles in professional journals, Dr. Martin is the author of Art and the Religious Experience (Associated University Presses, 1972); Sculpture and the Enlivened Space (The University Press of Kentucky, 1981); and Facing Death: Theme and Variations (Associated University Presses, 2006).

Lee A. Jacobus (PhD, Claremont Graduate University) taught at Western Connecticut University and then at the University of Connecticut (Storrs) until he retired in 2001. He held a Danforth Teachers Grant while earning his doctorate. His publications include Hawaiian Tales (Tell Me Press, 2014); Substance, Style and Strategy (Oxford University Press, 1999); Shakespeare and the Dialectic of Certainty (St. Martin’s Press, 1992); Sudden Apprehension: Aspects of Knowledge in Paradise Lost (Mouton, 1976); John Cleveland: A Critical Study (G. K. Hall, 1975); and Aesthetics and the Arts (McGraw-Hill, 1968). Dr. Jacobus writes poetry, drama, and fi ction. He is the editor of The Bedford Introduction to Drama (Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2013). His A World of Ideas (Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2013) is in its ninth edition.

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We dedicate this study to teachers and students of the humanities.

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BRIEF CONTENTS

PREFACE xiii

Part 1 FUNDAMENTALS

1 The Humanities: An Introduction 1 2 What Is a Work of Art? 18

3 Being a Critic of the Arts 47

Part 2 THE ARTS

4 Painting 63 5 Sculpture 95

6 Architecture 126 7 Literature 171 8 Theater 199 9 Music 225

10 Dance 256 11 Photography 278

12 Cinema 304 13 Television and Video Art 333

Part 3 INTERRELATIONSHIPS

14 Is It Art or Something Like It? 352 15 The Interrelationships of the Arts 379

16 The Interrelationships of the Humanities 400 GLOSSARY G-1

CREDITS C-1

INDEX I-1

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CONTENTS

PREFACE xiii

Part 1 FUNDAMENTALS

1 Th e Humanities: An Introduction 1

The Humanities: A Study of Values 1 Taste 4 Responses to Art 4 Structure and Artistic Form 9

EXPERIENCING: The Mona Lisa 10

Perception 12

Abstract Ideas and Concrete Images 13 Summary 16

2 What Is a Work of Art? 18 Identifying Art Conceptually 19 Identifying Art Perceptually 19 Artistic Form 20 Participation 24 Participation and Artistic Form 26 Content 27 Subject Matter 29 Subject Matter and Artistic Form 30 Participation, Artistic Form, and Content 30 Artistic Form: Examples 32 Subject Matter and Content 38

EXPERIENCING: Interpretations of the Female Nude 44

Further Thoughts on Artistic Form 44 Summary 45

3 Being a Critic of the Arts 47 You Are Already an Art Critic 47 Participation and Criticism 48 Three Kinds of Criticism 48 Descriptive Criticism 49 Interpretive Criticism 53 Evaluative Criticism 56

EXPERIENCING: The Polish Rider 60 Summary 61

Part 2 THE ARTS

4 Painting 63 Our Visual Powers 63 The Media of Painting 64 Tempera 64 Fresco 66 Oil 67 Watercolor 69 Acrylic 69 Other Media and Mixed Media 70

Elements of Painting 72 Line 73 Color 76

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CONTENTS ix

6 Architecture 126 Centered Space 126 Space and Architecture 127 Chartres 128 Living Space 131 Four Necessities of Architecture 132 Technical Requirements of Architecture 132 Functional Requirements of Architecture 133 Spatial Requirements of Architecture 137 Revelatory Requirements of Architecture 137

Earth-Rooted Architecture 139 Site 140 Gravity 140 Raw Materials 142 Centrality 143

Sky-Oriented Architecture 145 Axis Mundi 148 Defi ance of Gravity 149 Integration of Light 150

Earth-Resting Architecture 151 Earth-Dominating Architecture 153 Combinations of Types 154 Guggenheim Museum Bilbao and Sydney Opera House 155 High-Rises and Skyscrapers 157

EXPERIENCING: Sydney Opera House 158

FOCUS ON: Fantasy Architecture 163

Urban Planning 166 Summary 170

7 Literature 171 Spoken Language and Literature 171 Literary Structures 174 The Narrative and the Narrator 174 The Episodic Narrative 176 The Organic Narrative 179 The Quest Narrative 182 The Lyric 184

EXPERIENCING: “Musée des Beaux Arts” 187

Literary Details 188 Image 189

Texture 77 Composition 77

The Clarity of Painting 80 The “All-at-Onceness” of Painting 81 Abstract Painting 81 Intensity and Restfulness in

Abstract Painting 83 Representational Painting 84 Comparison of Five Impressionist Paintings 84

FOCUS ON: The Self-Portrait: Rembrandt van Rijn, Gustave Courbet, Vincent van Gogh, and Frida Kahlo 90

Frames 92 Some Painting Styles of the Past 150 Years 92

EXPERIENCING: Frames 93 Summary 94

5 Sculpture 95 Sensory Interconnections 96 Sculpture and Painting Compared 96 Sculpture and Space 98 Sunken-Relief Sculpture 98 Low-Relief Sculpture 99 High-Relief Sculpture 100 Sculpture in the Round 101 Sculpture and Architecture Compared 103 Sensory Space 104 Sculpture and the Human Body 105 Sculpture in the Round and the

Human Body 106 EXPERIENCING: Sculpture and Physical Size 108

Contemporary Sculpture 109 Truth to Materials 109 Protest against Technology 112 Accommodation with Technology 115 Machine Sculpture 116 Earth Sculpture 117

FOCUS ON: African Sculpture 119

Sculpture in Public Places 122 Summary 125

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x CONTENTS

Tonal Center 235 Musical Structures 237 Theme and Variations 237 Rondo 238 Fugue 238 Sonata Form 238 Fantasia 239 Symphony 240

FOCUS ON: Beethoven’s Symphony in E ♭ Major, No. 3, Eroica 245

Blues and Jazz: Popular American Music 250 Blues and Rock and Roll 252 Summary 254

10 Dance 256 Subject Matter of Dance 256

EXPERIENCING: Feeling and Dance 258

Form 259 Dance and Ritual 259 Ritual Dance 261 Social Dance 261 The Court Dance 262

Ballet 262 Swan Lake 264

Modern Dance 267 Alvin Ailey’s Revelations 269 Martha Graham 271 Pilobolus and Momix Dance Companies 272 Mark Morris Dance Group 273

FOCUS ON: Theater Dance 275

Popular Dance 276 Summary 277

11 Photography 278 Photography and Painting 278

EXPERIENCING: Photography and Art 282

Photography and Painting: The Pictorialists 283

Straight Photography 286 Stieglitz: Pioneer of Straight Photography 287

Metaphor 191 Symbol 194 Irony 195 Diction 196 Summary 198

8 Th eater 199 Aristotle and the Elements of Drama 200 Dialogue and Soliloquy 201

Archetypal Patterns 203 Genres of Drama: Tragedy 205 The Tragic Stage 205 Stage Scenery and Costumes 207 Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet 209

Comedy: Old and New 212 Tragicomedy: The Mixed Genre 215 A Play for Study: The Swan Song 215

EXPERIENCING: Anton Chekhov’s The Swan Song 219

FOCUS ON: Musical Theater 220

Experimental Drama 223 Summary 224

9 Music 225 Hearing and Listening 225 The Elements of Music 226 Tone 226 Consonance 227 Dissonance 227 Rhythm 228 Tempo 228 Melodic Material: Melody, Theme, and Motive 228 Counterpoint 229 Harmony 229

EXPERIENCING: “Battle Hymn of the Republic” 230

Dynamics 231 Contrast 231

The Subject Matter of Music 231 Feelings 232

Two Theories: Formalism and Expressionism 234 Sound 234

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CONTENTS xi

Part 3 INTERRELATIONSHIPS

14 Is It Art or Something Like It? 352

Art and Artlike 352 Illustration 355 Realism 355 Folk Art 356 Popular Art 358 Propaganda 363

EXPERIENCING: Propaganda Art 364

FOCUS ON: Kitsch 364

Decoration 366 Idea Art 369 Dada 369 Duchamp and His Legacy 371 Conceptual Art 372

Performance Art 374 Shock Art 375 Virtual Art 376 Summary 378

15 Th e Interrelationships of the Arts 379

Appropriation 379 Synthesis 381 Interpretation 382 Film Interprets Literature: Howards End 382 Music Interprets Drama: The Marriage of Figaro 385 Poetry Interprets Painting: The Starry Night 388 Sculpture Interprets Poetry: Apollo and Daphne 390

EXPERIENCING: Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne and Ovid’s The Metamorphoses 392

FOCUS ON: Photography Interprets Fiction 393

Architecture Interprets Dance: National Nederlanden Building 395

Painting Interprets Dance and Music: The Dance and Music 396

EXPERIENCING: Death in Venice: Three Versions 398 Summary 399

The f/64 Group 288

The Documentarists 290 The Modern Eye 296

FOCUS ON: Digital Photography 300 Summary 303

12 Cinema 304 The Subject Matter of Film 304 Directing and Editing 305 The Participative Experience and Film 308 The Film Image 309

EXPERIENCING: Still Frames and Photography 310

Camera Point of View 312 Violence and Film 315 Sound 316 Image and Action 318 Film Structure 319 Cinematic Signifi cance 321 The Context of Film History 322 Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather 323 The Narrative Structure of The Godfather Films 324 Coppola’s Images 325 Coppola’s Use of Sound 326 The Power of The Godfather 326

FOCUS ON: Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo 327

Experimentation 330 Summary 332

13 Television and Video Art 333 The Evolution of Television 333 The Subject Matter of Television and Video

Art 334 Commercial Television 335 The Television Series 336 The Structure of the Self-Contained Episode 337 The Television Serial 337

Video Art 342 FOCUS ON: Downton Abbey 343

Summary 350

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xii CONTENTS

FOCUS ON: The Arts and History, The Arts and Philosophy, The Arts and Theology 406

Summary 411

GLOSSARY G-1

CREDITS C-1

INDEX I-1

16 Th e Interrelationships of the Humanities 400

The Humanities and the Sciences 400 The Arts and the Other Humanities 401

EXPERIENCING: The Humanities and Students of Medicine 402

Values 403

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PREFACE

The Humanities through the Arts , ninth edition, explores the humanities with an emphasis on the arts. Examining the relationship of the humanities to values, ob- jects, and events important to people is central to this book. We make a distinction between artists and other humanists: Artists reveal values, while other humanists examine or refl ect on values. We study how values are revealed in the arts, while keeping in mind a basic question: “What is Art?” Judging by the existence of an- cient artifacts, we see that artistic expression is one of the most fundamental human activities. It binds us together as a people by revealing the most important values of our culture. Our genre-based approach offers students the opportunity to understand the relation of the arts to human values by examining in-depth each of the major artis- tic media. Subject matter, form, and content in each of the arts supply the frame- work for careful analysis. Painting and photography focus our eyes on the visual appearance of things. Sculpture reveals the textures, densities, and shapes of things. Architecture sharpens our perception of spatial relationships, both inside and out. Literature, theater, cinema, and video make us more aware of the human condition, among other ideas. Our understanding of feelings is deepened by music. Our sensi- tivity to movement, especially of the human body, is enhanced by dance. The wide range of opportunities for criticism and analysis helps the reader synthesize the complexities of the arts and their interaction with values of many kinds. All of this is achieved with an exceptionally vivid and complete illustration program alongside detailed discussion and interactive responses to the problems inherent in a close study of the arts and values of our time. Four major pedagogical boxed features enhance student understanding of the genres and of individual works within the genres: Perception Key boxes, Concep- tion Key boxes, Experiencing boxes, and new Focus On boxes (the latter described in detail in the “Key Changes in the Ninth Edition” section of this Preface):

• The Perception Key boxes are designed to sharpen readers in their responses to the arts. These boxes raise important questions about specifi c works of art in a way that respects the complexities of the works and of our responses to them. The questions raised are usually open-ended and thereby avoid any doctrinaire views or dogmatic opinions. The emphasis is on perception and awareness, and how a heightened awareness will produce a fuller and more meaningful under- standing of the work at hand. In a few cases our own interpretations and analyses

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PREFACE

follow the keys, and are offered not as the way to perceive a given work of art but, rather, as one possible way. Our primary interest is in exciting our readers to perceive the splendid singularity of the work of art in question.

• We use Conception Key boxes, rather than Perception Key boxes, in certain instances throughout the book where we focus on thought and conception rather than observation and perception. Again, these are open-ended questions that involve refl ection and understanding. There is no single way of responding to these keys, just as there is no simple way to answer the questions.

PERCEPTION KEY Public Sculpture 1. Public sculpture such as that by Maya Lin, Richard Serra, and Judy Chicago usually

produces tremendous controversy when it is not representative, such as a conven- tional statue of a man on a horse, a hero holding a rifl e and fl ag, or person of local fame. What do you think causes these more abstract works to attract controversy? Do you react negatively or positively to any of these three works?

2. Should artists who plan public sculpture meant to be viewed by a wide-ranging audience aim at pleasing that audience? Should that be their primary mission, or should they simply make the best work they are capable of ?

3. Which of the three, Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Sequence, or The Dinner Party, seems least like a work of art to you? Try to convince someone who disagrees with you that it is not a work of art.

4. Choose a public sculpture that is in your community, photograph it, and establish its credentials, as best you can, for making a claim to being an important work of art.

5. If we label Chicago’s The Dinner Party a feminist work, is it then to be treated as political sculpture? Do you think Lin’s Vietnam Veterans Memorial is a less political or more political sculpture than Chicago’s work? Could Serra’s Sequence be consid-

mar23984_ch05_095-125.indd 124 22/01/14 5:54 PMCONCEPTION KEY Archetypes 1. You may wish to supplement the comments above by reading the third chapter of

Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of Criticism or the Hamlet chapter in Francis Fergusson’s The Idea of a Theater.

2. Whether or not you do additional reading, consider the recurrent patterns you have observed in dramas—include television dramas or television adaptations of drama. Can you fi nd any of the patterns we have described? Do you see other patterns showing up? Do the patterns you have observed seem basic to human experience? For example, do you associate gaiety with spring, love with summer, death with fall, and bitterness with winter? What season seems most appropriate

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• Each chapter provides an Experiencing box that gives the reader the opportu- nity to approach a specifi c work of art in more detail than the Perception Key boxes. Analysis of the work begins by answering a few preliminary questions to make it accessible to students. Follow-up questions ask students to think criti- cally about the work and guide them to their own interpretations. In every case

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we raise major issues concerning the genre of work, the background of the work, and the artistic issues that make the work demanding and important.

EXPERIENCING Sydney Opera House 1. Would you recognize the function of

the building if you did not know its name?

2. Which type does this building ful- fi ll, earth-resting, earth-rooted, or sky-oriented?

In the late 1950s the design was a sensation in part because no one could know by looking at it that it was a concert and opera hall. Its swooping “sails” were so novel that people were more amazed at its construction than by its function. Additionally, the fact that the build- ing was fl oating in a harbor rather than being built on solid earth was all the more mystifying. Today, however, with the innovations of computer-generated plans for buildings like Gehry’s Guggenheim in Bilbao (Figures 6-24 to 6-26), we are accustomed to the extraordinary shapes that make these buildings possible. In fact, now we are likely to associate the shape of the Sydney Opera House (Figure 6-27) with a function related to the arts. This tells us that our percep- tion of function in a building is established by tradition and our association with a class of buildings. Therefore, the dogma that was so fi rmly established years ago—“form follows function”—is capable of distinct revision.

FIGURE 6-27 Jørn Utzon, Opera House, Sydney, Australia. 1973.

This is considered an expressionist modern design. The precast concrete shells house various concert and performance halls.

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Organization

This edition, as with previous editions, is organized into three parts, offering considerable fl exibility in the classroom: Part 1, “Fundamentals,” includes the fi rst three introductory chapters. In Chapter 1, The Humanities: An Introduction , we distinguish the humanities from the sciences, and the arts from other humanities. In Chapter 2, What Is a Work of Art? , we raise the question of defi nition in art and the ways in which we distinguish art from other objects and experiences. Chapter 3, Being a Critic of the Arts , introduces the vital role of criticism in art appreciation and evaluation. Part 2, “The Arts,” includes individual chapters on each of the basic arts. The structure of this section permits complete fl exibility: The chapters may be used in their present order or in any order one wishes. We begin with individual chapters on Painting , Sculpture , and Architecture , follow with Literature , Theater , Music , and Dance , and continue with Photography , Cinema , and Television and Video Art . Instruc- tors may reorder or omit chapters as needed. The Photography chapter now more logically precedes the Cinema and Television and Video Art chapters for the conve- nience of instructors who prefer to teach the chapters in the order presented.

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Part 3, “Interrelationships,” begins with Chapter 14, Is It Art or Something Like It? We study illustration, folk art, propaganda, and kitsch while raising the ques- tion “What is Art?” We also examine the avant-garde as it pushes us to the edge of defi nition. Chapter 15, The Interrelationships of the Arts , explores the ways in which the arts work together, as in how literature and music result in a Mozart opera; how poetry inspires a Bernini sculpture; and how a van Gogh painting inspires poetry and song. Chapter 16, The Interrelationships of the Humanities , addresses the ways in which the arts impact the other humanities, particularly history, philosophy, and theology.

Key Changes in the Ninth Edition

• New “Focus On” boxes. In each chapter of “The Arts” and “Interrelationships” sections of the book, we include a Focus On box, which provides an opportunity to deal in-depth with a group of artworks as a way of exploring art in context with similar works. For example, we focus on African sculpture, fantasy architecture, self-portraits, kitsch, and other topics via a variety of examples. In the Cinema and Television and Video Art chapters, we focus in-depth on specifi c works (Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo and the popular PBS drama Downton Abbey, respectively) from a variety of perspectives. Each of these opportunities encourages in-depth and comparative study.

FOCUS ON Downton Abbey By 2013, in its third season, the British serial drama Down- ton Abbey (PBS) became one of the most watched television programs in the world. Almost the diametrical opposite of The Sopranos and The Wire, it presents a historical period in England in which the language is formal by comparison and the manners impeccable. What we see is the upheaval of the lives of the British aristocracy in the wake of historical forces that cannot be ignored or stemmed. The fi rst season began with a major historical event, the sinking of the Titanic in 1912. With the ship went Patrick Crawley, the young heir to Downton Abbey. The result is that, much to the dismay of the Dowager Countess Vio- let Crawley (Figure 13-8), the great house will now go to the Earl of Grantham’s distant cousin, Matthew Crawley, a person unknown to the family. Young Matthew enters as a middle-class solicitor (lawyer) with little interest in the ways of the aristocracy. But soon he fi nds himself in love with his distant cousin, Lady Mary Crawley, beginning a long and complicated love interest that becomes one of the major centers of the drama for three seasons. Lord Grantham and his wife Cora, Countess of Grantham, have three daughters (Figure 13-9), and therefore the question of marriage is as im- portant in this drama as in any Jane Austen novel. The fate of Downton Abbey itself is a major center of interest in the drama—not only because of the question of who is to inherit and live in the great house, but also because in season 3 Lord Grantham announces that, as a result of bad investments, he has lost

FIGURE 13-8 Maggie Smith as Violet Crawley in Downton Abbey. She is the Dowager Countess of Grantham and the series’ most stalwart character in her resistance to change. She has been a scene-stealer since season 1.

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• Updated illustration program and contextual discussions. More than 30 per- cent of the images in this edition are new or have been updated to include fresh classic and contemporary works. New discussions of these works appear near the illustrations. The 200-plus images throughout the book have been carefully chosen and reproduced in full color when possible, resulting in a beautifully illustrated text. Newly-added visual artists represented include painters Lee Krasner, Frida Kahlo, and Gustave Courbet; sculptors Ron Mueck, Frank Stella, and Jeff Koons; photographers Edward Steichen, Cindy Sherman, and Lewis Hine; and video artist Janine Antoni. Newly-added fi lm and television stills rep- resent Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo , James Cameron’s Avatar, Quentin Taranti- no’s Django Unchained , the PBS series Downton Abbey , and more.

• New literature, dance, theater, and music coverage. Along with the many new illustrations and contextual discussions of the visual arts, fi lm, and televi- sion, new works and images in the literary, dance, theatrical, and musical arts have been added and contextualized. These include works by Edgar Lee Masters, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Anton Chekhov, John Milton, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn, Samuel Beckett, Steven Sondheim, Mark Morris, Joseph Haydn, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. The theater chapter also includes a new section on stage scenery and costumes.

• Increased focus on non-Western art. This edition contains numerous new examples of non-Western art, from painting (Wang Yuanqi’s Landscape after Wu Zhen ) to sculpture (Focus On: African Sculpture) to architecture (the Guangzhou Opera House) to dance (the Nrityagram Dance Ensemble) to fi lm (Yasujiro− Ozu’s Tokyo Story ).

• Additional references to online videos. Since many opportunities exist for ex- periencing the performing arts online, we point to numerous online videos that can help expand our understanding of specifi c works of art. Virtually all the arts have some useful illustrations online that become more intelligible as a result of our discussion of the medium or the specifi c work of art.

Supplements

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Simplicity in assigning and engaging your students with course materials. Craft your teaching resources to match the way you

teach! With McGraw-Hill Create, http://www.mcgrawhillcreate.com/, you can easily rearrange chapters, combine material from other content sources, and quickly upload content you have written, such as your course syllabus or teaching notes. Find the content you need in Create by searching through thousands of leading McGraw-Hill textbooks. Arrange your book to fi t your teaching style. Create even allows you to personalize your book’s appearance by selecting the cover and adding your name, school, and course information. Order a Create book and you’ll receive a complimentary print review copy in three to fi ve business days or a complimentary electronic review copy (eComp) via e-mail in about an hour. Go to http://www. mcgrawhillcreate.com/ today and register. Experience how McGraw-Hill Create empowers you to teach your students your way.

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Online Learning Center

Instructor Resources An Instructor’s Online Learning Center (OLC) at www. mhhe.com/hta9 includes a number of resources to assist instructors with planning and teaching their courses: an instructor’s manual, which offers learning objec- tives, chapter outlines, possible discussion and lecture topics, and more; a test bank with multiple-choice and essay questions; and a chapter-by-chapter PowerPoint presentation.

Student Resources The student content for the Online Learning Center of this new edition of The Humanities through the Arts enriches the learning experience. Students can watch videos on various art techniques and access interactive de- signs to strengthen their understanding of visual art, dance, music, sculpture, literature, theater, architecture, and fi lm. They will also be able to use the guided Research in Action tool to enhance their understanding of time periods, genres, and artists. We hope that this online availability will spark their own creativity. All of this information is available at www.mhhe.com/hta9 when you click on the MyHumanitiesStudiolink. Additional resources, including quizzes, links to relevant websites, and a chapter-by-chapter glossary, are available on the OLC to help students review and test their knowledge of the material covered in the book.

Acknowledgments

This book is indebted to more people than we can truly credit. We are deeply grateful to the following reviewers for their help on this and previous editions:

Addell Austin Anderson, Wayne County Community College District David Avalos, California State University San Marcos Bruce Bellingham, University of Connecticut Eugene Bender, Richard J. Daley College Michael Berberich, Galveston College Barbara Brickman, Howard Community College Peggy Brown, Collin County Community College Lance Brunner, University of Kentucky Alexandra Burns, Bay Path College Bill Burrows, Lane Community College Glen Bush, Heartland Community College Sara Cardona, Richland College Brandon Cesmat, California State University San Marcos Selma Jean Cohen, editor of Dance Perspectives Karen Conn, Valencia Community College Harrison Davis, Brigham Young University Jim Doan, Nova University Jill Domoney, Johnson County Community College Gerald Eager, Bucknell University Kristin Edford, Amarillo College D. Layne Ehlers, Bacone College Jane Ferencz, University of Wisconsin–Whitewater

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Roberta Ferrell, SUNY Empire State Michael Flanagan, University of Wisconsin–Whitewater Kathy Ford, Lake Land College Andy Friedlander, Skagit Valley College Harry Garvin, Bucknell University Susan K. de Ghizee, University of Denver Amber Gillis, El Camino College–Compton Center Michael Gos, Lee College M. Scott Grabau, Irvine Valley College Lee Hartman, Howard Community College Jeffrey T. Hopper, Harding University James Housefi eld, Texas State University–San Marcos Stephen Husarik, University of Arkansas–Fort Smith Ramona Ilea, Pacifi c University Oregon Joanna Jacobus, choreographer Lee Jones, Georgia Perimeter College–Lawrenceville Deborah Jowitt, Village Voice Nadene A. Keene, Indiana University–Kokomo Marsha Keller, Oklahoma City University Paul Kessel, Mohave Community College Edward Kies, College of DuPage John Kinkade, Centre College Gordon Lee, Lee College Tracy L. McAfee, North Central State College L. Timothy Myers, Butler Community College Marceau Myers, North Texas State University Martha Myers, Connecticut College William E. Parker, University of Connecticut Seamus Pender, Franklin Pierce College Ellen Rosewall, University of Wisconsin–Green Bay Susan Shmeling, Vincennes University Ed Simone, St. Bonaventure University C. Edward Spann, Dallas Baptist University Mark Stewart, San Joaquin Delta College Robert Streeter, University of Chicago Peter C. Surace, Cuyahoga Community College Robert Tynes, University of North Carolina at Asheville Walter Wehner, University of North Carolina at Greensboro Keith West, Butler Community College

We want to thank the editorial team at McGraw-Hill for their smart and gener- ous support for this edition. Director of Development Dawn Groundwater, along with Brand Managers Sarah Remington and Laura Wilk, oversaw the revision from inception through production, with the invaluable support of Editorial Coordi- nator Iris Kim. Development Editor Bruce Cantley guided us carefully through the process of establishing a revision plan and incorporating new material into the text. In all things he was a major sounding board as we thought about how to im- prove the book. We also owe thanks to Content Project Manager Laura Bies, who oversaw the book smoothly through the production process; Trevor Goodman, who revised the interior design for a sharper look and also designed the extraordi- nary cover; Margaret Moore, who was an exceptionally good copyeditor; Content

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Licensing Specialist Brenda Rolwes; Judy Mason, our image and photo researcher, who dealt with many diffi cult issues and resolved them with great skill; and Permis- sions Editor Jenna Caputo, who did a wonderful job clearing the rights for textual excerpts and line art.

A Note from the Authors

Our own commitment to the arts and the humanities has been lifelong. One pur- pose of this book is to help instill a lifelong love of all the arts in its readers. We have faced many of the issues and problems that are considered in this book, and to an extent we are still undecided about certain important questions concerning the arts and their relationship to the humanities. Clearly, we grow and change our thinking as we grow. Our engagement with the arts at any age will refl ect our own abilities and commitments. But as we grow, we deepen our understanding of the arts we love as well as deepen our understanding of our own nature, our inner self. We believe that the arts and the humanities function together to make life more intense, more signifi cant, and more wonderful. A lifetime of work unrelieved by a deep commitment to the arts would be stultifying and perhaps destructive to one’s soul. The arts and humanities make us one with our fellow man. They help us understand each other just as they help us admire the beauty that is the product of the human imagination. As the philosopher Susanne K. Langer once said, the arts are the primary avenues to the education of our emotional lives. By our efforts in understanding the arts we are indelibly enriched.

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THE HUMANITIES: AN INTRODUCTION

The Humanities: A Study of Values

Today we think of the humanities as those broad areas of human creativity and study, such as philosophy, history, social sciences, the arts and literature, that are distinct from mathematics and the “hard” sciences, mainly because in the human- ities, strictly objective or scientifi c standards are not usually dominant. The current separation between the humanities and the sciences reveals itself in a number of contemporary controversies. For example, the cloning of animals has been greeted by many people as a possible benefi t for domestic livestock farmers. Genetically altered wheat, soybeans, and other cereals have been heralded by many scientists as a breakthrough that will produce disease-resistant crops and therefore permit us to continue to increase the world food supply. On the other hand, some people resist such modifi cations and purchase food identifi ed as not being genet- ically altered. Scientifi c research into the human genome has identifi ed certain genes for inherited diseases, such as breast cancer or Alzheimer’s disease, that could be modifi ed to protect individuals or their offspring. Genetic research also suggests that in a few years individuals may be able to “design” their children’s intelligence, body shape, height, general appearance, and physical ability. Scientists provide the tools for these choices. Their values are centered in science in that they value the nature of their research and their capacity to make it work in a positive way. However, the impact on humanity of such a series of dramatic

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changes to life brings to the fore values that clash with one another. For example, is it a positive social value for couples to decide the sex of their offspring rather than following nature’s own direction? In this case, who should decide if “designing” one’s offspring is a positive value, the scientist or the humanist? Even more profound is the question of cloning a human being. Once a sheep was cloned successfully, it was clear that this science would lead directly to the possibility of a cloned human being. Some proponents of cloning support the process because we could clone a child who dies in infancy or clone a genius who has given great gifts to the world. For these people, cloning is a positive value. For others, the very thought of cloning a person is repugnant on the basis of religious belief. For still others, the idea of human cloning is objectionable because it echoes the creation of an unnatural monster, and for them it is a negative value. Because this is a worldwide problem, local laws will have limited effect on establishing a clear position on the value of cloning of all sorts. The question of how we decide on such a controversial issue is at the heart of the humanities, and some observers have pointed to Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s famous novel, Frankenstein, Or the Modern Prometheus, which in some ways enacts the confl ict among these values. These examples demonstrate that the discoveries of scientists often have tremen- dous impact on the values of society. Yet some scientists have declared that they merely make the discoveries and that others—presumably politicians—must decide how the discoveries are to be used. It is this last statement that brings us closest to the importance of the humanities. If many scientists believe they cannot judge how their discoveries are to be used, then we must try to understand why they give that responsibility to others. This is not to say that scientists uniformly turn such deci- sions over to others, for many of them are humanists as well as scientists. But the fact remains that many governments have made use of great scientifi c achievements without pausing to ask the “achievers” if they approved of the way their discoveries were being used. The questions are, Who decides how to use such discoveries? On what grounds should their judgments be based? Studying the behavior of neutrinos or string theory will not help us get closer to the answer. Such study is not related to the nature of humankind but to the nature of nature. What we need is a study that will get us closer to ourselves. It should be a study that explores the reaches of human feeling in relation to values—not only our own individual feelings and values but also the feelings and values of others. We need a study that will increase our sensitivity to ourselves, others, and the values in our world. To be sensitive is to perceive with insight. To be sensitive is also to feel and believe that things make a difference. Furthermore, it involves an awareness of those aspects of values that cannot be measured by objective standards. To be sen- sitive is to respect the humanities, because, among other reasons, they help develop our sensitivity to values, to what is important to us as individuals. There are numerous ways to approach the humanities. The way we have chosen here is the way of the arts. One of the contentions of this book is that values are clarifi ed in enduring ways in the arts. Human beings have had the impulse to express their values since the earliest times. Ancient tools recovered from the most recent Ice Age, for example, have features designed to express an affection for beauty as well as to provide utility. The concept of progress in the arts is problematic. Who is to say whether the cave paintings (Figure 1-1) of 30,000 years ago that were discovered in present-day

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THE HUMANITIES: AN INTRODUCTION

France are less excellent than the work of Picasso (see Fig ure 1-4)? Cave paintings were probably not made as works of art to be contemplated. To get to them in the caves is almost always diffi cult, and they are very diffi cult to see. They seem to have been made for some practical purpose, such as improving the prospects for the hunt. Yet the work reveals something about the power, grace, and beauty of all the animals they portrayed. These cave paintings function now as works of art. From the begin- ning, our species instinctively had an interest in making revealing forms. Among the numerous ways to approach the humanities, we have chosen the way of the arts because, as we shall try to elucidate, the arts clarify or reveal values. As we deepen our understanding of the arts, we necessarily deepen our understanding of values. We will study our experience with works of art as well as the values others associate with them, and in this process we will also educate ourselves about our own values. Because a value is something that matters, engagement with art—the illumina- tion of values—enriches the quality of our lives signifi cantly. Moreover, the subject matter of art—what it is about—is not limited to the beautiful and the pleasant, the bright sides of life. Art may also include and help us understand the dark sides—the ugly, the painful, and the tragic. And when it does and when we get it, we are better able to come to grips with those dark sides of life. Art brings us into direct communication with others. As Carlos Fuentes wrote in The Buried Mirror, “People and their cultures perish in isolation, but they are born or reborn in contact with other men and women of another culture, another creed, another race. If we do not recognize our humanity in others, we shall not recognize it in ourselves.” Art reveals the essence of our existence.

FIGURE 1-1 Cave painting from Chauvet Caves, France.

Discovered in 1994, the Chauvet Caves have yielded some of the most astonishing examples of prehistoric art the world has seen. This rhinoceros may have lived as many as 35,000 years ago, while the painting itself seems as modern as a contemporary work.

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CHAPTER 1

Taste

The taste of the mass public shifts constantly. Movies, for example, survive or fail on the basis of the number of people they appeal to. A fi lm is good if it makes money. Consequently, fi lm producers make every effort to cash in on current pop- ular tastes, often by making sequels until the public’s taste changes—for example, the Batman series (1989, 1992, 1995, 1997, 2005, 2008, 2012). Our study of the humanities emphasizes that commercial success is not the most important guide to excellence in the arts. The long-term success of works of art depends on their ability to interpret human experience at a level of complexity that warrants examination and reexamination. Many commercially successful works give us what we think we want rather than what we really need with reference to insight and understanding. By satisfying us in an immediate and superfi cial way, commercial art can dull us to the possibilities of complex, more deeply satisfying art. Everyone has limitations as a perceiver of art. Sometimes we defend our- selves against stretching our limitations by assuming that we have developed our taste and that any effort to change it is bad form. An old saying—“Matters of taste are not disputable”—can be credited with making many of us feel righteous about our own taste. What the saying means is that there is no accounting for what people like in the arts, for beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Thus, there is no use in trying to educate anyone about the arts. Obviously we disagree. We believe that all of us can and should be educated about the arts and should learn to respond to as wide a variety of the arts as possible: from jazz to string quartets, from Charlie Chaplin to Steven Spielberg, from Lewis Carroll to T. S. Eliot, from folk art to Picasso. Most of us defend our taste because anyone who challenges it challenges our deep feelings. Anyone who tries to change our responses to art is really trying to get inside our minds. If we fail to understand its purpose, this kind of persuasion naturally arouses resistance. For us, the study of the arts penetrates beyond facts to the values that evoke our feelings—the way a succession of Eric Clapton’s guitar chords when he plays the blues can be electrifying or the way song lyrics can give us a chill. In other words, we want to go beyond the facts about a work of art and get to the values revealed in the work. How many times have we all found ourselves liking something that, months or years before, we could not stand? And how often do we fi nd ourselves now disliking what we previously judged a masterpiece? Generally, we can say the work of art remains the same. It is we who change. We learn to recognize the values illuminated in such works as well as to understand the ways in which this is accom- plished. Such development is the meaning of “education” in the sense in which we have been using the term.

Responses to Art

Our responses to art usually involve processes so complex that they can never be fully tracked down or analyzed. At fi rst, they can only be hinted at when we talk about them. However, further education in the arts permits us to observe more closely and thereby respond more intensely to the content of the work. This is true, we believe, even with “easy” art, such as exceptionally beautiful works—for example, Giorgione

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(see Figure 2-16), Cézanne (see Figure 2-4), and O’Keeffe (see Figure 4-11). Such gorgeous works generally are responded to with immediate satisfaction. What more needs to be done? If art were only of the beautiful, textbooks such as this would never fi nd many users. But we think more needs to be done, even with the beautiful. We will begin, however, with three works that obviously are not beautiful. The Mexican painter David Alfaro Siqueiros’s Echo of a Scream (Figure 1-2) is a highly emotional painting—in the sense that the work seems to demand a strong emotional

FIGURE 1-2 David Alfaro Siqueiros, Mexican, 1896–1974, Echo of a Scream. 1937. Enamel on wood, 48 3 36 inches (121.9 3 91.4 cm). Gift of Edward M. M. Warburg. Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Siqueiros, a famous Mexican muralist, fought during the Mexican Revolution and possessed a powerful political sensibility, much of which found its way into his art. He painted some of his works in prison, held there for his political convictions. In the 1930s he centered his attention on the Spanish Civil War, represented here.

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response. What we see is the huge head of a baby crying and, then, as if issuing from its own mouth, the baby himself. What kinds of emotions do you fi nd stirring in yourself as you look at this painting? What kinds of emotions do you feel are expressed in the painting? Your own emotional responses—such as shock, pity for the child, irritation at a destructive, mechanical society, or any other nameable emotion—do not sum up the painting. However, they are an important starting point, since Siqueiros paints in such a way as to evoke emotion, and our understanding of the painting increases as we examine the means by which this evocation is achieved.

FIGURE 1-3 Peter Blume, 1906–1992, The Eternal City. 1934–1937. Dated on painting 1937. Oil on composition board, 34 3 477⁄8 inches. Museum of Modern Art, New York. Mrs. Simon Guggenheim Fund.

Born in Russia, Blume came to America when he was six. His paintings are marked by a strong interest in what is now known as magic realism, interleaving time and place and the dead and the living in an emotional space that confronts the viewer as a challenge. He condemned the tyrant dictators of the fi rst half of the twentieth century.

Art © Estate of Peter Blume/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.

PERCEPTION KEY Echo of a Scream 1. Identify the mechanical objects in the painting. 2. What is the condition of these objects? What is their relationship to the baby? 3. What are those strange round forms in the upper right corner? 4. How might your response diff er if the angular lines were smoothed out? 5. What is the signifi cance of the red cloth around the baby? 6. Why are the natural shapes in the painting, such as the forehead of the baby,

distorted? Is awareness of such distortions crucial to a response to the painting? 7. What eff ect does the repetition of the baby’s head have on you?

Study another work, very close in temperament to Siqueiros’s painting: The Eternal City by the American painter Peter Blume (Figure 1-3). After attending carefully to the kinds of responses awakened by The Eternal City, take note of some background information about the painting that you may not know. The

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THE HUMANITIES: AN INTRODUCTION

year of this painting is the same as that of Echo of a Scream: 1937. The Eternal City is a name reserved for only one city in the world—Rome. In 1937 the world was on the verge of world war: Fascists were in power in Italy and the Nazis in Germany. In the center of the painting is the Roman Forum, close to where Julius Caesar, the alleged tyrant, was murdered by Brutus. But here we see fascist Blackshirts, the modern tyrants, beating people. In a niche at the left is a fi gure of Christ, and beneath him (hard to see) is a crippled beggar woman. Near her are ruins of Roman statuary. The enlarged and distorted head, wriggling out like a jack-in-the-box, is that of Mussolini, the man who invented fascism and the Blackshirts. Study the painting closely again. Has your response to the painting changed?

PERCEPTION KEY Siqueiros and Blume 1. What common ingredients do you fi nd in the Blume and Siqueiros paintings? 2. Is your reaction to the Blume similar to or distinct from your reaction to the

Siqueiros? 3. Is the eff ect of the distortions similar or diff erent? 4. How are colors used in each painting? Are the colors those of the natural world, or

do they suggest an artifi cial environment? Are they distorted for eff ect? 5. With reference to the objects and events represented in each painting, do you

think the paintings are comparable? If so, in what ways? 6. With the Blume, are there any natural objects in the painting that suggest the

vitality of the Eternal City? 7. What political values are revealed in these two paintings?

Before going on to the next painting, which is quite different in character, we will make some observations about what we have done, however briefl y, with the Blume. With added knowledge about its cultural and political implications—what we shall call the background of the painting—your responses to The Eternal City may have changed. Ideally, they should have become more focused, intense, and certain. Why? The painting is surely the same physical object you looked at orig- inally. Nothing has changed in that object. Therefore, something has changed because something has been added to you, information that the general viewer of the painting in 1937 would have known and would have responded to more emo- tionally than viewers do now. Consider how a Fascist, on the one hand, or an Italian humanist and lover of Roman culture, on the other hand, would have reacted to this painting in 1937. A full experience of this painting is not unidimensional but multidimensional. Moreover, “knowledge about” a work of art can lead to “knowledge of ” the work of art, which implies a richer experience. This is important as a basic principle, since it means that we can be educated about what is in a work of art, such as its shapes, objects, and structure, as well as what is external to a work, such as its political references. It means we can learn to respond more completely. It also means that artists such as Blume sometimes produce works that demand background informa- tion if we are to appreciate them fully. This is particularly true of art that refers to

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historical circumstances and personages. Sometimes we may fi nd ourselves unable to respond successfully to a work of art because we lack the background knowledge the artist presupposes. Picasso’s Guernica (Figure 1-4), one of the most famous paintings of the twentieth century, is also dated 1937. Its title comes from the name of an old Spanish town that was bombed during the Spanish Civil War—the fi rst aerial bombing of noncombatant civilians in modern warfare. Examine this painting carefully.

8

FIGURE 1-4 Pablo Picasso, Guernica. 1937. Oil on canvas, 11 feet 6 inches 3 25 feet 8 inches. Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofi a, Madrid, Spain.

Ordinarily, Picasso was not a political painter. During World War II he was a citizen of Spain, a neutral country. But the Spanish Civil War excited him to create one of the world’s greatest modern paintings, a record of the German bombing of a small Spanish town, Guernica. When a Nazi offi cer saw the painting he said to Picasso, “Did you do this?” Picasso answered scornfully, “No, you did.”

PERCEPTION KEY Guernica 1. Distortion is powerfully evident in this painting. How does its function diff er from

that of the distortion in Blume’s The Eternal City or Siqueiros’s Echo of a Scream? 2. Describe the objects in the painting. What is their relationship to one another? 3. Why the prominence of the lightbulb? 4. There are large vertical rectangles on the left and right sides and a very large trian-

gle in the center. Do these shapes provide a visual order to what would otherwise be sheer chaos? If so, how? As you think about this, compare one of many studies Picasso made for Guernica (Figure 1-5). Does the painting possess a stronger form than the study? If so, in what ways?

5. Because of reading habits in the West, we tend initially to focus on the left side of most paintings and then move to the right, especially when the work is very large. Is this the case with your perception of Guernica? In the organization or form of Guernica, is there a countermovement that, once our vision has reached the right side, pulls us back to the left? If so, what shapes in the painting cause this counter- movement? How do these left–right and right–left movements aff ect the balance of the painting? Note that the actual painting is over twenty-fi ve feet wide.

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THE HUMANITIES: AN INTRODUCTION

The next painting (Figure 1-6), featured in “Experiencing: The Mona Lisa,” is by Leonardo da Vinci, arguably one of the greatest painters of the Italian Renaissance. Da Vinci is a household name in part because of this painting. Despite the lack of a political or historically relevant subject matter, the Mona Lisa, with its tense pose and enigmatic expression, has become possibly the most famous work of art in the West.

Structure and Artistic Form

The responses to the Mona Lisa are probably different from those you have when viewing the other paintings in this chapter, but why? You might reply that the Mona Lisa is hypnotizing, a carefully structured painting depending on a subtle but basic geometric form, the triangle. Such structures, while operating subconsciously, are obvious on analysis. Like all structural elements of the artistic form of a painting, they affect us deeply even when we are not aware of them. We have the capacity to respond to pure form even in paintings in which objects and events are portrayed.

6. The bull seems to be totally indiff erent to the carnage. Do you think the bull may be a symbol? For example, could the bull represent the spirit of the Spanish people? Could the bull represent General Franco, the man who ordered the bombing? Or could the bull represent both? To answer these questions adequately, do you need further background information, or can you defend your answers by referring to what is in the painting, or do you need to use both?

7. The bombing of Guernica occurred during the day. Why did Picasso portray it as happening at night?

8. Which are more visually dominant, human beings or animals? If you were not told, would you know that this painting was a representation of an air raid?

9. Is the subject matter—what the work is about—of this painting war? Death? Suff ering? Fascism? Or a combination?

FIGURE 1-5 Pablo Picasso, Composition Study (Guernica study). 1937. Pencil on white paper, 91⁄2 3 177⁄8 inches.

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EXPERIENCING The Mona Lisa 1. Leonardo Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is one of the most famous

paintings in the history of art. What, in your opinion, makes this painting noteworthy?

2. Because this painting is so familiar, it has sometimes been treated as if it were a cliché, an overworked image. In several cases, it has been treated with satirical scorn. Why would any artist want to make fun of this painting? Is it a cliché, or are you able to look at it as if for the fi rst time?

3. Unlike the works of Siqueiros, Blume, and Picasso, this paint- ing has no obvious connections to historical circumstances that might intrude on your responses to its formal qualities. How does a lack of context aff ect your understanding of the painting?

4. It has been pointed out that the landscape on the left and the landscape on the right are totally diff erent. If that judgment is correct, why do you think Leonardo made such a decision? What moods do the landscapes suggest?

5. The woman portrayed may be Lisa Gherardini del Giocondo, the wife of a local businessman, and the painting has long been known in Italy as La Gioconda. Is it necessary to your sense of participation that we know who the sitter is, or that we know that Leonardo kept this painting with him throughout his life and took it wherever he went?

Experiencing a painting as frequently reproduced as Mona Lisa, which is visited by millions of people every year at the Louvre in Paris, takes most of us some special eff ort. Unless we study the painting as if it were new to us, we will simply see it as an icon of high culture rather than as a painting with a formal power and a lasting value. Because it is used in advertisements, on mouse pads, playing cards, jigsaw puzzles, and a host of other banal lo- cations, we might see this as a cliché. However, we are also fortunate in that we see the painting as itself, apart from any social or historical events, and in a location that is almost magical or mythical. The landscape may be unreal, fantastic, and suggestive of a world of mystical opportunity. Certainly it emphasizes mystery. Whoever this woman is, she is concentrating in an unusual fashion on the viewer, whether we

FIGURE 1-6 Leonardo da Vinci, Mona Lisa. Circa 1503–1506. Oil on panel, 301⁄4 3 21 inches. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Leonardo’s most personal picture has sometimes been hailed as a psychologically powerful painting because of the power of Mona Lisa’s gaze, which virtually rivets the viewer to the spot. The painting is now protected under glass, and while always surrounded by a crowd of viewers, its small size proportional to its reputation has sometimes disappointed viewers because it is so hard to see. And in a crowd it is impossible to contemplate.

Thus, responding to The Eternal City will involve responding not just to an interpre- tation of fascism taking hold in Italy but also to the sensuous surface of the painting. This is certainly true of Echo of a Scream; if you look again at that painting, you will see not only that its sensuous surface is interesting intrinsically but also that it deep- ens our response to what is represented. Because we often respond to artistic form without being conscious that it is affecting us, the painter must make the structure interesting. Consider the contrast between the simplicity of the structure of the Mona Lisa and the urgent complexity of the structures of the Siqueiros and the Blume.

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imagine it is we or it is Leonardo whom she contemplates. A study of her expression reminds us that for generations the “Gioconda smile” has teased authors and critics with its mystery. Is she making an erotic suggestion in that smile, or is it a smile of self-satisfaction? Or is it a smile of tolerance, suggesting that she is just waiting for this sitting to be done? Her expression has been the most intriguing of virtually any portrait subject in any museum in the world. It is no surprise, then, that Leonardo kept this for himself, although we must wonder whether or not he was commissioned for the painting and that for some reason did not want to deliver it. The arresting quality of the painting is in part, to be sure, because of the enig- matic expression on Mona Lisa’s face, but the form of the painting is also arresting. Leonardo has posed her so that her head is the top of an isosceles triangle in which her face glows in contrast with her dark clothing. Her hands, expressive and radiant, create a strong diagonal leading to the base of the triangle. Her shoulders are turned at a signifi cant angle so that her pose is not really comfortable, not easy to maintain for a long time. However, her position is visually arresting because it imparts a tension to the entire painting that contributes to our response to it as a powerful object. The most savage satirical treatment of this painting is the Dadaist Marcel Duchamp’s L.H.O.O.Q. (Figure 14-14). By parodying this work, Duchamp thumbed his nose at high culture in 1919, after World War I, and after the Mona Lisa had assumed its role as an epitome of high art. His work was an expression of disgust at the middle and upper classes that had gone so enthusiastically into a war of attrition that brought Europe to the verge of self-destruction.

The composition of any painting can be analyzed because any painting has to be organized: Parts have to be interrelated. Moreover, it is important to think carefully about the composition of individual paintings. This is particularly true of paintings one does not respond to immediately—of “diffi cult” or apparently uninteresting paintings. Often the analysis of structure can help us gain access to such paintings so that they become genuinely exciting.

Artistic form is a composition or structure that makes something—a subject matter—more meaningful. The Siqueiros, Blume, and Picasso reveal something about the horrors of war and fascism. But what does the Mona Lisa reveal? Perhaps just the form and structure? For us, structures or forms that do not give us insight are not artistic forms. Some critics will argue the point. This major question will be pursued throughout the text.

11

PERCEPTION KEY Th e Eternal City 1. Sketch the basic geometric shapes of the painting. 2. Do these shapes relate to one another in such a way as to help reveal the obscenity

of fascism? If so, how?

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CHAPTER 1

Perception

We are not likely to respond sensitively to a work of art that we do not perceive properly. What is less obvious is what we referred to previously—the fact that we can often give our attention to a work of art and still not perceive very much. The reason for this should be clear from our previous discussion. Frequently, we need to know something about the background of a work of art that would aid our perception. Anyone who did not know something about the history of Rome, or who Christ was, or what fascism was, or what Mussolini meant to the world would have a diffi cult time making sense of The Eternal City. But it is also true that anyone who could not perceive Blume’s composition might have a completely superfi cial response to the painting. Such a person could indeed know all about the back- ground and understand the symbolic statements made by the painting, but that is only part of the painting. From seeing what da Vinci can do with form, structure, pose, and expression, you can understand that the formal qualities of a painting are neither accidental nor unimportant. In Blume’s painting, the form focuses attention and organizes our perceptions by establishing the relationships between the parts. Composition is basic to all the arts. To perceive any work of art adequately, we must perceive its structure. Examine the following poem—“l(a”—by e. e. cummings. It is unusual in its form and its effects.

l(a

le af fa

ll

s) one l

iness

At fi rst this poem looks like a strange kind of code, like an Egyptian hieroglyph. But it is not a code—it is more like a Japanese haiku, a poem that sets a scene or paints a picture and then waits for us to get it. And to “get it” requires sensitive perception.

PERCEPTION KEY “l(a” 1. Study the poem carefully until you begin to make out the words. What are they? 2. One part of the poem refers to an emotion; the other describes an event. What is

the relationship between them? 3. Is the shape of the poem important to the meaning of the poem? 4. Why are the words of the poem diffi cult to perceive? Is that diffi culty important to

the meaning of the poem? 5. Does the poem evoke an image or images? 6. With the emphasis on letters in the poem, is the use of the lowercase for the poet’s

title fi tting? 7. Once you have perceived the words and imagery of the poem, does your response

change? Compare your analysis of the poem with ours, which follows.

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13

THE HUMANITIES: AN INTRODUCTION

In this poem a word is interrupted by parentheses: “l one l iness”—a feeling we have all experienced. Because of its isolating, biting power, we ordinarily do not like this feeling. Then, inside the parentheses, there is a phrase, “a leaf falls,” the description of an event. In poetry such a description is usually called an image. In this poem the image illustrates the idea or theme of loneliness, melding the specifi c with the abstract. But how is this melding accomplished? First of all, notice the devices that symbolize or represent oneness, an emblem of loneliness. The poem begins with the letter “l,” which in the typeface used in the original poem looks like the number “one.” Even the parenthesis separating the “a” from the “l” helps accent the isolation of the “l.” Then there is the “le,” which is the singular article in French. The idea of one is doubled by repetition in the “ll” fi gure. Then cummings brazenly writes “one” and follows it by “l” and then the ultimate “iness.” Further- more, in the original edition the poem is number one of the collection. Also notice how these representations of oneness are wedded to the image: “a leaf falls.” As you look at the poem, your eye follows a downward path that swirls in a pat- tern similar to the diagram in Figure 1-7. This is merely following the parentheses and consonants. As you follow the vowels as well, you see curves that become spi- rals, and the image is indeed much like that of a leaf actually falling. This accounts for the long, thin look of the poem. Now, go back to the poem and reread it. Has your response changed? If so, how? Of course, most poems do not work in quite this way. Most poems do not rely on the way they look on the page, although this is one of the most important strategies cummings uses. But what most poets are concerned with is the way the images or verbal pictures fi t into the totality of the poem, how they make us experience the whole poem more intensely. In cummings’s poem the single, falling, dying leaf— one out of so many—is perfect for helping us understand loneliness from a dying person’s point of view. People are like leaves in that they are countless when they are alive and together. But like leaves, they die singly. And when one person sepa- rates himself or herself from the community of friends, that person is as alone as the single leaf.

Abstract Ideas and Concrete Images

“l(a” presents an abstract idea fused with a concrete image or word picture. It is concrete because what is described is a physical event—a falling leaf. Loneli- ness, on the other hand, is abstract. Take an abstract idea: love, hate, indecision, arrogance, jealousy, ambition, justice, civil rights, prejudice, revenge, revolution, coyness, insanity, or any other. Then link it with some physical object or event that you think expresses the abstract idea. “Expresses” here means simply making us see the object as portraying—and thus helping us understand—the abstract idea. Of course, you need not follow cummings’s style of splitting words and using parentheses. You may use any way of lining up the letters and words that you think is interesting. In Paradise Lost, John Milton describes hell as a place with “Rocks, Caves, Lakes, Fens, Bogs, Dens, and shades of death.” Now, neither you nor the poet has ever seen “shades of death,” although the idea is in Psalm 23, “the valley of the shadow of death.” Milton gets away with describing hell this way because he has linked the

FIGURE 1-7 Diagram of e. e. cummings’s “l(a.”

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14

CHAPTER 1

abstract idea of shades of death to so many concrete images in this single line. He is giving us images that suggest the mood of hell just as much as they describe the landscape, and we realize that he gives us so many topographic details in order to get us ready for the last detail—the abstract idea of shades of death. There is much more to be said about poetry, of course, but on a prelim- inary level poetry worked in much the same way in the seventeenth-century England of Milton as it does in contemporary America. The same principles are at work: Described objects or events are used as a means of bringing abstract ideas to life. The descriptions take on a wider and deeper signifi cance—wider in the sense that the descriptions are connected with the larger scope of abstract ideas, deeper in the sense that because of these descriptions the abstract ideas become vividly focused and more meaningful. Thus, cummings’s poem gives us insight—a penetrating understanding—into what we all must face: the isolating loneliness of our death. The following poem is highly complex: the memory of an older culture (simplicity, in this poem) and the consideration of a newer culture (complexity). It is an African poem by the contemporary Nigerian poet Gabriel Okara; and knowing that it is African, we can begin to appreciate the extreme complexity of Okara’s feel- ings about the clash of the old and new cultures. He symbolizes the clash in terms of music, and he opposes two musical instruments: the drum and the piano. They stand respectively for the African and the European cultures. But even beyond the musical images that abound in this poem, look closely at the images of nature, the pictures of the panther and leopard, and see how Okara imagines them.

PIANO AND DRUMS

When at break of day at a riverside I hear jungle drums telegraphing the mystic rhythm, urgent, raw like bleeding fl esh, speaking of primal youth and the beginning, I see the panther ready to pounce, the leopard snarling about to leap and the hunters crouch with spears poised; And my blood ripples, turns torrent, topples the years and at once I’m in my mother’s lap a suckling; at once I’m walking simple paths with no innovations, rugged, fashioned with the naked warmth of hurrying feet and groping hearts in green leaves and wild fl owers pulsing. Then I hear a wailing piano solo speaking of complex ways in tear-furrowed concerto; of far-away lands and new horizons with coaxing diminuendo, counterpoint, crescendo. But lost in the labyrinth of its complexities, it ends in the middle

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15

THE HUMANITIES: AN INTRODUCTION

of a phrase at a daggerpoint. And I lost in the morning mist of an age at a riverside keep wandering in the mystic rhythm of jungle drums and the concerto.

Such a poem speaks directly to legions of the current generation of Africans. But consider some points in light of what we have said earlier. In order to perceive the kind of emotional struggle that Okara talks about—the subject matter of the poem—we need to know something about Africa and the struggle African nations have in modernizing themselves along the lines of more technologically advanced nations. We also need to know something of the history of Africa and the fact that European nations, such as Britain in the case of Nigeria, once controlled much of Africa. Knowing these things, we know then that there is no thought of the “I” of the poem accepting the “complex ways” of the new culture without qualifi cation. The “I” does not think of the culture of the piano as manifestly superior to the cul- ture of the drum. That is why the labyrinth of complexities ends at a “daggerpoint.” The new culture is a mixed blessing. We have argued that the perception of a work of art is aided by background information and that sensitive perception must be aware of form, at least implicitly. But we believe there is much more to sensitive perception. Somehow the form of a work of art is an artistic form that clarifi es or reveals values, and our response is intensifi ed by our awareness of those revealed values. But how does artistic form do this? And how does this awareness come to us? In the next chapter we shall consider these questions, and in doing so, we will also raise that most important question: What is a work of art? Once we have examined each of the arts, it will be clear, we hope, that the principles developed in these opening chapters are equally applicable to all the arts. Participate and analyze and participate again with Edward Hopper’s Early Sunday Morning (Figure 1-8).

PERCEPTION KEY “Piano and Drums” 1. What are the most important physical objects in the poem? What cultural signifi -

cance do they have? 2. Why do you think Okara chose the drum and the piano to help reveal the clash

between the two cultures? Where are his allegiances?

PERCEPTION KEY Early Sunday Morning 1. What is the subject matter of this painting? 2. Back up your judgment with reference to as many relevant details as possible

before reading further. 3. What visual elements in the painting link its content with e. e. cummings’s poem?

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On one level the subject matter is a city street scene. But on a more basic level, we think, the subject matter is loneliness. Packed human habitation is portrayed, but no human being is in sight (incidentally but noteworthy, a human fi gure originally placed behind one of the windows was painted out). We seem to be at the scene alone on New York’s Seventh Avenue. We seem to be strangely located across the street at about the level of the second-story windows. Loneliness is usually accom- panied by anxiety. And anxiety is expressed by the silent windows, especially the ominous dark storefronts, the mysterious translucent lighting, and the strange dark rectangle (what is it?) on the upper right. The street and buildings, despite their rectilinear format, seem to lean slightly downhill to the left, pushed by the shadows, especially the unexplainable weird fl aglike one wrapping over the second window on the left of the second story. Even the bright barber pole is tilted to the left, the tilt accentuated by the uprightness of the door and window frames in the background and the wonderfully painted toadlike fi re hydrant. These subtle oddities of the scene accent our “iness”—our separateness.

Summary

Unlike scientists, humanists generally do not use strictly objective standards. The arts reveal values; other humanities study values. Artistic form refers to the structure or organization of a work of art. Values are clarifi ed or revealed by a work of art.

FIGURE 1-8 Edward Hopper, Early Sunday Morning. 1930. Oil on canvas, 35 3 60 inches.

When the Whitney Museum of American Art purchased Early Sunday Morning in 1930, it was their most expensive acquisition. Hopper’s work, centered in New York’s Greenwich Village, revealed the character of city life. His colors—vibrant, intense—and the early morning light—strong and unyielding—created indelible images of the city during the Great Depression.

16

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17

THE HUMANITIES: AN INTRODUCTION

Judging from the most ancient efforts to make things, we can assert that the arts represent one of the most basic human activities. They satisfy a need to explore and express the values that link us together. By observing our responses to a work of art and examining the means by which the artist evokes those responses, we can deepen our understanding of art. Our approach to the humanities is through the arts, and our taste in art connects with our deep feelings. Yet our taste is continually improved by experience and education. Background information about a work of art and increased sensitivity to its artistic form intensify our responses.

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C h a p t e r 2

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

No defi nition for a work of art seems completely adequate, and none is universally accepted. We shall not propose a defi nition here, therefore, but ra ther attempt to clarify some criteria or distinctions that can help us identify works of art. Since the term “work of art” implies the concept of making in two of its words — “work” and “art” (short for “artifi ce”) — a work of art is usually said to be something made by a person. Hence sunsets, beautiful trees, “found” natural objects such as grained drift- wood, “paintings” by in sects or songs by birds, and a host of other natural phenomena are not considered works of art, despite their beauty. You may not wish to accept the proposal that a work of art must be of human origin, but if you do accept it, consider the construction shown in Figure 2-1, Jim Dine’s Shovel. Shovel is part of a valuable collection and was fi rst shown at an art gal lery in New York City. Furthermore, Dine is considered an important Amer i can artist. However, he did not make the shovel himself. Like most shov els, the one in his construction, although designed by a person, was mass-produced . Dine mounted the shovel in front of a painted panel and presented this con struc tion for se ri ous consideration. The construction is described as “mixed media,” mean ing it consists of several materials: paint, wood, a cord, and metal. Is Shovel a work of art? We can hardly discredit the construction as a work of art simply because Dine did not make the shovel; after all, we often accept objects manufactured to specifi cation by factories as genuine works of sculpture (see the Calder construction, Figure 5-11). Collages by Picasso and Braque, which in clude objects such as paper and nails mounted on a panel, are generally ac cepted as works of art. Museums have even accepted objects such as a signed urinal by Marcel Duchamp, one of the Dadaist artists of the early

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19

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

twen ti eth century, which in many ways anticipated the works of Dine, Warhol, and oth ers in the Pop Art movement of the 1950s and 1960s.

Identifying Art Conceptually

Three criteria for determining whether something is a work of art are that (1) the object or event is made by an artist, (2) the object or event is intended to be a work of art by its maker, and (3) recognized ex perts agree that it is a work of art. Unfor- tunately, one cannot always de ter mine whether a work meets these criteria only by perceiving it. In many cases, for instance, we may confront an object such as Shovel and not know whether Dine constructed the shovel, thus not satisfying the fi rst criterion that the ob ject be made by an artist; or whether Dine intended it to be a work of art; or whether experts agree that it is a work of art. In fact, Dine did not make this particular shovel, but because this fact cannot be established by percep- tion, one has to be told.

FIGURE 2-1 Jim Dine, Shovel. 1962. Mixed media.

Using off-the-shelf products, Dine makes a statement about the possibilities of art.

Identifying art conceptually seems to the authors as not very useful. Because someone intends to make a work of art tells us little. It is the made rather than the making that counts. The third criterion—the judgment of experts—is important but debatable.

Identifying Art Perceptually

Perception, what we can observe, and conception, what we know or think we know, are closely related. We often recognize an object because it conforms to our conception of it. For example, in architecture we recognize churches and office buildings as dis tinct because of our conception of what churches and office buildings are supposed to look like. The ways of identifying a work of art mentioned above depend on the conceptions of the artist and experts on art and not enough on our perceptions of the work itself.

PERCEPTION KEY Identifying a Work of Art 1. Why not simply identify a work of art as what an artist makes? 2. If Dine actually made the shovel, would Shovel then unquestionably be a work of

art? 3. Suppose Dine made the shovel, and it was absolutely perfect in the sense that it

could not be readily distinguished from a mass-produced shovel. Would that kind of perfection make the piece more a work of art or less a work of art? Suppose Dine did not make the shovel but did make the panel and the box. Then would it seem easier to identify Shovel as a work of art?

4. Find people who hold opposing views about whether Shovel is a work of art. Ask them to point out what it is about the object itself that qualifi es it for or disqualifi es it from being identifi ed as a work of art.

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CHAPTER 2

We suggest an approach here that is simple and fl exible and that depends largely on perception. The distinctions of this approach will not lead us nec es sar ily to a defi nition of art, but they will offer us a way to examine ob jects and events with reference to whether they possess artistically per ceivable qualities. And, in some cases at least, it should bring us to reasonable grounds for distinguishing certain objects or events as art. We will con sider four basic terms related primarily to the perceptual nature of a work of art:

Artistic form: the organization of a medium that results in clarifying some sub- ject matter. Participation: sustained attention and loss of self-awareness. Content: the interpretation of subject matter. Subject matter: some value expressed in the work of art.

Understanding any one of these terms requires an understanding of the others. Thus we will follow — please trust us — what may appear to be an illogical order: artistic form; participation; participation and artistic form; content; subject matter; subject matter and artistic form; and, fi nally, participation, artistic form, and content.

Artistic Form

All objects and events have form. They are bounded by limits of time and space, and they have parts with distinguishable relationships to one another. Form is the in- terrelationships of part to part and part to whole. To say that some object or event has form means it has some degree of perceptible unity. To say that something has artistic form, however, usually implies a strong degree of perceptible unity. It is artistic form that distinguishes a work of art from objects or events that are not works of art. Artistic form implies that the parts we perceive — for example, line, color, tex- ture, shape, and space in a painting — have been unifi ed for the most profound effect possible. That effect is revelatory. Artistic form reveals, clarifi es, en light ens, gives fresh meaning to something valuable in life, some subject mat ter. A form that lacks a signifi cant degree of unity is unlikely to accomplish this. Our daily experiences usually are characterized more by disunity than by unity. Consider, for instance, the order of your experiences dur ing a typ i cal day or even a segment of that day. Compare that order with the order most novelists give to the experiences of their characters. One impulse for read ing novels is to experience the tight unity that artistic form usu ally imposes, a unity almost none of us comes close to achiev- ing in our daily lives. Much the same is true of music. Noises and random tones in ev ery day ex pe ri ence lack the order that most composers impose. Since strong, perceptible unity appears so infrequently in nature, we tend to value the perceptible unity of artistic form. Works of art differ in the power of their unity. If that power is weak, then the question arises: Is this a work of art? Consider Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie ( Figure 4-9) with reference to its artistic form. If its parts were not carefully proportioned in the overall structure of the paint- ing, the tight balance that produces a strong unity would be lost. Mondrian was so

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21

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

concerned with this balance that he often mea sured the areas of lines and rectangles in his works to be sure they had a clear, almost math e mat i cal, relationship to the totality. Of course, disunity or playing against expectations of unity can also be artistically useful at times. Some art ists realize how strong the impulse toward unity is in those who have per ceived many works of art. For some people, the contempo- rary attitude to ward the loose organization of formal elements is a norm, and the highly unifi ed work of art is thought of as old-fashioned. However, it seems that the effects achieved by a lesser degree of unity succeed only be cause we recognize them as departures from our well-known, highly or ga nized forms. Artistic form, we have suggested, is likely to involve a high degree of perceptible unity. But how do we determine what is a high degree? And if we cannot be clear about this, how can this distinction be helpful in distinguishing works of art from things that are not works of art? A very strong unity does not necessarily identify a work of art. That formal unity must give us insight into something important. Consider the news photograph — taken on one of the main streets of Saigon in February 1968 by Eddie Adams, an Associated Press photographer—showing Brigadier General Nguyen Ngoc Loan, then South Vietnam’s na tional police chief, killing a Vietcong captive (Figure 2-2). Adams stated that his picture was an acci- dent, that his hand moved the camera refl exively as he saw the general raise the revolver. The lens of the camera was set in such a way that the background was thrown out of focus. The blurring of the background helped bring out the drama of the foreground scene. Does this photograph have a high degree of perceptible unity? Certainly the ex pe ri ence of the pho tog ra pher is evident. Not many amateur photographers would have had enough skill to catch such a fl eeting event with such

FIGURE 2-2 Eddie Adams, Execution in Saigon. 1968. Silver halide.

Adams captured General Loan’s execution of a Vietcong captive. He said later, “The general killed the Vietcong; I killed the general with my camera. Still photographs are the most powerful weapon in the world.”

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22

CHAPTER 2

stark clar ity. If an amateur had ac com plished this, we would be inclined to believe that it was more luck than skill. Adams’s skill in catching the scene is even more evi- dent, and he risked his life to get it. But do we admire this work the way we ad mire Siqueiros’s Echo of a Scream (Figure 1-2)? Do we experience these two works in the same basic way? Compare a painting of a somewhat similar subject matter — Goya’s May 3, 1808 (Figure 2-3). Goya chose the most terrible moment, that split second be fore the crash of the guns. There is no doubt that the executions will go on. The desolate mountain pushing down from the left blocks escape, while from the right the fi ring squad relentlessly hunches forward. The soldiers’ thick legs — planted wide apart and parallel — support like sturdy pillars the blind, pressing wall formed by their backs. These are men of a military machine. Their rifl es, fl ashing in the bleak light of the ghastly lantern, thrust out as if they belonged to their bodies. It is unimag- inable that any of these men would defy the command of their superiors. In the dead of night, the doomed are backed up against the mountain like animals ready for slaughter. One man fl ings up his arms in a gesture of utter despair — or is it defi ance? The uncertainty increases the intensity of our attention. Most of the rest of the men bury their faces, while a few, with eyes staring out of their sockets, glance out at what they cannot help seeing — the sprawling dead smeared in blood. With the photograph of the execution in Vietnam, despite its immediate and pow- erful attraction, it takes only a glance or two to grasp what is presented. Undivided

FIGURE 2-3 Francisco Goya, May 3, 1808. 1814–1815. Oil on canvas, 8 feet 9 inches 3 13 feet 4 inches. The Prado, Madrid.

Goya’s painting of Napoleonic soldiers executing Spanish guerrillas the day after the Madrid insurrection portrays the faces of the victims, but not of the killers.

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WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

attention, perhaps, is necessary to become aware of the signifi cance of the event, but not sustained attention. In fact, to take careful no tice of all the details — such as the patterns on the prisoner’s shirt — does not add to our awareness of the signifi cance of the photograph. If anything, our awareness will be sharper and more productive if we avoid such detailed ex am i na tion. Is such the case with the Goya? We believe not. Indeed, without sus tained attention to the details of this work, we would miss most of what is revealed. For example, block out everything but the dark shadow at the bottom right. Note how differently that shadow appears when it is isolated. We must see the details individually and collectively, as they work together. Unless we are aware of their collaboration, we are not going to grasp fully the total form. Close examination of the Adams photograph reveals several efforts to increase the unity and thus the power of the print. For example, the fl ak jacket of General Loan has been darkened so as to remove distracting details. The build ings in the background have been “dodged out” (held back in printing so that they are not fully visible). The shadows of trees on the road have been soft ened so as to lead the eye inexorably to the hand that holds the gun. The space around the head of the victim is also dodged out so that it appears that something like a halo surrounds the head. All this is done in the act of printing, enhancing the formal unity. Yet we are suggesting that the Goya has a much higher degree of percep ti ble unity than Adams’s photograph, that perhaps only the Goya has artistic form. We base these conclusions on what is given for us to perceive: the fact that the part-to-part and the part-to-whole relationships are much stronger in the Goya. Now, of course, you may disagree. No judgment about such matters is indisputable. Indeed, that is part of the fun of talking about whether some thing is or is not a work of art — we can learn how to perceive from one another.

PERCEPTION KEY Goya and Adams 1. Is the painting diff erent from Adams’s photograph in the way the details work

together? Be specifi c. 2. Could any detail in the painting be changed or removed without weakening the

unity of the total design? What about the photograph? 3. Does the photograph or the painting more powerfully reveal human barbarity? 4. Are there details in the photograph that distract your attention? 5. Do the buildings in the background of the photograph add to or subtract from

the power of what is being portrayed? Compare the eff ect of the looming architecture in the painting.

6. Do the shadows on the street add anything to the signifi cance of the photograph? Compare the shadows on the ground in the painting.

7. Does it make any signifi cant diff erence that the Vietcong prisoner’s shirt is check ered? Compare the white shirt on the gesturing man in the painting.

8. Is the expression on the soldier’s face, along the left edge of the photograph, appropriate to the situation? Compare the facial expressions in the painting.

9. Can these works be fairly compared when one is in black and white and the other is in full color? Why or why not?

10. What are some basic diff erences between viewing a photograph of a real man being killed and a painting of such an event? Does that distinction alone qualify or disqualify either work as a work of art?

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CHAPTER 2

Participation

Both the photograph and the Goya tend to grasp our attention. Initially for most of us, probably, the photograph has more pulling power than the painting, es pe- ci ally as the two works are illustrated here. In its setting in the Prado in Madrid, however, the great size of the Goya and its powerful lighting and color draw the eye like a magnet. But the term “participate” is more accurately de scrip tive of what we are likely to be doing in our experience of the painting. With the Goya, we must not only give but also sustain our undivided attention so that we lose our self- consciousness, our sense of being separate, of standing apart from the painting. We participate. And only by means of participation can we come close to a full aware- ness of what the painting is about. Works of art are created, exhibited, and preserved for us to perceive with not only undivided but also sustained attention. Artists, critics, and philos o phers of art (aestheticians) generally are in agreement about this. Thus, if a work requires our participation in order to understand and appreciate it fully, we have an indication that the work is art. Therefore — unless our analyses have been incorrect, and you should satisfy yourself about this — the Goya would seem to be a work of art. Con- versely, the photograph is not as ob vi ously a work of art as the painting, and this is the case despite the fascinating impact of the photograph. Yet these are highly tentative judgments. We are far from being clear about why the Goya requires our participation and the photograph may not. Until we are clear about these “whys,” the grounds for these judgments remain shaky. Goya’s painting tends to draw us on until, ideally, we become aware of all the details and their interrelationships. For example, the long dark shadow at the bot- tom right underlines the line of the fi ring squad, and the line of the fi r ing squad helps bring out the shadow. Moreover, this shadow is the darkest and most opaque part of the painting. It has a forbidding, blind, fateful qual ity that, in turn, rein- forces the ominous appearance of the fi ring squad. The dark shadow on the street just below the forearm of General Loan seems less pow er ful. The photograph has fewer meaningful details. Thus our attempts to keep our attention on the photo- graph tend to be forced — which is to say that they will fail. Sustained attention or participation cannot be achieved by acts of will. The splendid singularity of what we are attending to must fascinate and control us to the point that we no longer need to will our attention. We can make up our minds to give our undivided attention to something. But if that something lacks the pulling power that grasps our attention, we cannot participate with it. The ultimate test for recognizing a work of art, then, is how it works in us, what it does to us. Participative experiences of works of art are communions — experiences so full and fruitful that they enrich our lives. Such experiences are life- enhancing not just because of the great satisfaction they may give us at the moment but also because they make more or less permanent contributions to our future lives. Does da Vinci’s Mona Lisa ( Figure 1-6) heighten your perception of a painting’s underlying structure, the power of simplicity of form, and the importance of a fi gure’s pose? Does cummings’s “l(a” (Figure 1-7) heighten your perception of falling leaves and deepen your understanding of the loneliness of death? Do you see shovels differently, perhaps, after experiencing Shovel by Dine ( Figure 2-1)? If not, presumably they are not works of art. But this assumes that we have really

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25

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

participated with these works, that we have allowed them to work fully in our ex- perience, so that if the meaning or content were present, it had a chance to reveal itself to our awareness. Of the four basic distinctions — subject matter, artistic form, content, and participation — the most fundamental is participation. We must not only understand what it means to participate but also be able to participate. Other- wise, the other basic distinctions, even if they make good theoretical sense, will not be of much practical help in making art more important in our lives. The central importance of participation requires further elaboration. As participators, we do not think of the work of art with reference to cat e gor ies applicable to objects — such as what kind of thing it is. We grasp the work of art directly. When, for example, we participate with Cézanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire (Figure 2-4), we are not making geographical or geological observations. We are not thinking of the mountain as an object. For if we did, Mont Sainte-Victoire pales into a mere instance of the appro pri ate scientifi c categories. We might judge that the mountain is a certain type. But in that process, the vivid impact of Cézanne’s mountain would be lessened as the focus of our attention shifted beyond in the direction of gener al ity. This is the natural thing to do with mountains if you are a geologist. When we are participators, our thoughts are dominated so much by something that we are unaware of our separation from that something. Thus the artistic form initiates and controls thought and feeling. When we are spectators, our thoughts dominate something, and we are aware of our separation from that something.

FIGURE 2-4 Paul Cézanne, Mont Sainte- Victoire . 1886–1887. Oil on canvas, 231⁄2 3 281⁄2 inches. The Phillips Collection, Washington, D.C.

Cézanne painted Mont Sainte- Victoire in Aix, France, throughout his life. Local legend is that the mountain was home to a god and therefore a holy place.

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26

CHAPTER 2

We set the object into our framework. We see the Cézanne — name it, identify its maker, classify its style, recall its background information — but this approach will not lead us into the Cézanne as a work of art. Of course, such knowledge can be very helpful. But that knowledge is most helpful when it is under the control of the work of art work ing in our experience. This happens when the artistic form not only sug gests that knowledge but also keeps it within the boundaries of the paint- ing. Otherwise, the painting will fade away. Its splendid specifi city will be sacrifi ced for some generality. Its content or meaning will be missed. These are strong claims, and they may not be convincing. In any case, before concluding our search for what a work of art is, let us seek further clarifi cation of our other basic distinctions — artistic form, content, and subject matter. Even if you disagree with the conclusions, clarifi cation helps understanding. And understand- ing helps appreciation.

Participation and Artistic Form

The participative experience — the undivided and sustained attention to an object or event that makes us lose our sense of separation from that object or event — is induced by strong or artistic form. Participation is not likely to develop with weak form because weak form tends to allow our attention to wander. Therefore, one indication of a strong form is the fact that participation occurs. Another indica- tion of artistic form is the way it clearly identifi es a whole or totality. In the visual arts, a whole is a visual fi eld limited by boundaries that separate that fi eld from its surroundings. Both Adams’s photograph and Goya’s painting have visual fi elds with boundar- ies. No matter what wall these two pictures are placed on, the Goya will probably stand out more distinctly and sharply from its background. This is partly because the Goya is in vibrant color and on a large scale — eight feet nine inches by thirteen feet four inches — whereas the Adams photograph is nor mally exhibited as an eight by ten-inch print. However carefully such a pho to graph is printed, it will probably include some random details. No detail in the Goya, though, fails to play a part in the total structure. To take one further instance, notice how the lines of the sol- diers’ sabers and their straps reinforce the ruthless forward push of the fi ring squad. The photograph, however, has a relatively weak form because a large number of details fail to cooperate with other details. For example, running down the right side of General Loan’s body is a very erratic line that fails to tie in with anything else in the photograph. If this line were smoother, it would con nect more closely with the lines formed by the Vietcong prisoner’s body. The connection between killer and killed would be more vividly established. Artistic form normally is a prerequisite if our attention is to be grasped and held. Artistic form makes our participation possible. Some philosophers of art, such as Clive Bell and Roger Fry, even go so far as to claim that the pres ence of artistic form — what they call “signifi cant form” — is all that is nec es sary to identify a work of art. And by signifi cant form, in the case of paint ing, they mean the interrelation- ships of elements: line to line, line to color, color to color, color to shape, shape to shape, shape to texture, and so on. The elements make up the artistic medium, the “stuff” the form organizes. Ac cord ing to Bell and Fry, any reference of these

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27

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

elements and their in ter re la tion ships to actual objects or events should be basically irrelevant in our awareness. According to the proponents of signifi cant form, if we take explicit notice of the executions as an important part of Goya’s painting, then we are not per ceiv ing properly. We are experiencing the painting not as a work of art but rather as an illustration telling a story, thus reducing a painting that is a work of art to the level of commercial communications. When the lines, colors, and the like pull together tightly, independently of any objects or events they may represent, there is a signif- icant form. That is what we should perceive when we are perceiving a work of art, not a portrayal of some object or event. Anything that has signifi cant form is a work of art. If you ignore the objects and events represented in the Goya, signifi cant form is evident. All the details depend on one another and jell, creating a strong struc ture. There fore, the Goya is a work of art. If you ignore the objects and events rep re sented in the Adams photograph, signifi cant form is not evident. The orga- ni za tion of the parts is too loose, creating a weak structure. There fore, the photo- graph, according to Bell and Fry, would not be a work of art. “To appreciate a work of art,” according to Bell, “we need bring with us nothing from life, no knowledge of its ideas and affairs, no familiarity with its emotions.” Does this theory of how to identify a work of art satisfy you? Do you fi nd that in ignoring the representation of objects and events in the Goya, much of what is important in that painting is left out? For example, does the line of the fi ring squad carry a forbidding quality partly because you recognize that this is a line of men in the process of killing other men? In turn, does the close relationship of that line with the line of the long shadow at the bottom right depend to some degree upon that forbidding quality? If you think so, then it follows that the artistic form of this work legitimately and relevantly re fers to objects and events. Somehow artistic form goes beyond itself, referring to objects and events from the world beyond the form. Artistic form informs us about things outside itself. These things — as revealed by the artistic form — we shall call the “content” of a work of art. But how does the artistic form do this?

Content

Let us begin to try to answer the question posed in the previous section by examining more closely the mean ings of the Adams photograph and the Goya painting. Both basically, al though oversimply, are about the same abstract idea — barbarity. In the case of the photograph, we have an example of this barbarity. Since it is very close to any knowledgeable American’s interests, this instance is likely to set off a lengthy chain of thoughts and feelings. These thoughts and feelings, furthermore, seem to lie “beyond” the photograph. Suppose a debate de vel oped over the meaning of this photograph. The photograph itself would play an important role primarily as a starting point. From there on, the pho to graph would probably be ignored except for dramatizing points. For ex am ple, one person might argue, “ Remember that this occurred during the Tet offensive and innocent civilians were being killed by the Vietcong. Look again at the street and think of the consequences if the terrorists had not been eliminated.” Another person might argue, “General Loan was one of the highest offi cials in South Vietnam’s government, and he was taking the law into

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CHAPTER 2

his own hands like a Nazi.” What would be very strange in such a de bate would be a discussion of every detail or even many of the details in the photograph. In a debate about the meaning of the Goya, however, every detail and its interre- lationships with other details become relevant. The meaning of the painting seems to lie “within” the painting. And yet, paradoxically, this mean ing, as in the case of the Adams photograph, involves ideas and feelings that lie beyond the painting. How can this be? Let us fi rst consider some back ground information. On May 2, 1808, guerrilla warfare had fl ared up all over Spain against the occupying forces of the French. By the following day, Napoleon’s men were completely back in control in Madrid and the sur round ing area. Many of the guerrillas were executed. And, according to tra di tion, Goya portrayed the execution of forty-three of these guer- rillas on May 3 near the hill of Principe Pio just outside Madrid. This background in for ma tion is important if we are to understand and appreciate the painting fully. Yet notice how differently this information works in our experience of the painting compared with the way background information works in our ex pe ri ence of the Adams photograph. The execution in Adams’s photograph was of a man who had just mur dered one of General Loan’s best friends and had then knifed to death his wife and six chil- dren. The general was part of the Vietnamese army fi ght ing with the assistance of the United States, and this photograph was widely disseminated with a caption describing the victim as a suspected ter ror ist. What shocked Americans who saw the photograph was the summary jus tice that Loan meted out. It was not until much later that the details of the victim’s crimes were published. With the Goya, the background information, although very helpful, is not as es- sential. Test this for yourself. Would your interest in Adams’s pho to graph last very long if you completely lacked background information? In the case of the Goya, the background information helps us understand the where, when, and why of the scene. But even without this information, the paint ing probably would still grasp and hold the attention of most of us because it would still have signifi cant meaning. We would still have a powerful image of barbarity, and the artistic form would hold us on that image. In the Prado Mu seum in Madrid, Goya’s painting continually draws and holds the attention of innumerable viewers, many of whom know little or noth- ing about the re bel lion of 1808. Adams’s photograph is also a powerful image, of course — and probably initially more powerful than the Goya — but the form of the pho to graph is not strong enough to hold most of us on that image for very long. With the Goya, the abstract idea (barbarity) and the concrete image (the fi ring squad in the process of killing) are tied tightly together because the form of the paint- ing is tight. We see the barbarity in the lines, colors, masses, shapes, groupings, and lights and shadows of the painting itself. The details of the painting keep referring to other details and to the totality. They keep holding our attention. Thus the ideas and feelings that the details and their organization awaken within us keep merging with the form. We are prevented from separating the meaning or content of the painting from its form because the form is so fascinating. The form constantly intrudes, how- ever unobtrusively. It will not let us ignore it. We see the fi ring squad kill ing, and this evokes the idea of barbarity and the feeling of horror. But the lines, colors, mass, shapes, and shadowings of that fi ring squad form a pat tern that keeps exciting and guiding our eyes. And then the pattern leads us to the pattern formed by the victims. Ideas of fatefulness and feelings of pathos are evoked, but they, too, are fused with the

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29

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

form. The form of the Goya is like a powerful magnet that allows nothing within its range to escape its pull. Artistic form fuses or embodies its meaning with itself. In addition to participation and artistic form, then, we have come upon another basic distinction — content. Unless a work has content — meaning that is fused or embodied with its form — we shall say that the work is not art. Content is the mean- ing of artistic form. If we are correct (for our view is by no means universally ac- cepted), artistic form always informs — has mean ing, or content. And that content, as we experience it when we participate, is always ingrained in the artistic form. We do not perceive an artistic form and then a content. We perceive them as insepa- rable. Of course, we can sep a rate them analytically. But when we do so, we are not having a participative expe rience. Moreover, when the form is weak — that is, less than artistic — we experience the form and its meaning separately. We see the form of the Adams photograph, and it evokes powerful thoughts and feelings. But the form is not strong enough to keep its meaning fused with itself. The photograph lacks content, not because it lacks meaning but be cause the meaning is not merged with the form. Idea and image break apart.

Subject Matt er

The content is the meaning of a work of art. The content is embedded in the ar tis tic form. But what does the content interpret? We shall call it subject mat ter. Content is the interpretation — by means of an artistic form — of some sub ject matter. Thus subject matter is the fourth basic distinction that helps iden tify a work of art. Since every work of art must have a content, every work of art must have a subject mat- ter, and this may be any aspect of expe ri ence that is of human interest. Anything related to a human interest is a value. Some values are positive, such as pleasure and health. Other val ues are negative, such as pain and ill health. They are values because they are re lated to human interests. Negative values are the subject matter of both Adams’s photograph and Goya’s painting. But the photograph, unlike the paint ing, has no content. The less-than-artistic form of the photograph simply pre- sents its subject matter. The form does not transform the sub ject matter, does not enrich its signifi cance. In comparison, the artistic form of the painting enriches or interprets its subject matter, says something signifi cant about it. In the photograph, the subject matter is directly given. But the subject matter of the painting is not just there in the painting. It has been transformed by the form. What is directly given in the painting is the content. The meaning, or content, of a work of art is what is revealed about a subject matter. But in that revelation you must infer or imagine the subject matter. If

PERCEPTION KEY Goya and Adams Revisited We have argued that the painting by Goya is a work of art and the photograph by Adams is not. Even if the three basic distinctions we have made so far—artistic form, participation, and content—are useful, we may have misapplied them. Bring out every possible argument against the view that the painting is a work of art and the photograph is not.

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30

CHAPTER 2

some one had taken a news photograph of the May 3 executions, that would be a record of Goya’s subject matter. The content of the Goya is its interpre ta tion of the barbarity of those executions. Adams’s photograph lacks content because it merely shows us an example of this barbarity. That is not to dis parage the pho- tograph, for its purpose was news, not art. A similar kind of photograph — that is, one lacking artistic form — of the May 3 executions would also lack content. Now, of course, you may disagree with these conclu sions for very good reasons. You may fi nd more transformation of the sub ject matter in Adams’s photograph than in Goya’s painting. For example, you may believe that transforming the visual experi- ence in black and white dis tances it from reality and intensifi es content. In any case, such disagreement can help the perception of both parties, provided the debate is fo cused. It is hoped that the basic distinctions we are making — subject matter, ar- tistic form, content, and participation — will aid that focusing.

Subject Matt er and Artistic Form

Whereas a subject matter is a value—something of importance—that we may per- ceive before any artistic interpretation, the content is the signifi cantly interpreted subject matter as re vealed by the artistic form. Thus the subject matter is never directly presented in a work of art, for the subject matter has been transformed by the form. Ar tis tic form transforms and, in turn, informs about life. The conscious intentions of the artist may include magical, religious, political, economic, and other purposes; the conscious intentions may not include the pur pose of clari fy ing values. Yet underlying the artist’s activity — going back to cavework (Figure 1-1) — is always the creation of a form that illuminates some thing from life, some subject matter. Artistic form draws from the chaotic state of life, which, as van Gogh describes it, is like “a sketch that didn’t come off ” — a distillation. In our interpretation, Adams’s photograph is like “a sketch that didn’t come off,” because it has numerous mean- ingless details. Goya’s form eliminates meaningless detail. A work of art creates an illusion that illuminates reality. Thus such paradoxical declarations as Delacroix’s are explained: “Those things which are most real are the illusions I create in my paint- ings.” Or Edward Weston’s “The photographer who is an artist reveals the essence of what lies before the lens with such clear insight that the beholder may fi nd the recreated image more real and comprehensible than the actual object.” Camus: “If the world were clear, art would not exist.” Artistic form is an economy that produces a lucidity that enables us better to understand and, in turn, manage our lives. Hence the informing of a work of art reveals a subject matter with value dimensions that go beyond the artist’s idiosyncrasies and perversities. Whether or not Goya had idiosyn- crasies and perversities, he did justice to his subject matter: He revealed it. The art of a period is the revelation of the collective soul of its time.

Participation, Artistic Form, and Content

Participation is the necessary condition that makes possible our insightful percep- tion of artistic form and content. Unless we participate with the Goya, we will fail to see the power of its artistic form. We will fail to see how the details work together

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31

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

to form a totality. We will also fail to grasp the content fully, for artistic form and content are inseparable. Thus we will have failed to gain insight into the subject matter. We will have collected just one more instance of barbarity. The Goya will have basically the same ef fect upon us as Adams’s photograph except that it may be less important to us because it happened long ago. But if, on the contrary, we have partic i pated with the Goya, we probably will never see such things as executions in quite the same way again. The insight that we have gained will tend to re fo cus our vision so that we will see similar subject matters with heightened awareness. Look, for example, at the photograph by Kevin Carter (Figure 2-5), which was published in the New York Times on March 26, 1993, and which won the Pul it zer Prize for photography in 1994. The form isolates two dramatic fi g ures. The clos- est is a starving Sudanese child making her way to a feeding cen ter. The other is a plump vulture waiting for the child to die. This pow er ful photograph raised a hue and cry, and the New York Times published a com men tary explaining that Carter chased away the vulture and took the child to the feeding center. Carter committed suicide in July 1994.

FIGURE 2-5 Kevin Carter, Vulture and Child in Sudan. 1993. Silver halide.

Carter saved this child, but became so depressed by the terrible tragedies he had recorded in Sudan and South Africa that he committed suicide a year after taking this photograph.

PERCEPTION KEY Adams, Carter, and Goya 1. Does our discussion of the Adams photograph aff ect your response to Carter’s

photograph? 2. To what extent does Carter’s photograph have artistic form? Are there as many

meaningless details in the Carter as in the Adams?

continued

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CHAPTER 2

Artistic Form: Examples

Let us examine artistic form in a series of examples taken from the work of the late Roy Lichtenstein, in which the subject matter, compared with Goya’s May 3, 1808, is not so obviously important. With such examples, a purely formal ana ly sis should seem less artifi cial. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, Lich ten stein be came interested in comic strips as subject matter. The story goes that his two young boys asked him to paint a Donald Duck “straight,” without the en cum brances of art. But much more was involved. Born in 1923, Lich ten stein grew up before the invention of television. By the 1930s, the comic strip had be come one of the most important of the mass media. Ad ven ture, romance, sen ti men tal ity, and terror found expression in the stories of Tarzan, Flash Gor don, Superman, Wonder Woman, Steve Roper, Winnie Winkle, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Batman and Robin, and the like. The purpose of the comic strip for its producers is strictly commercial. And be- cause of the large market, a premium has always been put on making the processes of production as inexpensive as possible. And so generations of mostly unknown com- mercial artists, going far back into the nineteenth century, developed ways of quick, cheap color printing. They developed a technique that could turn out cartoons like the products of an assembly line. Moreover, because their market included a large number of children, they developed ways of producing images that were immedi- ately understandable and of striking impact. Lichtenstein reports that he was attracted to the comic strip by its stark sim pli city — the blatant primary colors, the ungainly black lines that encircle the shapes, the balloons that isolate the spoken words or the thoughts of the characters. He was struck by the apparent inconsistency between the strong emotions of the sto- ries and the highly impersonal, mechanical style in which they were expressed. Despite the crudity of the comic strip, Lichtenstein saw power in the directness of the medium. Somehow the car toons mirrored something about our selves. Lichtenstein set out to clarify what that something was. At fi rst people laughed, as was to be expected. He was called the “worst artist in America.” Today he is considered one of our best. The accompanying examples (Figures 2-6 to 2-15) pair the original car toon with Lichtenstein’s transformation.1 Both the comic strips and the trans for ma tions

3. Why are your answers to these questions fundamentally important in determining whether Adams’s photograph or Carter’s photograph or Goya’s painting or all of them are works of art?

4. Describe your experience regarding your participation with either Adams’s or Carter’s photograph or Goya’s painting. Can you measure the intensity of your participation with each of them? Which work do you refl ect upon most when you relax and are not thinking directly on the subject of art?

5. The intensity of your reactions to the Adams and Carter photographs may well be stronger than the intensity of your experience with the Goya. If so, should that back up the assertion that the photographs are works of art?

1These examples were suggested to us by an article on Lichtenstein’s balloons. Albert Boime,“Roy Lichtenstein and the Comic Strip,” Art Journal, vol. 28, no. 2 (Winter 1968–69): 155–159.

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FIGURE 2-6 Pair 1a

The exploration of popular forms of graphic art gave Pop artists of the 1960s a source of inspiration that appealed to a wide audience.

FIGURE 2-7 Pair 1b

33

FIGURE 2-8 Pair 2a

FIGURE 2-9 Pair 2b

originally were in color, and Lichtenstein’s paintings are much larger than the comic strips. For the purpose of analysis, however, our reproductions are presented in black and white, with the sizes equalized. The absence of color and the reduction of size all but destroy the power of Lich ten stein’s work, but these changes will help

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FIGURE 2-11 Pair 3b

FIGURE 2-10 Pair 3a

Pop artist Roy Lichtenstein treats anonymous comic strip panels as if they were early sketches that need development to make them visually stronger.

FIGURE 2-13 Pair 4b

FIGURE 2-12 Pair 4a

34

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Compare your analysis of Pair 1 with ours (Figures 2-6 and 2-7). Example a of Pair 1, we think, has a much stronger structure than b. The organization of the parts of a is much more tightly unifi ed. The circles formed by the peep hole and its cover in a have a graceful, rhythmic unity lacking in b. Note how in a the contour lines, formed by the overlapping of the cover on the right side, have a long sweeping effect. These lines look as if they had been drawn by a human hand. In b the analogous contours, as well as the circles to which the contours belong, look as if they had been drawn with the aid of a compass. In a the circular border

35

us compare the structures. They will also help us concentrate upon what is usually the most obvious element of two-dimensional visual structure — line. The fi ve pairs of ex am ples have been scrambled so that either the comic strip or Lichtenstein’s paint ing of it may be on the left or the right.

PERCEPTION KEY Comic Strips and Lichtenstein’s Transformations (Figures 2-6 through 2-15)

Decide which are the comic strips and which are Lichtenstein’s transformations. De fend your decisions with reference to the strength of organization. Presumably, Lich ten stein’s works will possess much stronger structures than those of the com mer cial artists. Be specifi c and detailed. For example, compare the lines and shapes as they work together in each example. Take plenty of time, for the perception of artistic form is something that must “work” in you. Such perception never comes instantaneously. Compare your judgments with those of others, and only then study our analysis.

FIGURE 2-14 Pair 5a

FIGURE 2-15 Pair 5b

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CHAPTER 2

of the cover is broken at the right edge and by the balloon above, helping to soften the hard defi niteness not only of this circle but also of the contours it forms with the circle of the peephole. In a, also, the man’s fi ngers and most of his face are shadowed. These contrasts help give variety and irregularity to the peephole circle, which blends in smoothly with its surroundings compared to the abrupt insularity of the peep hole in b. Notice, too, that in b a white outline goes almost completely around the cover, whereas in a this is avoided. Moreover, the balloon in a over lies a signifi cant portion of the cover. In b the balloon is isolated and leaves the cover almost alone. In a no part remains isolated. Thus the balloon as it extends over the breadth of the painting helps bind the lower parts together. At the same time, the shape and contours of the balloon help accent the shape and contours of the other details. Even the shape of the man’s mouth is duplicated partially by the shape of the bal- loon. Conversely, the balloon in b is more isolated from the other details. It just hangs there. Yet notice how the tail of the balloon in a, just below the exclamation point, repeats the curve of the latch of the cover and also how the curve of the tail is caught up in the sweep of the curves of the peephole and cover. In a the latch of the cover unobtrusively helps orbit the cover around the peephole. In b the latch of the cover is awkwardly large, which helps block any sense of dynamic interre- lationship between the peephole and its cover. Whereas the cover seems light and graceful in a and only the top of a fi nger is needed to turn it back, in b a much heavier fi nger is necessary. Similarly, the lines of face and hand in a lightly inte- grate, whereas in b they are heavy and fail to work together very well. Compare, for example, the eye in a with the eye in b. Finally, there are meaningless details in b — the bright knob on the cover, for instance. Such details are eliminated in a. Even the shape and size of the lettering in a belong to the whole in a way com- pletely lacking in b. Now turn to Pair 2 (Figures 2-8 and 2-9). Limit your analysis to the design func- tioning of the lettering in the balloons of Pair 2.

PERCEPTION KEY Comic Strips and Lichtenstein’s Transformation, Pair 2

1. Does the shape of the lettering in a play an important part in the formal organi za tion? Explain.

2. Does the shape of the lettering in b play an important part in the formal organi za tion? Explain.

Compare your analysis of Pair 2 with ours. We think it is only in b that the shape of the lettering plays an important part in the formal organization. Con- versely, the shape of the lettering is distracting in a. In b the bulky bal loons are eliminated and only two important words are used — “torpedo” and “LOS!” The three letters of “LOS” stand out very viv idly. A regular shape among so many irregular shapes, the balloon’s simple shape helps the letters stand out. Also, “LOS” is larger, darker, and more cen trally located than “torpedo.” Notice how

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37

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

no word or lettering stands out vividly in a. Moreover, as Albert Boime points out in his study of Lich ten stein, the shapes of the letters in “LOS” are clues to the structure of the panel:

The “L” is mirrored in the angle formed by the captain’s hand and the vertical contour of his head and in that of the periscope. The “O” is repeated in the tubing of the periscope handle and in smaller details throughout the work. The oblique “S” recurs in the high- light of the captain’s hat just left of the balloon, in the contours of the hat itself, in the shadow that falls along the left side of the captain’s face, in the lines around his nose and in the curvilinear tubing of the periscope. Thus the dialogue enclosed within the balloon is visually exploited in the interests of compositional structure.2

Now analyze Pair 3 (Figures 2-10 and 2-11), Pair 4 (Figures 2-12 and 2-13), and Pair 5 (Figures 2-14 and 2-15).

Don’t be surprised if you have changed some of your decisions; perhaps your reasoning has been expanded. Other people’s analyses, even when you disagree with them, will usually suggest new ways of perceiving things. In the case of good criti- cism, this is almost always true. The correct identifi cations follow, and they should help you test your perceptive abilities.

Pair 1a Lichtenstein, I Can See the Whole Room . . . and There’s Nobody in It! 1961. Magna on canvas.

Pair 1b Panel from William Overgard’s comic strip Steve Roper.

Pair 2a Anonymous comic book panel.

Pair 2b Lichtenstein, Torpedo . . . Los! 1963. Magna on canvas.

Pair 3a Anonymous comic book panel.

Pair 3b Lichtenstein, Image Duplicator. 1963. Magna on canvas.

Pair 4a Anonymous comic book panel. Pair 4b Lichtenstein, Hopeless. 1963. Magna on canvas. Pair 5a Lichtenstein, The Engagement Ring. 1961. Magna on canvas. Pair 5b Panel from Martin Branner’s comic strip Winnie Winkle.

2Boime, “Roy Lichtenstein and the Comic Strip.”

PERCEPTION KEY Comic Strips and Lichtenstein’s Transformations, Pairs 3, 4, and 5

1. Decide once again which are the comic strips and which the transformations. 2. If you have changed any of your decisions or your reasons, how do you account for

these changes?

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CHAPTER 2

Subject Matt er and Content

While the male nude was a common subject in Western art well into the Renaissance, images of the female body have since predominated. The variety of treatment of the female nude is bewildering, ranging from the Greek idealization of erotic love in the Venus de Milo to the radical reordering of Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2. A number of female nude studies follow (Figures 2-16 through 2-25).

FIGURE 2-16 Giorgione, Sleeping Venus. 1508–1510. Oil on canvas, 43 3 69 inches. Gemaldegalerie, Dresden.

Giorgione established a Renaissance ideal in his painting of the goddess Venus asleep in the Italian countryside.

PERCEPTION KEY I Can See the Whole Room . . . and Th ere’s Nobody in It! (Figure 2-6)

Lichtenstein’s painting (Figure 2-6) recently sold for $45 million. Do you consider this strong evidence that this painting is a work of art? Or is it conceivable that the art world (dealers, collectors, and critics) has been taken? If Figure 2-6 is worth $45 mil- lion, then how much do you think the comic strip panel, Figure 2-7, should sell for? Do you think collectors will be willing to pay a million dollars for it? If not, why not?

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WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

FIGURE 2-17 Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Bather Arranging Her Hair. 1893. Oil on canvas, 363⁄8 3 291⁄8 inches. National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., Chester Dale Collection.

Renoir’s impressionist interpretation of the nude provides a late- nineteenth-century idealization of a real-life fi gure who is not a goddess.

Consider, as you look at them, how the form of the work interprets the female body. Does it reveal it in such a way that you have an increased understanding of and sensitivity to the female body? In other words, does it have content? Also ask yourself whether the content is different in the two paintings by women compared with those by men. Most of these works are highly valued — some as masterpieces—because they are powerful interpretations of their subject matter, not just pres en ta tions of the human body as in Playboy. Notice how different the interpretations are. Any important sub- ject matter has many different facets. That is why shovels and soup cans have limited utility as subject matter. They have very few facets to offer for interpretation. The female nude, however, is almost limitless. The next artist interprets something about the female nude that had never been interpreted before, because the female nude seems to be inexhaustible as a subject matter, more so perhaps than the male nude. More precisely, these works all have somewhat different subject mat ters. All are about the nude, but the painting by Giorgione is about the nude as ide alized, as a goddess, as Venus. Now there is a great deal that all of us could say in trying to describe Giorgione’s interpretation. We see not just a nude but an ide al i za tion that presents the nude as Venus, the goddess who the Ro mans felt best expressed the ideal of woman. She rep re sents a form of beautiful per fec tion that hu mans can only strive toward. A de scrip tion of the subject matter can help us perceive the content if we have missed it. In understanding what the form worked on — that is, the subject matter — our perceptive apparatus is better pre pared to perceive the form-content, the work of art’s structure and meaning.

FIGURE 2-18 Venus de Milo. Greece. Circa 100 BCE. Marble, 5 feet 1⁄2 inch. Louvre Paris.

Since its discovery in 1820 on the island of Cyclades, the Venus de Milo has been thought to represent the Greek ideal in feminine beauty. It was originally decorated with jewelry and may have been polychromed.

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FIGURE 2-19 Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, Large Odalisque. 1814. Oil on canvas, 35 3 64 inches. Louvre Paris.

Ingres’s Odalisque is a frank portrait of a prostitute idealized by the addition of three extra vertebrae, achieving a lengthened torso.

FIGURE 2-20 Tom Wesselmann, 1931–2004, study for Great American Nude. 1975. Watercolor and pencil, 191⁄2 3 54 inches. Private collection.

Wesselmann’s study leaves the face blank and emphasizes the telephone as a suggestion of this nude’s availability in the modern world.

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FIGURE 2-21 Marcel Duchamp, Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2. 1912. Oil on canvas, 58 3 35 inches. Philadelphia Museum of Art. Louise and Walter Arensberg Collection.

This painting provoked a riot in 1912 and made Duchamp famous as a chief proponent of the distortions of cubism and modern art at that time.

FIGURE 2-23 Suzanne Valadon, Reclining Nude. 1928. Oil on canvas, 235⁄8 3 3011⁄16 inches. Photo: Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Robert Lehman Collection, 1975.

Valadon interprets the nude simply, directly. To what extent is the fi gure idealized?

41

FIGURE 2-22 Standing Woman. Ivory Coast. Nineteenth or twentieth century. Wood and beads, 203⁄8 3 75⁄8 3 53⁄8 inches. Detroit Institute of Arts.

Standing Woman was once owned by Tristan Tzara, a friend of Picasso. Sculpture such as this infl uenced modern painters and sculptors in France and elsewhere in the early part of the twentieth century. It is marked by a direct simplicity, carefully modeled and polished.

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CHAPTER 2

FIGURE 2-24 Alice Neel, Margaret Evans Pregnant. 1978. Oil on canvas, 573⁄4 3 38 inches. Collection, John McEnroe Gallery.

Neel’s Margaret Evans Pregnant is one of a series of consciously anti-idealized nude portraits of pregnant women.

PERCEPTION KEY Ten Female Nudes (Figures 2-16 to 2-25) 1. Which of these nudes is most clearly idealized? What visual qualities contribute to

that idealization? 2. Which of these nudes seem to be aware of being seen? How does their awareness

aff ect your interpretation of the form of the nude?

The subject matter of Renoir’s painting is the nude more as an earth mother. In the Venus de Milo, the subject matter is the erotic ideal, the goddess of love. In the Duchamp, it is a mechanized dissection of the female form in action. In the Wesselmann, it is the nude as exploited. In the Ingres, it is the nude as pros ti tute. In all eight paintings the subject matter is the female nude — but qual i fi ed in relation to what the artistic form fo cuses upon and makes lucid. The two paintings by Suzanne Valadon and Alice Neel treat the female nude some- what differently from the others, which were painted by men. Neel’s painting empha- sizes an aspect of femaleness that the men usually ignore — pregnancy. Her painting does not show the alluring female but the female who is beyond allure. Valadon’s nude is more traditional, but a comparison with Renoir and Giorgione should demonstrate that she is far from their ideal.

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FIGURE 2-25 Philip Pearlstein, Two Female Models in the Studio. 1967. Oil on canvas, 501⁄8 3 601⁄4 inches. Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Stephen B. Booke. Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Pearlstein’s attention to anatomy, his even lighting, and his unsensuous surroundings seem to eliminate the erotic content associated with the traditional female nude.

3. Nude Descending a Staircase caused a great uproar when it was exhibited in New York in 1913. Do you feel it is still a controversial painting? How does it interpret the female nude in comparison with the other paintings in this group? Could the nude be male? Why not? Suppose the title were Male Descending or Body Descending. Isn’t the sense of human movement the essential subject matter?

4. If you were not told that Suzanne Valadon and Alice Neel painted Figures 2-23 and 2-24, would you have known they were painted by women? What are the principal diff erences of treatment of the nude fi gure on the part of all these artists? Does their work surprise you?

5. Decide whether Standing Woman (Figure 2-22) is the work of a male artist or a female artist. What criteria do you use in your decision?

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44

CHAPTER 2

Further Th oughts on Artistic Form

Artistic form is an organized structure, a design, but it is also a window open- ing on and focusing our world, helping us to perceive and understand what is important. This is the function of artistic form. The artist uses form as a means to understanding some subject matter, and in this process, the subject matter exerts its own imperative. A subject matter has, as Edmund Husserl puts it, a

EXPERIENCING Interpretations of the Female Nude 1. Is there an obvious diff erence between the representation of the female nude by

male and female artists? 2. Does distortion of the human fi gure help distance the viewer from the subject? 3. To what extent does the represented fi gure become a potential sexual object?

Some suggestions for analysis: First, working backward, we can see that the question of the fi gure being a sexual object is to a large extent parodied by Tom Wesselmann’s study for Great American Nude (Figure 2-20). The style and approach to painting is couched in careful design includ- ing familiar objects—the telephone, the rose, the perfume bottle, the sofa cushions, the partial portrait—all of which imply the boudoir and the commodifi cation of women and sex. The fi gure’s face is totally anonymous, implying that this is not a painting of a woman, but of the idea of the modern American woman, with her nipple carefully exposed to accommodate advertising’s breast fetish as a means of selling goods. Even Ingres’s Large Odalisque, (Figure 2-19), a painting whose subject is supposedly a high-class prostitute, is less a sexual object than Wesselmann’s. For one thing, her body is less revealed than Wesselmann’s, and her face, with its remarkable gaze obviously examining the person who observes her, suggests she is in command of herself and is not to be taken lightly. The objects in the painting are sumptuous and sensuous—rich fabrics, a gold-handled peacock feather duster, silks behind her, a jeweled belt on the divan and a jeweled headpiece, and in the lower right, a rack of what may be pipes to increase the pleasure of the evening. Then, the question of the distortion of the subject is powerfully handled by Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 (Figure 2-21). This painting provoked a riot in 1912 because it seemed to be a contemptuous portrait of the nude at a time when the nude aesthetic was still academic in style. Duchamp was taunting the audience for art, while also fi nding a modern technological representation of the nude on canvas that mimed the cinema of his time. Philip Pearlstein’s study of two nudes (Figure 2-25) moves toward a de-idealization of the nude. He asks us to look at the nudes without desire, yet with careful attention to form and color. Finally, we may partly answer the question of whether women paint nude females diff erently by looking at Suzanne Valadon’s (Figure 2-23) and Alice Neel’s (Figure 2-24) paintings. Neel represents Margaret Evans in a manner emphasizing her womanness, not her sexual desirability. Hers is the only pregnant female fi gure— emphasizing the power of women to create life. Valadon’s nude makes an eff ort to cover herself while looking at the viewer. She is relaxed yet apprehensive. There is no attempt at commodifi cation of either of these fi gures, which means we must look at them very diff erently from the rest of the paintings represented here.

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45

WHAT IS A WORK OF ART?

“structure of determination” that to some signifi cant degree is independent of the artist. Even when the ideas of the artist are the subject matter, they chal- lenge and resist, forcing the artist to discover their signifi cance by discarding irrelevancies. Subject matter is friendly, for it assists interpretation, but subject matter is also hos- tile, for it resists interpretation. Otherwise there would be no fundamental stimulus or challenge to the creativity of the artist. Only subject matter with interesting latent or uninterpreted values can challenge the artist, and the artist discovers these values through form. If the maker of a work takes the line of least resistance by ignoring the challenge of the subject matter—pushing the subject matter around for entertaining or escapist effects instead of trying to uncover its signifi cance—the maker functions as a decorator rather than an artist. Whereas decorative form merely pleases, artistic form informs about subject mat- ter embedded in values that to an overwhelming extent are produced independently of the artist. By revealing those values, the artist helps us understand ourselves and our world, provided we participate, or “think from.” Thinking from is a fl owing experience. One thought or image or sensation merges into another, and we don’t know where we are going for certain, except that what we are thinking from is moving and controlling the fl ow, and clock time is irrelevant. Instead of objects being fi xed points of reference, from which our “thinking at” proceeds in a succession of stops, there is no stopping when we think from, because each thing unfolds in a duration in which beginning, middle, and end meld. Thinking from is often interrupted—someone moves in front of the painting, the telephone call breaks the reading of the poem, someone goes into a coughing fi t at the concert—but as long as we keep coming back to thinking from as dominant over think- ing at, we have something of the wonder of participation.

Summary

A work of art is a form-content. An artistic form is a form-content. An artistic form is more than just an organization of the elements of an artistic medium, such as the lines and colors of painting. The artistic form interprets or clarifi es some subject matter. The subject matter, strictly speaking, is not in a work of art. When partici- pating with a work of art, one can only imagine the subject matter, not perceive it. The subject matter is only suggested by the work of art. The interpretation of the subject matter is the content, or meaning, of the work of art. Content is embodied in the form. The content, unlike the subject matter, is in the work of art, fused with the form. We can separate content from form only by analysis. The ultimate justifi cation of any analysis is whether it enriches our participation with that work, whether it helps that work “work” in us. Good analysis or criticism does just that. But, conversely, any analysis not based on participation is unlikely to be helpful. Participation is the only way to get into direct contact with the form-content, so any analysis that is not based upon a participative experience inevitably misses the work of art. Participation and good analysis, although necessarily occurring at different times, end up hand in hand.

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46

CHAPTER 2

In this chapter, we have elaborated one set of guidelines. Other sets are possi- ble, of course. We have discussed one other set very briefl y: that a work of art is signifi cant form. If you can conceive of other sets of guidelines, make them explicit and try them out. The ultimate test is clear: Which set helps you most in appreci- ating works of art? We think the set we have proposed meets that test better than other proposals. But this is a large question indeed, and your decision should be delayed. In any event, we will now investigate the principles of criticism. These principles will help show us how to apply our set of guidelines to specifi c examples. Then we will be properly prepared to examine the extraordinary uniqueness of the various arts.

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47

C h a p t e r 3

BEING A CRITIC OF THE ARTS

In this chapter, we are concerned with establishing the goals of responsible criticism. The act of responsible criticism aims for the fullest under stand ing and participation possible. Being a responsible critic de mands be ing at the height of awareness while examining a work of art in de tail, es tab lish ing its context, and clar- ifying its achievement. It is not to be confused with popular journalism, which often sidetracks the critic into be ing fl ashy, neg a tive, and cute. The critic aims at a full understanding of a work of art.

You Are Already an Art Critic

On a practical level, everyday criticism is an act of choice. You decide to change from one program to another on television because you have made a critical choice. When you fi nd that certain programs please you more than others, that, too, is a matter of expressing choices. If you decide that David Lean’s fi lm Lawrence of Arabia is better than John Ford’s fi lm The Searchers, you have made a critical choice. When you stop on an avenue to admire a powerful piece of architecture while ignoring a nearby building, you have again made a critical choice. We are active every day in art criticism of one kind or another. Most of the time it is low-level criticism, almost instinctive, establishing our preferences in music, literature, painting, sculpture,

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48

CHAPTER 3

architecture, fi lm, and video art. We have made such judgments since we were chil- dren. The question now is how to move on to a higher-level criticism that accounts for the subtlest distinctions in the arts and therefore the most-complex choices. What qualifi es us to make critical distinctions when we are young and uninformed about art? Usually it is a matter of simple pleasure. Art is designed to give us pleasure, and for most children the most pleasurable art is simple: representational painting, lyrical and tuneful melodies, recognizable sculpture, children’s verse, action stories, and animated videos. It is another thing to move from that pleasurable beginning to account for what may be higher-level pleasures, such as those in Cézanne’s still lifes, Beethoven’s symphonies, Jean Arp’s sculpture Growth, Dylan Thomas’s poem “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night,” Sophocles’s tragedy Oedipus Rex, or David Simon’s video triumph, The Wire. One of our purposes is to point to the kinds of critical acts that help us expand our repertoire of responses to the arts.

Participation and Criticism

Participation with a work of art is complex, but also sometimes immediate. We think participation is an essential act that makes art signifi cant in our lives. We have described it as a loss of self, by which we mean that when contemplating, or experiencing, a work of art we tend to become one with the experience. As in fi lms such as Casablanca, Thelma and Louise, or The Bourne Supremacy, we become one with the narrative and lose a sense of our physical space. We can also achieve a sense of participation with painting, music, and the other arts. The question is not so much how we become outside ourselves in relation to the arts, but why we may not achieve that condition in the face of art that we know has great power but does not yet speak to us. Developing critical skills will help bridge that gap and allow participation with art that may not be immediately appealing. In essence, that is the purpose of an education in the arts. Patience and perception are the keys to beginning high-level criticism. Using painting as an example, it is clear that careful perception of color, rhythm, line, form, and balance are all useful in understanding the artistic form and its resultant content. Our discussion of Goya’s May 3, 1808 in terms of the emphasis of the line at the bot- tom of the painting and the power of the lines formed by the soldiers’ rifl es, while in contrast with the white blouse of one of the men being executed, helps us perceive the painting’s artistic form. Coming to such a huge and demanding painting with enough patience to stand and perceive the underlying formal structures, while seeing, too, the power of the color and details designed to heighten our awareness of the signifi cance of the action, makes it possible to achieve participation. From there it is possible to go back to the Eddie Adams photograph Execution in Saigon and decide whether the same kind of participation is possible and whether the formal signifi cance of the photograph is comparable. Any decision we make in this context is an act of art criticism.

Three Kinds of Criticism

We point to three kinds of criticism that aim toward increasing our ability to partic- ipate with works of art. In Chapter 2 we argued that a work of art is a form-content and that good criticism, which involves careful examination and thoughtful analysis,

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BEING A CRITIC OF THE ARTS

will sharpen our perception and deepen our understanding. Descriptive criticism aims at a careful accounting of the formal elements in the work. As its name implies, this stage of criticism is marked by an examination of the large formal elements as well as the details in the composition. Interpretive criticism focuses on the content of the work, the discovery of which requires refl ection on how the formal elements transform the subject matter. Evaluative criticism, on the other hand, is an effort to qualify the relative merits of a work.

CONCEPTION KEY Kinds of Criticism 1. In Chapter 2, which portions of the discussion of Goya’s May 3, 1808 and Adams’s

Execution in Saigon are descriptive criticism? How do they help you better perceive the formal elements of the works?

2. Comment on the usefulness of the descriptive criticism of e. e. cummings’s poem “1(a” in Chapter 1. When does that discussion become interpretive criticism?

3. “Experiencing: Interpretations of the Female Nude” (page 44) introduces a series of interpretive criticisms of some of the paintings in Chapter 2. Which of these interpretations, in your opinion, was most successful in sharpening your awareness of the content of the painting? What are the most useful interpretive techniques used in the discussion of the paintings of female nudes?

4. Evaluative criticism is used in Chapters 1 and 2. To what extent are you most en- lightened by this form of criticism in our discussion of the Goya painting and the Adams photograph? When is evaluative criticism invoked in our discussion of the comic-strip comparisons? How important was it for you to use this form of criti- cism in examining these works?

5. In what other discussions in this book do you fi nd evaluative criticism? How often do you practice it on your own while examining the works in this book?

Descriptive Criticism

Descriptive criticism concentrates on the form of a work of art, describing, sometimes exhaustively, the important characteristics of that form in order to improve our un- derstanding of the part-to-part and part-to-whole inter relationships. At fi rst glance this kind of criticism may seem unnecessary. After all, the form is all there, completely given — all we have to do is observe. Yet we can spend time attending to a work we are very much interested in and still not perceive all there is to perceive. We miss things, oftentimes things that are right there for us to observe. For example, were you imme- diately aware of the visual form of e. e. cummings’s “l(a” (Figure 1-7) — the spiraling downward curve? Or, in Goya’s May 3, 1808 (Figure 2-3), were you immediately aware of the way the line of the long dark shadow at the bottom right underlines the line of the fi ring squad? Good descriptive critics call our attention to what we otherwise might miss in an artistic form. And more important, they help us learn how to do their work when they are not around. We can, if we carefully attend to de scrip tive criticism, develop and enhance our own powers of observation. Descriptive criticism, more than any other type, is most likely to improve our participation with a work of art, for such criticism turns us directly to the work itself.

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Study Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper (Figure 3-1), damaged by repeated res- torations. Leonardo unfortunately experimented with dry fresco, which, as in this case, deteriorates rapidly. Still, even in its present condition, this painting can be overwhelming.

FIGURE 3-1 Leonardo da Vinci, Last Supper. Circa 1495–1498. Oil and tempera on plaster, 15 feet 11/8 inches 3 28 feet 10½ inches. Refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan.

Leonardo’s painting was one of many on this subject, but his is the fi rst to represent recognizably human fi gures with understandable facial expressions. This is the dramatic moment when Jesus tells his disciples that one of them will betray him.

PERCEPTION KEY Last Supper Descriptively criticize the Last Supper (Figure 3-1). Point out every facet of form that seems important. Look for shapes that relate to each other, including groupings of fi gures. Do any shapes stand out as unique—for example, the shapes of Christ and Judas, who leans back fourth from the left? Describe the color relationships. Describe the symmetry, if any. Describe how the lines tend to meet in the landscape behind Christ’s head. The descriptions of Goya’s May 3, 1808 (Figure 2-3) might be helpful.

Leonardo planned the fresco so that the perspectival vanishing point would reside in the head of Jesus, the central fi gure in the painting (Figure 3-2). He also used the concept of the trinity, in the number 3, as he grouped each of the disciples in threes, two groups on each side of the painting. Were you to diagram them, you would see they form the basis of triangles. The three windows in the back wall also repeat the idea of three. The fi gure of Jesus is itself a perfect isosceles trian- gle, while the red and blue garment centers the eye. In some paintings, this kind

50

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of architectonic organization might be much too static, but because Leonardo gathers the fi gures in dramatic poses, with facial expressions that reveal apparent emotions, the viewer is distracted from the formal organization while being sub- liminally affected by its perfection. It seems that perfection—appropriate to his subject matter—was what Leonardo aimed at in creating the underlying structure of the fresco. Judas, the disciple who will betray Jesus, is the fourth fi gure from the left, his face in shadow, pulling back in shock.

Detail, Regional, and Structural Relationships The totality of any work of art is a continuum of parts. A small part we shall call a detail, a large part a region. Signifi cant relationships between or among details or regions we shall call detail or regional relationships, respectively. Signifi cant relationships between or among details or regions to the totality we shall call structural relationships. For example, the triangular fi gure of Christ, with red and blue garments, in the center of the Last Supper (Figure 3-1) is a dominant settling force for the eye, but it contrasts immediately with the other triangular arrangements of the apostles. This is a detail relationship. So, too, the white rectangular tablecloth beneath all the fi gures estab- lishes a powerful element as a visual base. In turn, that white rectangle contrasts with the receding white wall to the right of the composition. Each of the fi gures in the painting, with their complementary colors of red, blue, and ochre, compete with the dominant darkness of the upper left segment of the painting. Seeing the many color garments and their natural triangular grouping is a matter of regional relationship. However, seeing the competition of triangular and rectangular shapes implies a structural relationship.

FIGURE 3-2 The Last Supper is geometrically arranged with the single-point vanishing perspective centered on the head of Jesus. The basic organizing form for the fi gures in the painting is the triangle. Leonardo aimed at geometric perfection.

51

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Detail relationships dominate Autumn Rhythm (Figure 3-3), so much that at fi rst sight, perhaps, no structure is apparent. The loops, splashes, skeins, and blots of color were dripped or thrown on the canvas, which was laid out fl at on the fl oor during execution. Yet there is not as much chaotic chance as one might suppose. Most of Pollock’s actions were controlled accidents, the result of his awareness, developed through long trial-and-error experience, of how the motion of his hand and body along with the weight and fl uidity of the paint would determine the shape and textures of the drips and splashes as he moved around the borders of the canvas. Somehow the endless details fi nally add up to a self-contained sparkling totality holding the rhythms of autumn. Picasso’s Guernica, alternatively, is more or less balanced with respect to detail, region, and structure. The detail relationships are organized into three major re- gions: the great triangle — with the apex at the candle and two sides sloping down to the lower corners — and the two large rectangles, vertically oriented, running down along the left and right borders. Moreover, these regions are hierarchically

PERCEPTION KEY Detail, Regional, or Structural Dominance Whether detail, regional, or structural relationships dominate — or are equal — often varies widely from work to work. Compare Picasso’s Guernica (Figure 1-4), Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm (Figure 3-3), and Leonardo’s Mona Lisa (Figure 1-6). In which painting or paintings, if any, do detail relationships dominate? Regional relationships? Struc- tural relationships?

FIGURE 3-3 Jackson Pollock, Autumn Rhythm (Number 30). 1950. Enamel on canvas, H. 105, W. 207 in. (266.7 3 525.8 cm). George A. Hearn Fund, 1957 (57.92). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY.

Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm, one of the best examples of his drip technique, is often connected with the improvisations of the jazz music he listened to as he painted.

52

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53

BEING A CRITIC OF THE ARTS

ordered. The triangular region takes precedence in both size and interest, and the left rectangle, mainly because of the fascination of the impassive bull (what is he doing here?), dominates the right rectangle, even though both are about the same size. Despite the complexity of the detail relationships in Guernica, we gradually perceive the power of a very strong, clear structure. The basic formal element in Leonardo’s Mona Lisa (Figure 1-6) is the isosceles triangle, but in this portrait the roundness of the three points of the triangle soften the impact of the form. We are drawn to the hands, which are crossed in such a way as to create an “upside down” triangle with the elbows and the other points. The fl esh of her neck and bosom create another triangle, while her oval face dominates the composition. Naturally, her smile has been an enigma because it implies an understanding between the painter and the model. Its enigmatic quality is echoed slightly by the strange landscapes in the background—they carefully avoid any sta- ble geometric fi gure as a way of contrast. Return to the discussion of this painting in “Experiencing The Mona Lisa” in Chapter 1 and consider the descrip tive criticism offered there.

Interpretive Criticism

Interpretive criticism explicates the content of a work of art. It helps us un der- stand how form transforms subject matter into content: what has been re vealed about some subject matter and how that has been accomplished. The content of any work of art will become clearer when the structure is per ceived in relation to the details and regions. The examples on the next page (Fig ures 3-4 and 3-5) demonstrate that the same principle holds for architecture as holds for painting. The subject matter of a building — or at least an important component of it — is usually the practical function the building serves. We have no diffi culty telling which of these buildings was meant to serve as a bank and which was meant to serve as a church.

PERCEPTION KEY Sullivan and Le Corbusier 1. If you had not been told, would you know that Le Corbusier’s building is a church?

Now, having been told, which structural details help identify it as a church? 2. Which of these buildings better uses its basic structure to suggest solidity? Which

better uses formal patterns to suggest fl ight and motion? 3. In which of these buildings does detail better complement the overall structure? 4. Most buildings have a central entrance. Comment on the centrality of Sullivan’s

and Le Corbusier’s buildings. Is centrality or the lack of it an artistic value? 5. Comment on how the formal values of these buildings contribute to their content

as serving their established functions as bank and church. 6. One of these buildings is symmetrical and one is not. Symmetry is often praised in

nature as a constituent of beauty. How important is symmetry in evaluating these buildings?

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Form-Content The interpretive critic’s job is to fi nd out as much about an artistic form as possible in order to explain its meaning. This is a particularly useful task for the critic — which is to say, for us in particular — since the forms of numerous works of art seem important but are not immediately understandable. When we look at the examples of the bank and the church, we ought to realize that the sig- nifi cance of these buildings is expressed by means of the form-content. It is true that without knowing the functions of these buildings we could appreciate them as structures without special functions, but knowing about their functions deepens our appreciation. Thus, the lofty arc of Le Corbusier’s roof soars heavenward more mightily when we recognize the building as a church. The form takes us up toward heaven, at least in the sense that it moves our eyes upward. For a Christian church, such a reference is perfect. The bank, however, looks like a pile of square coins or banknotes. Certainly the form “amasses” something, an appropriate suggestion for a bank. We will not belabor these examples, since it should be fun for you to do this kind of critical job yourself. Observe how much more you get out of these examples of architecture when you consider each form in relation to its meaning — that is, the form as form-content. Furthermore, such analyses should convince you that interpre tive criticism operates in a vacuum unless it is based on descriptive criti- cism. Unless we perceive the form with sensitivity — and this means that we have the basis for good descriptive criticism — we simply cannot understand the content. In turn, any interpretive criticism will be useless.

FIGURE 3-5 Louis Henry Sullivan, Guaranty (Prudential) Building, Buffalo, New York. 1894.

Sullivan’s building, among the fi rst high-rise structures, was made possible by the use of mass- produced steel girders supporting the weight of each fl oor.

FIGURE 3-4 Le Corbusier, Notre Dame-du-Haut, Ronchamps, France. 1950–1955.

The chapel is built on a hill where a pilgrimage chapel was destroyed during the Second World War. Le Corbusier used soaring lines to lift the viewer’s eyes to the heavens and the surrounding horizon, visible on all four sides.

© Ezra Stoller/Esto

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Participate with a poem by William Butler Yeats:

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

PERCEPTION KEY Yeats’s Poem 1. Off er a brief description of the poem, concentrating on the nature of the rhyme-

words, the contrasting imagery, the rhythms of the lines. 2. What does the poet say he intends to do? Do you think he will actually do it?

“The Lake Isle of Innisfree” is a lyric written from the fi rst person, “I.” Its three stanzas of four lines each rhyme in simple fashion with full vowel sounds, and as a result, the poem lends itself to being sung, as indeed it has of ten been set to music. The poet portrays himself as a simple person pre fer ring the simple life. The descrip- tive critic will notice the basic formal qualities of the poem: rhyme, steady meter, the quatrain stanza structure. But the critic will also move further to talk about the imagery in the poem: the image of the simply built cabin, the small garden with bean rows, the bee hive, the sounds of the linnet’s wings and the lake water lapping the shore, the look of noon’s purple glow. The interpretive critic will address the entire project of the poet, who is standing “on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,” longing to return to the distant country and the simple life. The poet “hears” the lake waters “in the deep heart’s core,” which is to say that the simple life is ab so lutely basic to the poet. The last three words actually repeat the same idea. The heart is always at the core of a person, and it is always deep in that core. Such emphasis helps produce in the reader a sense of completion and signifi cance. Yeats later commented on this poem and said it was the fi rst poem of his career to have a real sense of music. He also said that the imagery came to him when he was stepping off a curb near the British Museum in the heart of London and heard the sound of splashing water. The sounds immediately brought to mind the imagery of the island, which is in the west of Ireland. It is important that we grasp the relative nature of explanations about the content of works of art. Even descriptive critics, who try to tell us about what is really there, will perceive things in a way that is relative to their own per spec tive. An amusing story in Cervantes’s Don Quixote il lu strates the point. Sancho Panza had two cousins who were expert wine tasters. However, on occasion, they disagreed. One found the wine excellent except for an iron taste; the other found the wine excellent ex cept

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for a leather taste. When the barrel of wine was emptied, an iron key with a leather thong was found. As N. J. Berrill points out in Man’s Emerging Mind,

The statement you often hear that seeing is believing is one of the most misleading ones a man has ever made, for you are more likely to see what you believe than believe what you see. To see anything as it really exists is about as hard an exercise of mind and eyes as it is possible to perform.1

Two descriptive critics can often “see” quite different things in an artistic form. This is not only to be expected but is also desirable; it is one of the reasons great works of art keep us intrigued for centuries. But even though they may see quite different aspects when they look independently at a work of art, when they talk it over, the critics will usually come to some kind of agreement about the aspects each of them sees. The work being described, after all, has verifi able, objective qualities each of us can perceive and talk about. But it has subjective qualities as well, in the sense that the qualities are observed only by “subjects.” In the case of interpretive criticism, the subjectivity and, in turn, the relativity of explanations are more obvious than in the case of descriptive criticism. The content is “there” in the form, and yet, unlike the form, it is not there in a directly perceiv- able way. It must be interpreted. Interpretive critics, more than descriptive critics, must be familiar with the sub- ject matter. Interpretive critics often make the subject matter more explicit for us at the fi rst stage of their criticism, bringing us closer to the work. Perhaps the best way initially to get at Picasso’s Guernica (Figure 1-4) is to discover its subject mat- ter. Is it about a fi re in a building or something else? If we are not clear about this, perception of the painting is obscured. But after the subject matter has been eluci- dated, good interpretive critics go much further: exploring and discovering mean- ings about the subject matter as revealed by the form. Now they are concerned with helping us grasp the content directly, in all of its complexities and subtleties. This fi nal stage of interpretive criticism is the most demanding of all criticism.

Evaluative Criticism

To evaluate a work of art is to judge its merits. At fi rst, this seems to suggest that evaluative criticism is prescriptive criticism, which prescribes what is good as if it were a medicine and tells us that this work is superior to that work.

1N. J. Berrill, Man’s Emerging Mind (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1955), p. 147.

PERCEPTION KEY Evaluative Criticism 1. Suppose you are a judge of an exhibition of painting and Figures 2-16 through 2-25

in Chapter 2 have been placed into competition. You are to award fi rst, second, and third prizes. What would your decisions be? Why?

2. Suppose, further, that you are asked to judge which is the best work of art from the fol- lowing selection: cummings’s “l(a” (page 12), Cézanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire (Figure 2-4), and Le Corbusier’s church (Figure 3-4). What would your decision be? Why?

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It may be that this kind of evaluative criticism makes you uncomfortable. If so, we think your reaction is based on good instincts. First, each work of art is unique, so a relative merit ranking of sev eral of them seems arbitrary. This is especially the case when the works are in different media and have different subject matters, as in the second ques tion of the Perception Key. Second, it is not clear how such judg ing helps us in our basic critical purpose — to learn from our refl ections about works of art how to participate with these works more intensely and enjoyably. Nevertheless, evaluative criticism of some kind is generally necessary. As authors, we have been making such judgments continually in this book — in the selections for illustrations, for example. You make such judgments when, as you enter a museum, you decide to spend your time with this painting rather than that. Obviously, directors of museums must also make evaluative criticisms, because usually they cannot display every work owned by the museum. If a van Gogh is on sale — and one of his paintings, Vase with Fifteen Sunfl owers, was bought in 1997 for $90 million — someone has to decide its worth. Evaluative criticism, then, is always functioning, at least implicitly. The problem, then, is how to use evaluative criticism as constructively as pos- sible. How can we use such criticism to help our participation with works of art? Whether Giorgione’s painting (Figure 2-16) or Pearlstein’s (Figure 2-25) deserves fi rst prize seems trivial. But if almost all critics agree that Shakespeare’s poetry is far superior to Edward Guest’s, and if we have been thinking Guest’s poetry is better, we should do some reevaluating. Or if we hear a music critic whom we respect state that the music of Nora Jones is worth listening to — and up to this time we have dismissed it — then we should indeed make an effort to listen. Perhaps the basic importance of evaluative criticism lies in its commendation of works that we might otherwise dismiss. This may lead us to delightful experiences. Such criticism may also make us more skeptical about our own judgments. If we think that the poetry of Edward Guest and the paintings of Norman Rockwell (see Figure 14-5) are among the very best, it may be helpful for us to know that other informed people think otherwise. Evaluative criticism presupposes three fundamental standards: perfection, insight, and inexhaustibility. When the evaluation centers on the form, it usually values a form highly only if the detail and regional relationships are organically related. If they fail to cohere with the structure, the result is distracting and thus inhibits participation. An artistic form in which everything works together may be called perfect. A work may have perfect organization, however, and still be evaluated as poor unless it satisfi es the standard of insight. If the form fails to in- form us about some subject matter — if it just pleases or interests or excites us but doesn’t make some signifi cant difference in our lives — then, for us, that form is not artistic. Such a form may be valued below artistic form because the participa- tion it evokes, if it evokes any at all, is not lastingly signifi cant. Incidentally, a work lacking representation of objects and events may possess artistic form. Abstract art has a defi nite subject matter — the sensuous. Who is to say that the Pollock (Figure 3-3) is a lesser work of art because it informs only about the sensuous? The sensuous is with us all the time, and to be sensitive to it is exceptionally life- enhancing. Finally, works of art may differ greatly in the breadth and depth of their content. The subject matter of Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm (Figure 3-3) — the sensuous — is

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not as broad as the subject of Cézanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire (Figure 2-4). Yet it does not follow necessarily that the Cézanne is a superior work. The stronger the content — that is, the richer the insight on the subject matter — the more intense our participation, because we have more to keep us involved in the work. Such works apparently are inexhaustible, and evaluative critics usually will rate only those kinds of works as masterpieces. One of the most popular and controversial art shows of recent times was Sen sa tion: Young British Artists, originally viewed at the Royal Academy of Art in London in 1997. Three hundred thousand viewers went to see art that was described as shocking by a number of commentators. The show moved on to Hamburg, Germany, where it was a signal success, and then on to the Brook lyn Museum in New York in 1999, where it faced intense negative criticism from churchmen and politicians. The museum put up a sign restricting the show to those over seventeen (the British Academy restricted it to those over eighteen). Ron Mueck’s four-foot-long Mask: Self-Portrait (Figure 3-6) was a sensation because of its hugeness and its hyper-real style. Mueck had been making pup- pets for children’s television in Australia. The Saatchi Gallery commissioned this work for the Sensation show in London. Rudolph Giuliani, mayor of New York at the time, did not see the show but was horrifi ed by complaints from William Donahue, president of the Catholic League, and cut off funding to the museum. He later restored it, but not until protesters accused him of censorship. Churchmen and politicians thought the most shock- ing work of art was by Chris Ofi li, a young black painter whose Holy Virgin Mary (Figure 3-7) alarmed religious New Yorkers because elephant dung was part of the mixed media that went into the painting.

FIGURE 3-6 Ron Mueck, Mask II. 2001–2002. Mixed media, 303⁄8 3 461⁄2 3 331⁄2 inches. (77.2 3 118.1 3 85.1 cm). Collection of the Art Supporting Foundation to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

Mueck’s huge sculptures were part of the original Sensation show in London. Their effect on the viewer is one of surprise and, ultimately, delight.

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FIGURE 3-7 Chris Ofi li, Holy Virgin Mary. 1996. Mixed media, 96 3 72 inches. Victoria Miro Gallery, London.

This is another example of shock art, by Ofi li, a British artist noted for works referencing his African heritage. Audiences were alarmed when they discovered one of the media was elephant dung, a substance common in African art, but not easily accepted by Western audiences.

PERCEPTION KEY Th e Sensation Show 1. Musician and artist David Bowie said Sensation was the most important show since

the 1917 New York Armory show in which Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2 (Figure 2-21) created a scandal, protest, and intense controversy. Most art that was once shocking seems tame a few years later. To what extent do any of these works of art still have shock value?

2. Should politicians like the mayor of New York punish major museums for showing art that the politicians feel is off ensive? Does such an act constitute a legitimate form of evaluative art criticism? Does it constitute art criticism if, like ex-mayor Giuliani, the politician has not seen and experienced the art? Would you agree that punishing museums for shows constitutes a form of censorship?

3. The Sensation show was described as shock art. Ofi li’s use of dung in a portrait of the Madonna shocked many people. Why would it have been shocking? To what extent is shock an important value in art? Would you agree with those who said Chris Ofi li’s work was not art? What would be the basis for such a position?

4. Would Chris Ofi li’s painting be shocking if people were unaware that he painted some of it with elephant dung? Would people be less alarmed if they knew that in Africa such a practice in art is relatively common? Does any of this matter in mak- ing a judgment about the painting’s success as a work of art? What matters most for you in evaluating this painting?

continued

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The Polish Rider (Figure 3-8), featured in “Experiencing: The Polish Rider,” was originally attributed to Rembrandt. But in 1982 a group of fi ve scholars, members of the Rembrandt Research Project, “disattributed” the painting. Studying subtle- ties such as brushwork, color transitions, transparency, shadowing, and structuring, they concluded that Willem Drost, a student of Rembrandt, was probably the artist. In the Frick Museum in New York City, The Polish Rider no longer draws crowds. Another work, presumably by Rembrandt, had been expected to sell for at least $15 million. It too was disattributed and was sold for only $800,000!

5. Government offi cials in totalitarian states invariably censor the arts. They typically approve only of realistic, idealized portraits of the “happy life” under their rule. What do you make of an American elected offi cial condemning modern art, punish- ing a public museum, and urging everyone to boycott the show?

EXPERIENCING The Polish Rider 1. Does knowing The Polish Rider was

probably painted by Willem Drost in- stead of Rembrandt van Rijn diminish your participation with the painting? Does the fact that it was painted by a student negatively aff ect your evalua- tion of the painting?

2. Should a work of art be evaluated completely without reference to its creator?

3. How should our critical judgment of the painting be aff ected by knowing it was once valued at millions of dol- lars and is now worth vastly less?

One of the authors, as a young adult, saw this painting in the Frick Museum and listened to a discussion of its mer- its when it was thought to be by Rem- brandt. Today the painting is neglected partly because its value is thought to be less, not because it is less excellent than it was. Questions about monetary value for works of art have been intensely de- bated in the last three or four centuries because the modern age has produced individuals who can, like Charles Kane in the fi lm Citizen Kane, amass huge col- lections at great expense and then, like

FIGURE 3-8 Willem Drost, The Polish Rider. 1655. Oil on canvas, 46 3 531/8 inches. Frick Collection, New York.

Long thought to be a painting by Rembrandt, The Polish Rider is now credited to one of his gifted students. The Frick removed it from a prominent place after Julius Held determined that it is probably the work of Willem Drost.

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Henry Clay Frick, create great museums when they die. Art critics do not feel a painting is better because it is worth more money. Eval- uative judgments are made on the basis of observation and sometimes by compar- ing works of art. One school of thought holds that paintings are to be evaluated wholly on their own merit without reference to the artist who created it. The Polish Rider, for instance, would still be held in great esteem if it had not been assumed to be by Rembrandt. But an- other school of thought holds that a painting is best evaluated when seen in the context of other paintings by the same artists, or even in the context of other paintings with similar style and subject matter. Because in modern times artworks have sometimes been investment opportunities for wealthy people, the question of value has become a fi nancial question even more than an aesthetic question. The result is that some works of art have been grossly overvalued by art critics who are swayed by the dollar value, not the artistic value. We believe art must be valued for its capacity to provide us with insight and to promote our participation, not for its likelihood to be worth a fortune.

4. Which school of thought do you belong to: those who evaluate a painting on its own merits, or those who consider the reputation of the artist?

5. Prices for art soared enormously beginning in the 1980s. The highest price paid at auction for a work of art was $120 million for Edvard Munch’s iconic image, The Scream (Figure 3-9). Munch painted three other versions of this from 1893 to 1910. The other versions are in museums in Norway. Why would a pastel version of this image be worth so much money? Do you feel its artistic value is very great or not? How does its money value aff ect its artistic value?

FIGURE 3-9 LONDON, ENGLAND - April 12: Gallery technicians at Sotheby’s auction house stand guard in front of ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch on April 12, 2012 in London, England. Munch used pastel on board in 1895. This version of “The Scream” is 23.2 3 31.1 inches.

61

Summary

Being a responsible critic demands being at the height of awareness while examin- ing a work of art in detail, establishing its subject matter, and clarifying its achieve- ment. There are three main types of criticism: Descriptive criticism focuses on form, interpretive criticism focuses on content, and evaluative criticism focuses on the relative merits of a work.

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Good critics can help us understand works of art while also giving us the means or techniques that will help us become good critics ourselves. They can teach us about what kinds of questions to ask. Each of the following chapters on the individual arts is designed to do just that — to give some help about what kinds of questions a serious viewer should ask in order to come to a clearer perception and deeper understanding of any specifi c work. With the arts, unlike many other areas of human concern, the questions are often more important than the answers. The real lover of the arts will often not be the person with all the answers, but rather the one who asks the best questions. This is not because the answers are worthless but because the questions, when properly applied, lead us to a new awareness, a more exalted consciousness of what works of art have to offer. Then when we get to the last chapter, this preparation will lead to better understanding of how the arts are related to other branches of the humanities.

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63

P art 2

T H

E A

R T

SC h a p t e r 4

PAINTING

Our Visual Powers

Painting awakens our visual senses in such a way as to make us see color, shape, light, and form in new ways. Painters such as Siqueiros, Goya, Cézanne, Wesselmann, Valadon, Neel, and virtually all the painters illustrated in this book make demands on our sensitivity to the visual fi eld, rewarding us with challenges and delights that only painting can provide. But at the same time, we are also often dulled by day-to- day experience or by distractions of business or study that make it diffi cult to look with the intensity that great art requires. Therefore, we sometimes need to refresh our awareness by sharpening our attention to the surfaces of paintings as well as to their overall power. For example, by referring to the following Perception Key we may prepare ourselves to look deeply and respond in new ways to some of the paintings we considered in earlier chapters.

PERCEPTION KEY Our Visual Powers 1. Jackson Pollock, Autumn Rhythm (Figure 3-3). Identify the three major colors

Pollock uses in addition to the background. How do these colors establish a sense of visual rhythm? Which of the three colors is most intense? Which most surprising?

continued

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Our point is that everyday life tends to dull our senses so that we do not observe our surroundings with the sensitivity that we might. For help we must go to the artists, especially the painter and the sculptor—those who are most sensitive to the visual appearances of things. With their aid, our vision can be made whole again, as when we were children. Their works accomplish this by making things and their qualities much clearer than they usually appear. The artist purges from our sight the fi lms of familiarity. Painting, with its “all-at-onceness,” more than any other art, gives us the time to allow our vision to focus.

The Media of Painting

Throughout this book we will be talking about the basic materials and media in each of the arts, because a clear understanding of their properties will help us understand what artists do and how they work. The most prominent media in Western painting—and most painting in the rest of the world—are tempera, fresco, oil, watercolor, and acrylic. In early paintings, the pigment—the actual color—required a binder such as egg yolk, glue, or casein to keep it in solution and permit it to be applied to canvas, wood, plaster, and other substances.

Tempera

Tempera is pigment bound by egg yolk and applied to a carefully prepared surface like the wood panels of Cimabue’s thirteenth-century Madonna and Child Enthroned with Angels (Figure 4-1). The colors of tempera sometimes look slightly fl at and are diffi cult to change as the artist works, but the marvelous precision of detail and the subtlety of linear shaping are extraordinary. The purity of colors, notably in the lighter range, can be wondrous, as with the tinted white of the inner dress

2. Suzanne Valadon, Reclining Nude (Figure 2-23). Examine the piece of furniture, the sofa, on which Valadon’s nude reclines. What color is it? Why is it an eff ective con- trast to the nude? What are the designs on the sofa? What color are the lines of the designs? How do they relate to the subject matter of the painting?

3. Edward Hopper, Early Sunday Morning (Figure 1-8). What are the most important colors in the painting? How do they balance and complement each other? Why does Hopper limit the intensity of the colors as he does? What is the visual rhythmic eff ect of the patterns formed in the windows of the second fl oor? Are any two windows the same? How does Hopper use unexpected forms to break the rhythm of the fi rst level of shops? What emotional qualities are excited by Hopper’s control of the visual elements in the painting?

4. Paul Cézanne, Mont Sainte-Victoire (Figure 2-4). How many colors does Cézanne use in this painting? Which color is dominant? Which fi gure in the painting is most dominant? How do the most important lines in the painting direct your vision? Describe the way your eye moves through the painting. How does Cézanne use line and color to direct your attention?

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PAINTING

FIGURE 4-1 Cimabue, Madonna and Child Enthroned with Angels. Circa 1285–1290. Tempera and gold on wood, 12 feet 73⁄4 inches 3 7 feet 4 inches. Uffi zi, Florence.

Cimabue’s painting is typical of Italian altarpieces in the thirteenth century. The use of tempera and gold leaf creates a radiance appropriate to a religious scene.

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of Giotto’s Madonna Enthroned (Figure 4-2). In the fourteenth century, Giotto achieves an astonishing level of detail in the gold ornamentation below and around the Madonna. At the same time, his control of the medium of tempera permitted him to represent fi gures with a high degree of individuality and realism, represent- ing a profound change in the history of art.

Fresco

Because many churches and other buildings required paintings directly on plaster walls, artists perfected the use of fresco, pigment dissolved in lime water applied to wet plaster as it is drying. In the case of wet fresco, the color penetrates to about one-eighth of an inch and is bound into the plaster. There is little room for error

FIGURE 4-2 Giotto, Madonna Enthroned. Circa 1310. Tempera and gold on wood, 10 feet 83⁄16 inches 3 6 feet 83⁄8 inches. Uffi zi, Florence.

Giotto, credited with creating a realistic portrayal of fi gures from nature in religious art, lavishes his Madonna Enthroned with extraordinary detail permitted by the use of tempera and gold leaf. Giotto was one of Florence’s greatest painters.

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because the plaster dries relatively quickly, and the artist must understand how the colors will look when embedded in plaster and no longer wet. One advantage of this medium is that it will last as long as the wall itself. One of the greatest exam- ples of the use of fresco is Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, on the ceiling of which is the famous Creation of Adam (Figure 4-3).

Oil

Oil painting uses a mixture of pigment, linseed oil, varnish, and turpentine to pro- duce either a thin or thick consistency, depending on the artist’s desired effect. In the fi fteenth century, oil painting dominated because of its fl exibility, the richness of its colors, and the extraordinary durability and long-lasting qualities. Because oil paint dries slowly and can be put on in thin layers, it offers the artist remark- able control over the fi nal product. No medium in painting offers a more fl exible blending of colors or subtle portrayal of light and textures, as in Parmigianino’s The Madonna with the Long Neck (Figure 4-4). Oil paint can be messy, and it takes some- times months or years to dry completely, but it has been the dominant medium in easel painting since the Renaissance.

FIGURE 4-3 Michelangelo, Creation of Adam, detail. Circa 1508–1512. Fresco.

Michelangelo’s world-famous frescoes in the Sistine Chapel have been cleaned to reveal intense, brilliant colors. This detail from the ceiling reveals the long-lasting nature of fresco painting. The period 1508–1512 marks the High Renaissance in Italy.

67

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FIGURE 4-4 Parmigianino, The Madonna with the Long Neck. Circa 1535. Oil on panel, 85 3 52 inches. Uffi zi, Florence.

Humanistic values dominate the painting, with recognizably distinct faces, young people substituting for angels, and physical distortions designed to unsettle a conservative audience. This style of oil painting, with unresolved fi gures and unanswered questions, is called Mannerism—painting with an attitude.

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PAINTING

Watercolor

The pigments of watercolor are bound in a water-soluble adhesive, such as gum- arabic, a gummy plant substance. Usually, watercolor is slightly translucent so that the whiteness of the paper shows through. Unlike artists working with tempera or oil painting, watercolorists work quickly, often with broad strokes and in broad washes. The color resources of the medium are limited in range, but often striking in effect. Unlike tempera, watercolor usually does not lend itself to precise detail. In his Blue Mountain on the Circle Drive Near Taos (Figure 4-5), John Marin delights in the unfi nished quality of the watercolor and uses its energy to communicate his affection for this view.

Acrylic

A modern synthetic medium, acrylic is fundamentally a form of plastic resin that dries very quickly and is fl exible for the artist to apply and use. One advantage of acrylic paints is that they do not fade, darken, or yellow as they age. They can support luminous colors and look sometimes very close to oil paints in their fi nal effect. Many modern painters use this medium. Helen Frankenthaler’s The Bay (Figure 4-6) is a large abstract painting whose colors are somewhat fl at, but suggest a range of intensities similar to what we see in watercolor details.

FIGURE 4-5 John Marin, Blue Mountain on the Circle Drive Near Taos. 1929. Watercolor, crayon, and graphite on paper, 21¾ 3 30¼ inches. Metropolitan Museum of Art, Alfred Stieglitz Collection.

Although a mixed-media composition, Blue Mountain on the Circle Drive Near Taos is dominated by watercolor. An apparently unfi nished quality imparts a sense of energy, spontaneity, and intensity typical of Marin’s work.

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Other Media and Mixed Media

The dominant medium for Chinese and many Asian artists has been ink, as in Wang Yuanqi’s Landscape after Wu Zhen (Figure 4-7). Modern painters often employ mixed media, using duco and aluminum paint, house paint, oils, even grit and sand. Jackson Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm (Figure 3-3) is a good example. Andy Warhol used acrylic and silk-screen ink in his famous Marilyn Monroe series. Some basic kinds of prints (the graphic arts) are woodcut, engraving, linocut, etching, drypoint, lithography, and aquatint.

FIGURE 4-6 Helen Frankenthaler, The Bay. 1963. Acrylic on canvas, 6 feet 87/8 inches 3 6 feet 97/8 inches. Detroit Institute of Arts, Detroit.

The painting reveals the fl uid qualities of acrylics, essentially sensuous color permitted to radiate through a range of tones. Its size, almost seven feet square, intensifi es our reaction to the shapes the colors take, which Frankenthaler controls in a characteristic fashion.

PERCEPTION KEY Th e Media of Painting 1. Compare the detail of tempera in Giotto’s Madonna Enthroned (Figure 4-2) with

the radiance of color in Parmigianino’s oil painting The Madonna with the Long Neck (Figure 4-4). What diff erences do you see in the quality of detail in each painting and in the quality of the color?

2. Contrast the eff ect of Marin’s watercolor approach to nature with Wang Yuanqi’s use of ink. Which communicates a sense of nature more readily?

continued

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FIGURE 4-7 Wang Yuanqi, Landscape after Wu Zhen. 1695. Hanging scroll; ink on paper, 42¾ 3 20¼ inches. Metropolitan Museum of Art. Bequest of John M. Crawford Jr.

Typical of many of the great Chinese landscape scrolls, Wang Yuanqi uses his brush and ink prodigiously, fi nding a powerful energy in shaping the rising mountains and its trees. The presence of tiny houses and rising pathways to the heights places humanity in a secondary role in relation to nature and to the visual power of the mountain itself.

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Elements of Painting

The elements are the basic building blocks of a medium. For painting they are line, color, texture, and composition.1 Before we discuss the elements of painting, con- sider the issues raised by the Perception Key associated with Botticelli’s painting, Venus and Mars (Figure 4-8).

1Light, shape, volume, and space are often referred to as elements, but strictly speaking, they are compounds.

PERCEPTION KEY Venus and Mars The subject matter of this painting is the struggle between the sexes, a scene after lovemaking by two mythical gods.

1. What powerful ideas do Venus and Mars represent? Would you know this painting pictured a power struggle if you knew nothing about the mythic characters?

2. Mars is reduced to a snoring lump of fl esh. Venus is dreamy but alert. What does this tell you about their struggle?

3. How does the clarity of the line in this painting help you understand the signifi - cance of the action? For which of these fi gures is clarity of line more revealing of character?

4. Compare this Botticelli with the paintings by Cimabue, Giotto, and Michelangelo (Figures 4-1, 4-2, and 4-3). All are about gods. What makes the concerns of Botti- celli diff erent from those of the other painters?

FIGURE 4-8 Botticelli, Venus and Mars. 1483. Egg tempera and oil on poplar, 27.2 3 68.3 inches.

Botticelli’s painting combines media to achieve a heightened detail and radiance. In ancient myth, Venus, the goddess of love, and Mars, the god of war, are often in confl ict. Botticelli portrays them here with love clearly having conquered war. The satyrs, fertility fi gures in myth, are playful children celebrating a victory.

3. Compare the traditional fresco of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam (Figure 4-3) with Leonardo’s experimental fresco of the Last Supper (Figure 3-1). To what extent does Michelangelo’s use of the medium help you imagine what Leonardo’s fresco would have looked like if he had used Michelangelo’s technique?

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Line

Line is a continuous marking made by a moving point on a surface. Line outlines shapes and can contour areas within those outlines. Sometimes contour or internal lines dominate the outlines, as with the robe of Cimabue’s Madonna (Figure 4-1). Closed line most characteristically is hard and sharp, as in Lichtenstein’s Torpedo . . . Los! (Figure 2-9). In the Cimabue and in Botticelli’s Venus and Mars, the line is also closed but somewhat softer. Open line most characteristically is soft and blurry, as in Frankenthaler’s The Bay (Figure 4-6) and Renoir’s Bather Arranging Her Hair (Figure 2-17).

PERCEPTION KEY Goya, Frankenthaler, and Cézanne 1. Goya used both closed and open lines in his May 3, 1808 (Figure 2-3). Locate these

lines. Why did Goya use both kinds? 2. Does Frankenthaler use both closed and open lines in The Bay (Figure 4-6)? Locate

these lines. 3. Identify outlines in Cézanne’s Mont Sainte-Victoire (Figure 2-4). There seem to be no

outlines drawn around the small bushes in the foreground. Yet we see these bushes as separate objects. How can this be?

Line can suggest movement. Up-and-down movement may be indicated by the vertical, as in Parmigianino’s The Madonna with the Long Neck (Figure 4-4). Lateral movement may be indicated by the horizontal and tends to stress stability, as in the same Parmigianino. Depending on the context, however, vertical and horizontal lines may appear static, as in Wesselmann’s study for Great American Nude (Figure 2-20) and Lichtenstein’s Torpedo . . . Los! (Figure 2-9). Generally, diagonal lines, as in Cézanne’s Mont Sainte- Victoire (Figure 2-4), express more tension and movement than verticals and horizontals. Curving lines usually appear softer and more fl owing, as in Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus (Figure 2-16). Line in Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie (Figure 4-9) can also suggest rhythm and movement, especially when used with vibrant colors, which in this painting are intended to echo the neon lights of 1940s Broadway. Mondrian lived and worked for twenty years in Paris, but in 1938, with Nazis threatening war, he moved to London. In 1940, with the war under way, he went to New York. He was particularly attracted to American jazz music. He arrived in New York when the swing bands reached their height of popularity and he used his signature grid style in Broadway Boogie Woogie to interpret jazz visually. The basic structure is a grid of vertical and horizontal yellow lines—and only vertical and horizontal lines. On these lines, and between these lines, Mondrian places patterns of intense blocks of color to suggest the powerful jazz rhythms he loved so much. Even the large “silent” blocks of white imply musical rests. An axis line is an imaginary line that helps determine the basic visual directions of a painting. In Goya’s May 3, 1808 (Figure 2-3), for example, two powerful axis lines move toward and intersect at the white shirt of the man about to be

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shot: lines of the rifl es appear to converge and go on, and the line of those to be executed moving out of the ravine seems to be inexorably continuing. Axis lines are invisible vectors of visual force. Every visual fi eld is dynamic, a fi eld of forces directing our vision, some visible and some invisible but controlled by the visible. Only when the invisible lines are basic to the structuring of the image, as in the Goya, are they axis lines. Since line is usually the main determinant of shapes, and shapes are usually the main determinant of detail, regional, and structural relationships, line is usually fundamental in the overall composition—Mark Rothko’s Earth Greens (Figure 4-10) is an exception. The term “linear design” is often used to describe this organizing function. Cézanne’s small bushes are formed by small juxtaposed greenish-blue planes that vary slightly in their tinting. These planes are hatched by brushstrokes that slightly vary the textures. And from the center of the planes to the perimeters there is usually a shading from light to dark. Thus emerges a strong sense of volume with density. We see those small bushes as somehow distinct objects, and yet we see no separating outlines. Colors and textures meet and create impressions of line. As with axis lines, the visible suggests the invisible—we project the outlines.

FIGURE 4-9 Piet Mondrian, Broadway Boogie Woogie. 1942–1943. Oil on canvas, 50 3 50 inches (127 3 127 cm). Given anonymously. Museum of Modern Art, New York.

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On occasion, this kind of projection may occur when we think we see outlines of trees and other objects in the natural world. We see a tree, know it is a distinct object, and assume, of course, that it has distinct edges or outlines. But it may be that some- times we imagine lines while seeing only colors, shadows, and textures. Cézanne has clarifi ed the way we sometimes see things in the natural world. That is one reason his paintings may strike us as so fresh and true. What Cézanne has revealed is the way we sometimes see and our ignorance about how it occurs. What we are suggesting is controversial, and you may not be seeing it that way. Try to get to a museum that has a late Cézanne landscape (after 1890), and test our analysis. But above all, participate. You may come out with a wonderful new lens in your eyes.

FIGURE 4-10 Mark Rothko, Earth Greens. 1955. Oil on canvas, 90¼ 3 73½ inches. Museum Ludwig, Köln.

At seven and a half feet high and six feet wide, Earth Greens has a huge physical impact on the viewer. Many of Rothko’s similar works were commissioned for public spaces such as restaurants, but they ended up in sanctuaries because of their calming, spiritual effect on the viewer.

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The brushwork in Wang Yuanqi’s painting varies with the tone of the ink. The rising forms of the mountains are made with a broad brush, almost trans- lucent ink-tone, with intense dark dots implying the vegetation defi ning the top of each ridge. The man-made structures in the painting are made with a smaller brush, as in the curved bridge at the lower right of the painting. The rooftops and buildings in the mid portion of the painting on both left and right use a small brush with strong lines, like those of the trees in the mid foreground. The leaves of the nearest trees and bushes are deep-tone dark ink produced by chopping strokes, sometimes known as the ax-cut. The painting demands that our eyes begin with the trees in the foreground, then rise inexorably upward following the rising nearby mountains, leading us to the smooth, distant higher mountains that have no vegetation.

Color

Color is composed of three distinct qualities: hue, saturation, and value. Hue is simply the name of a color. Red, yellow, and blue are the primary colors. Their mixtures produce the secondary colors: green, orange, and purple. Further mixing produces six more, the tertiary colors. Thus the spectrum of the color wheel shows twelve hues. Saturation refers to the purity, vividness, or intensity of a hue. When we speak of the “redness of red,” we mean its highest saturation. Value, or shading, refers to the light- ness or darkness of a hue, the mixture in the hue of white or black. A high value of a color is obtained by mixing in white, and a low value is obtained by mixing in black. The highest value of red shows red at its lightest; the lowest value of red shows red at its darkest. Complementary colors are opposite each other on the color wheel—for example, red and green, orange and blue. When two complements are equally mixed, a neutral gray appears. An addition of a complement to a hue will lower its saturation. A red will look less red—will have less intensity—by even a small addition of green. And an addition of either white or black will change both the value and the saturation of the hue.

PERCEPTION KEY Wang Yuanqi Examine with a magnifying glass the brushstrokes in Landscape after Wu Zhen (Figure 4-7). 1. What diff erent kinds of brushstrokes can you identify? 2. Why such a variety?

In the Asian tradition, the expressive power of line is achieved generally in a very different way from the Western tradition. The stroke—made by fl exible brushes of varying sizes and hairs—is intended to communicate the spirit and feelings of the artist, directly and spontaneously. The sensitivity of the inked brush is extraordinary. The ink offers a wide range of nuances: texture, shine, depth, pallor, thickness, and wetness. The brush functions like a seismograph of the painter’s mind.

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Texture

Texture is the surface “feel” of something. When the brushstrokes have been smoothed out, the surface is seen as smooth, as in Wesselmann’s study for Great American Nude (Figure 2-20). When the brushstrokes have been left rough, the sur- face is seen as rough, as in van Gogh’s The Starry Night (see Figure 15-4) and Pol- lock’s Autumn Rhythm (Figure 3-3). In these two examples, the textures are real, for if—heaven forbid!—you were to run your fi ngers over these paintings, you would feel them as rough. Yet the surface of paintings that would be smooth to touch can render simulated textures that are rough. Distinctive brushstrokes produce distinctive textures. Compare, for example, the soft hatchings of Valadon’s Reclining Nude (Figure 2-23) with the grainy effect of most of the brushstrokes in Wang Yuanqi’s painting (Figure 4-7). Sometimes the textural effect can be so dominant that the specifi c substance behind the textures is disguised, as in the background behind the head and shoulders of Renoir’s Bather Arranging Her Hair (Figure 2-17).

PERCEPTION KEY Texture 1. In what ways are the renditions of textures an important part in the portrayal of

the ten nudes (Figures 2-16 to 2-25)? 2. Suppose the ultra-smooth surfaces of Wesselmann’s nude had been used by Neel.

How would this have signifi cantly changed the content of her picture? 3. In Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm (Figure 3-3), the impasto (the protruding paint) lies

noticeably on top of a smoothly textured brownish background. Suppose there were no impasto. Would this have made a signifi cant diff erence? If so, why?

Neel’s nude would be greatly altered, we believe, if she had used textures such as Wesselmann’s. A tender, vulnerable, motherly appearance would become harsh, confi dent, and brazen. With the Pollock, the title brings autumn to mind; and, in turn, the laying on and drippings of heavy paint suggest vivid chaotic swirling rhythms of rain and windblown debris. The medium of a painting may have much to do with textural effects. Tempera usually has a dry feel. Watercolor naturally lends itself to a fl uid feel. Because they can be built up in heavy layers, oil and acrylic are useful for depicting rough tex- tures, but of course they can be made smooth. Fresco usually has a grainy crystalline texture.

Composition

In painting or any other art, composition refers to the ordering of relationships: among details, among regions, among details and regions, and among these and the total structure. Deliberately or more usually instinctively, artists use organizing principles to create forms that inform.

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Principles Among the basic principles of traditional painting are balance, grada- tion, movement and rhythm, proportion, variety, and unity.

• Balance refers to the equilibrium of opposing visual forces. Leonardo’s Last Supper (Figure 3-1) is an example of symmetrical balance. Details and regions are arranged on either side of a central axis. Goya’s May 3, 1808 (Figure 2-3) is an example of asymmetrical balance, for there is no central axis.

• Gradation refers to a continuum of changes in the details and regions, such as the gradual variations in shape, color value, and shadowing in Siqueiros’s Echo of a Scream (Figure 1-2).

• Movement and rhythm refers to the way a painting controls the movement and pace of our vision. For example, in Botticelli’s Venus and Mars (Figure 4-8), the implied movement of the satyrs establishes a rhythm in contrast with the gods’ indolence.

• Proportion refers to the emphasis achieved by the scaling of sizes of shapes—for example, the way the large Madonna in the Cimabue (Figure 4-1) contrasts with the tiny prophets.

• Unity refers to the togetherness, despite contrasts, of details and regions to the whole, as in Picasso’s Guernica (Figure 1-4).

• Variety refers to the contrasts of details and regions—for example, the color and shape oppositions in O’Keeffe’s Ghost Ranch Cliffs (Figure 4-11).

FIGURE 4-11 Georgia O’Keeffe, Ghost Ranch Cliffs. 1940–l942. Oil on canvas, 16 3 36 inches. Private collection.

O’Keeffe found the American West to be a refreshing environment after living for years in New York. Ghost Ranch is the name of her home in Abiquiu, New Mexico, where she painted landscapes such as this.

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Space and Shapes Perhaps the best way to understand space is to think of it as a hollow volume available for occupation by shapes. Then that space can be described by referring to the distribution and relationships of those shapes in that space; for example, space can be described as crowded or open. Shapes in painting are areas with distinguishable boundaries, created by colors, textures, and usually—and especially—lines. A painting is a two-dimensional surface with breadth and height. But three-dimensional simulation, even in the fl attest of paintings, is almost always present, even in Mark Rothko’s Earth Greens (Figure 4-10). Colors when juxtaposed invariably move forward or backward visually. And when shapes suggest mass—three-dimensional solids—depth is inevitably seen. The illusion of depth—perspective—can be made by various techniques, including

• Overlapping of shapes (Wesselmann, Figure 2-20) • Making distant shapes smaller, darker, and less detailed (Siqueiros, Figure 1-2) • Placing distant shapes higher (Goya, Figure 2-3) • Moving from higher to lower saturation (Pollock, Figure 3-3) • Moving from lighter to heavier textures (Cézanne, Figure 2-4) • Shading from light to dark (Giorgione, Figure 2-16) • Using less saturated and cooler hues in the distance (Rothko, Figure 4-10) • Slanting lines inward—linear perspective—illustrated by the phenomenon of

standing on railroad tracks and watching the two rails apparently meet in the distance.

PERCEPTION KEY Principles of Composition After defi ning each principle briefl y, we listed an example. Go through the color pho- tographs of paintings in the book, and select another example for each principle.

PERCEPTION KEY Composition Choose four paintings not discussed so far and answer the following questions: 1. In which does color dominate line, or line dominate color? 2. Which painting has the most balanced space? 3. Which painting is most symmetrical? Which most asymmetrical? 4. Which pleases your eye more: symmetry or asymmetry? 5. In which painting is the sense of depth perspective the strongest? How does the

artist achieve this depth? 6. Which painting most controls the movement of your eye along set paths? 7. In which painting is proportion most important? 8. Which painting pleases you the most? Explain how its composition pleases you.

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The Clarity of Painting

Cézanne’s form distorts reality in order to reveal reality. He makes Mont Sainte- Victoire far clearer in his painting than you will ever see it in nature or even in the best of photographs. Once you have participated with this and similar paintings, you may begin to see mountains like Mont Sainte-Victoire with a more meaningful vision.

PERCEPTION KEY Mont Sainte-Victoire (Figure 2-4) 1. Why did Cézanne put the two trees in the foreground at the left and right edges? Why

did he have them cut off by the frame? Why did he portray the trees as if trembling? 2. In the painting, the viaduct has been moved to the left. Why? 3. In the painting, the lines of the viaduct appear to move toward the left. Why? 4. Furthermore, the lines of the viaduct lead (with the help of an axis line) to a meet-

ing point with the long road that runs (also with the help of an axis line) toward the left side of the mountain. The fi elds and buildings within that triangle all seem drawn toward that unseen apex. Why did Cézanne organize this middle ground more geometrically than the foreground or the mountain? And why is the apex of the triangle the unifying area for that region?

The subject matter of Cézanne’s painting is the mountain. Suppose the title of the painting were Trees. This would strike us as strange because when we read the title of a representational painting, we usually expect it to tell us what the painting is about—that is, its subject matter. And although the trees in Cézanne’s painting are important, they obviously are not as important as the mountain. A title such as Viaduct would also be misleading. Each aspect of the painting’s composition helps bring forth the energy of Mont Sainte-Victoire, which seems to roll down the valley and then shake the foreground trees. Everything is dominated and unifi ed around the mountain. The rolls of its ridges are like waves of the sea, but far more durable, as we sense the impenetrable solidity of the masses underneath. The small color shapes are something like pieces in a mosaic. These units move toward one another in receding space, and yet their intersections are rigid, as if their impact froze their movement. Almost all the colors refl ect light, like the facets of a crystal, so that a solid color or one-piece effect rarely appears. And the color tones of the painting, variously modulated, are repeated endlessly. For example, the color tones of the mountain are repeated in the viaduct and the fi elds and buildings of the middle ground and the trees of the foreground. Cézanne’s colors animate everything, mainly because the colors seem to be always moving out of the depth of everything rather than being laid on fl at like house paint. The vibrating colors, in turn, rhythmically charge into one another and then settle down, reaching an equilibrium in which everything except the limbs of the foreground trees seems to come to rest.

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The “All-at-Onceness” of Painting

In addition to revealing the visually perceptible more clearly, paintings give us time for our vision to focus, hold, and participate. Of course, there are times when we can hold on a scene in nature. We are resting with no pressing worries and with time on our hands, and the sunset is so striking that we fi x our attention on its redness. But then darkness descends and the mosquitoes begin to bite. In front of a painting, however, we fi nd that things stand still, like the red in Siqueiros’s Echo of a Scream (Figure 1-2). Here the red is peculiarly impervious and reliable, infallibly fi xed and settled in its place. It can be surveyed and brought out again and again; it can be visualized with closed eyes and checked with open eyes. There is no hurry, for all of the painting is present, and, under normal conditions, it is going to stay present; it is not changing in any signifi cant perceptual sense. Moreover, we can hold on any detail or region or the totality as long as we like and follow any order of details or regions at our own pace. No region of a paint- ing strictly presupposes another region temporally. The sequence is subject to no absolute constraint. Whereas there is only one route in listening to music, for ex- ample, there is a freedom of routes in seeing paintings. With Mont Sainte-Victoire, for example, we may focus on the foreground trees, then on the middle ground, and fi nally on the mountain. The next time, we may reverse the order. “Paths are made,” as the painter Paul Klee observed, “for the eye of the beholder which moves along from patch to patch like an animal grazing.” There is a “rapt resting” on any part, an unhurried series, one after the other, of “nows,” each of which has its own temporal spread. Paintings make it possible for us to stop in the present and enjoy at our leisure the sensations provided by the show of the visible. That is the second reason paintings can help make our vision whole. They not only clarify our world but also may free us from worrying about the future and the past, because paintings are a framed context in which everything stands still. There is the “here-now” and relatively speaking nothing but the “here-now.” Our vision, for once, has time to let the qualities of things and the things themselves unfold.

Abstract Painting

Abstract, or nonrepresentational, painting may be diffi cult to appreciate if we are confused about its subject matter. Since no objects or events are depicted, abstract painting might seem to have no subject matter: pictures of nothing. But this is not the case. The subject matter is the sensuous. The sensuous is composed of visual qualities—line, color, texture, space, shape, light, shadow, volume, and mass. Any qualities that stimulate our vision are sensa. In representational painting, sensa are used to portray objects and events. In abstract painting, sensa are freed. They are depicted for their own sake. Abstract painting reveals sensa, liberating us from our habits of always identifying these qualities with specifi c objects and events. They make it easy for us to focus on sensa themselves, even though we are not artists. Then the radiant and vivid values of the sensuous are enjoyed for their own sake, satisfying a fundamental need. Abstractions can help fulfi ll this need to behold and treasure the images of the sensuous. Instead of our controlling the sensa,

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transforming them into signs that represent objects or events, the sensa control us, transforming us into participators. Moreover, because references to objects and events are eliminated, there is a peculiar relief from the future and the past. Abstract painting, more than any other art, gives us an intensifi ed sense of here-now, or presentational immediacy. When we perceive representational paintings such as Mont Sainte-Victoire, we may think about our chances of getting to southern France some time in the future. Or when we perceive May 3, 1808, we may think about similar massacres. These suggestions bring the future and past into our participation, causing the here-now to be some- what compromised. But with abstract painting—because there is no portrayal of objects or events that suggest the past or the future—the sense of presentational immediacy is more intense. Although sensa appear everywhere we look, in paintings, sensa shine forth. This is especially true with abstract paintings, because there is nothing to attend to but the sensa. What you see is what you see. In nature the light usually appears as external to the colors and surface of sensa. The light plays on the colors and surface. In paintings the light usually appears immanent in the colors and surface, seems to come—in part at least—through them, even in the fl at polished colors of a Mondrian. In Lee Krasner’s Celebration (Figure 4-12), the light seems to be absorbed into the colors and surfaces. There is a depth of luminosity about the sensa of paintings that rivals nature. Generally the colors of nature are more brilliant than the colors of painting; but usually in nature the sensa are either so glittering that our squints miss their inner luminosity or so changing that we lack the time to participate and penetrate. To ignore the allure of the sensa in a painting, and, in turn, in nature, is to miss one of the chief glories life provides. It is especially the abstract painter—the shepherd of sensa—who is most likely to call us back to our senses. Study the Krasner (Figure 4-12) or the Rothko (Figure 4-10). Then refl ect on how you experienced a series of durations—“spots of time”—that are ordered by the relationships between the regions of sensa. Compare your experience with listening to music.

FIGURE 4-12 Lee Krasner, Celebration. 1957–1960. Oil on canvas, 92½ 3 184½ inches. Cleveland Museum of Art.

The muted color sensa in Lee Krasner’s Celebration are intensifi ed by the dramatic black curving lines. They suggest movement and create a sense of rhythm. The rounded red and pink forms may also suggest fi gures in motion, but we are drawn to the excitement of pulsing forms that seem to well up from the surface. The green shapes imply a connection to nature, but what we respond to is the magnifi cent motion achieved by Krasner’s attack on the canvas.

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Intensity and Restfulness in Abstract Painting

Abstract painting reveals sensa in their primitive but powerful state of innocence. This makes possible an extraordinary intensity of vision, renewing the spontaneity of our perception and enhancing the tone of our physical existence. We clothe our visual sensations in positive feelings, living in these sensations instead of using them as means to ends. And such sensuous activity—sight, for once minus anxiety and eyestrain—is sheer delight. Abstract painting offers us a complete rest from practical concerns. Abstract painting is, as Matisse in 1908 was beginning to see,

an art of balance, of purity and serenity devoid of troubling or depressing subject matter, an art which might be for every mental worker, be he businessman or writer, like an ap- peasing infl uence, like a mental soother, something like a good armchair in which to rest from physical fatigue.2

The underlying blue rectangle of Earth Greens is cool and recessive with a pro- nounced vertical emphasis, accented by the way the bands of blue gradually expand upward. However, the green and rusty-red rectangles, smaller but more prominent be- cause they stretch over most of the blue, have a horizontal “lying down” emphasis that quiets the upward thrust. The vertical and the horizontal—the simplest, most universal, and potentially the most tightly “relatable” of all axes, but in everyday experience usually cut by diagonals and oblique curves or strewn about chaotically—are brought together in perfect peace. This fulfi lling harmony is enhanced by the way the lines, with one exception, of all these rectangles are soft and slightly irregular, avoiding the stiffness of straight lines that isolate. Only the outside boundary line of the blue rectangle is strictly straight, and this serves to separate the three rectangles from the outside world. Within the fi rm frontal symmetry of the color fi eld of this painting, the green rect- angle is the most secure and weighty. It comes the closest to the stability of a square; the upper part occupies the actual center of the picture, which, along with the lower blue border, provides an anchorage; and the location of the rectangle in the lower section of the painting suggests weight because in our world heavy objects seek and possess low places. But even more important, this green, like so many earth colors, is a peculiarly quiet and immobile color. Wassily Kandinsky, one of the earliest abstract painters, fi nds

PERCEPTION KEY Rothko, Krasner, and O’Keeff e 1. Rothko’s Earth Greens (Figure 4-10) is, we think, an exceptional example of time-