More Thoughts About Picasso as The Greatest Artist of the 20th Century

According to James Voorhies in an essay about Pablo Picasso, written for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York:  “The artistic genius of Pablo Picasso (1881–1973) has impacted the development of modern and contemporary art with unparalleled magnitude. His prolific output includes over 20,000 paintings, prints, drawings, sculptures, ceramics, theater sets and costumes that convey myriad intellectual, political, social, and amorous messages.” http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/pica/hd_pica.htm

Thinking about Picasso’s obvious knowledge and comprehension of Biblical and Mythological concepts, as well as his material genius, sometimes even in the guise of simple and rustic colors and shapes originally reminded me of Carol Bly’s comment about the inadequacy of my own (Karen’s) education. I can quote Jane Austen all day long, and You’ve Got Mail, the real, “I Ching of all wisdom.” But, all those gods and goddesses make pudding in my mind, and I certainly don’t have the skill to create heart stopping portraits and self-portraits drawn out of origins buried in history and the historical renditions of other artists that came before me.

This little epiphany I’m expressing right now may be a doorway into something else. It grows out of what I figured out earlier, that James Joyce wrote the authors in whose company he wanted to be considered into his own writing. Picasso seems less self-serving, more honest, and more deeply brilliant (even though Carol Bly included The Dead in her list of the best ten short stories every written).

If all art is essentially self-portrait, then the truth of oneself is bound to cause more discussion and be more disconcerting as it more closely approaches honesty.

More on Picasso/Mythology

From inside the front flyleaf of Alexander Eliot’s book, The Timeless Myths/How Ancient Legends Influence the World Around Us: “Do scholars, anthropologists, and psychologists, between them, possess and exhaust mythology? They cannot: it is the primal resource of the entire human race.”

I’m still working my way through this fascinating book where Alexander Eliot credits mythology as the bonding medium drawing and holding humanity together. As I wrote a few weeks ago, I gasped when I saw Picasso’s mythological works currently on display at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (1907) Pablo Picasso

I gasped again this week when I opened The Timeless Myths and saw one section of the book titled, Demoiselles. Could this title refer to Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon? Yes!

Les Demoiselles d’Avignon is a painting I think about often, ever since I walked around a certain corner at the Museum of Modern Art in New York and found myself facing Les Demoiselles, and wept. I have never known why.

I wrote an essay once, asking whether James Joyce included Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare in The Odyssey in order to increase the likelihood of his own name being included in the Bibliography of great writers. The answer: Yes, a lot of writers have done the same thing.

According to Alexander Eliot, in 1907, Picasso made this painting with distorted figures shortly after he and friends had begun collecting African masks. Picasso told a friend that the figures in Les Damoiselles d’Avignon represented prostitutes. But also, Picasso’s friend, Zuloaga, owned El Greco’s painting, Opening of the Fifth Seal,  a painting Eliot claims that Picasso recast in Desmoiselles, inspired by African art. Elliott goes on to say these five damoiselles, “Form the fingers and thumb of an unseen hand…”

El  Greco came from Crete, where Rhea the titaness gave birth to Zeus, at whose birth “Rhea, convulsively clutched the ground. Then, from the grooved earth ten finger-beings or ‘Dactyls’ arose. The five at Rhea’s right hand were youths, and they became the first blacksmiths. The five at her left hand were maidens, ‘Demoiselles,’ destined to become the first witches.”

I  keep remembering Carol Bly telling me she didn’t think much of my education. Also from Alexander Eliot: “Intolerance is the father of illusion and evil deeds. Tolerance is not its opposite; tolerance is neutral. The opposite of intolerance is creative imagination, sympathetically exercised in the service of ever-illusive truth.”

Again: It is Picasso who’s collective work consistently pops and makes you pay attention to his mastery. Larry Tolle

 

Hey Baby, You Want to Come Up and See My Etchings?

Minotauromachy, Etching by Pablo Picasso, 1935 (19 7/16 x 27 3/16 in.)

Minotauromachy/Minotauromachie: A young girl, holding flowers, shines a dim light on a beast that is partly human. The beast has stretched its hand out toward the light. Blocking the light? Figures from above, two women with birds, a man climbing a ladder, and a face in the far wall, are observing the scene. Below, between the girl and the monster, a woman and a horse ( a human and an animal) are suffering.

Minotaur Caressing the Hand of a Sleeping Woman with His Muzzle, June 18, 1933

Minotaur Caressing the Hand of a Sleeping Woman with His Muzzle: A naked beast is straddling a sleeping woman in her bed. The implications are sexually powerful.

Historically, the image of the Minotaur represents violence. The story weaves back through time and grows out of the prehistoric practice of human sacrifice, both of young men and young women, performed traditionally by a priest disguised in a bull-headed mask and includes references to sexual relations between a beast and a woman, producing the bull-headed man or man-headed bull in different depictions.

I’ve heard it said that, at some level, all art is self-portrait. Every time I think about that, I think about my own recent frenzy of painting, and decide that can only be true at some certain but undetermined skill level. So, in my own life, I would grant the assumption more credibility when it refers to my writing than my painting at this time. But, the development of self-expression is a major goal that I am consciously  trying to develop in my painting. I grant the assumption.

Picasso is the master craftsman. His work does, consistently pop and make me pay attention, even though I have often been left somewhat confused about the exact reason for my reactions. This time, regarding these works from the LACMA exhibition, Picasso and Rivera: Conversations Across Time, the implications are clear, and disturbing.

 

 

Picasso

In late October 2015, I wrote about Andy Warhol when Byron told me Warhol is often considered the most important Twentieth Century artist. I don’t care for Warhol’s work, repeatedly walk right by it in museums. It seems shallow and elementary, and now that I think about this again, I remember concluding at the time, that greatness in Warhol’s work might lie only if he was reflecting a shallow and garish culture.

I haven’t, up until now, taken that subject further. Larry Tolle commented on that earlier post this way. It is Picasso who’s collective work consistently pops and makes you pay attention to his mastery. 

I remembered Larry’s comment, and my failed attempts to write about Picasso at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) on Sunday afternoon when we saw the current Picasso/Rivera Exhibition on display there. Minotauromachie, seen below, is referred to in the museum’s description as the most important, “work on paper from the Twentieth Century,” a fact which gives credibility to the claim for Picasso as that century’s greatest artist.

Minotauromachy, Etching by Pablo Picasso, 1935 (19 7/16 x 27 3/16 in.)

Guernica by Pablo Picasso, 1937

Minotauromachie is cited as inspiration for Picasso’s great painting, Guernica, a response to the violent and deadly bombing of that city during the Spanish Revolution. I’ve never seen Guernica in person. But, even though I understand the symbolism, as it is usually described, the painting has never moved me much. I found that smaller, paper etching very powerful and moving.

But, two small pieces included in a group of drawings on loan from a private collection made me gasp when I saw them.

Minotaur Caressing the Hand of a Sleeping Woman with His Muzzle, June 18, 1933

According to the material provided by the museum, Picasso identified with the Minotaur as a character of complex emotions, driven by aggressive lust, and sorrow. He once remarked: “If all the ways I have been along were marked on a map and joined up with a line, it might represent a Minotaur.”

Picking Up With September, 2001

Last Fall Jim and I saw the art displayed in Northfield City Hall commemorating the fifteenth Anniversary of the terrorist attacks that took place in this country on September 11, 2001. Though the show commemorated tragic terrorist events, I found the work largely appealing. One artist’s work stood out from the others because of its semi-representational but primitive shapes created in beige on a charcoal background. “Yuck,” I thought. I’m still thinking about that show.

I remember lying in bed at nights after the September 11th attacks, listening to the silent night sky; no air flights passing overhead. We Americans had entered a new era in our history. Who knew what that era meant yet? The unknown, the partially known? The beautiful art down at City Hall reminded me of what was lost on that September day. The ugly art reminded me of the generalized sick feelings of that time.

When I was taking classes at Hamline University, we read a collection of the poetry of Paul Celan, whose parents died in a Nazi concentration camp. A thick volume; poem after poem. Mostly that poetry left me feeling the same way those charcoal and beige figures made me feel, somewhat moved but not compelled.

What I really remember from Celan’s work is the poem in the back of the book describing his mother in her flower garden before the war, a lovely woman in a peaceful garden, a specific person, a specific flower, a specific memory.

There’s a place for everything in the world in art in some way. Art, after all, is the communication of our experiences in a world full of a mind-boggling spectrum of possibilities.

 

 

 

New Painting and Preliminary Thought

This is how my weekly blog has been going. I post a new entry every week. But, I don’t necessarily start a new week every seven days. This past week, for example.

I’ve done a new painting, morning light shining through dead leaves on my banana tree. In my photo of the event, the light coming through the leaves closest to the source actually glows. The goal–to make my leaves glow as well; my first attempt at such a thing. Very difficult. If you can paint light, you can make your paintings live.

Bits of the yellow leaves do glow the way I hoped. Some angles are better than others. I’m pretty happy with the result. Not so happy though, that I won’t be trying the same painting again, next time with a little bit different format.

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Back to the Passage of Time: I started that loose relationship a few years ago. I remember when I made it up, about how a day could expand or shrink, depending on what I needed it to do. I told a friend about something I claimed to do every day.

“Wait,” she said. “You actually do that every day?”

“Yes, I do,” I said, “But I don’t always start a new day every twenty-four hours.”

I like it. But, my relationship to time isn’t always loose. I remember exactly when I told my friend about the flexible number of hours in the day. It was early September, 2001. Sometimes events are so important that small details surrounding them remain clear by association.

Portraits and the Human Figure

In his artist statement included in New American Paintings 126, Carlos Daniel Donjuan does not refer to his work as portraits but rather, “masked hybrid characters.” But, he says his work is, “acutely personal, often referencing family and friends.” His theme, “alien,” refers to the immigrant experience.

Doll Face watercolor on paper 30 X 22 inches Carlos Daniel Donjuan

Usama Khalid refers to his paintings, also included in New American Paintings 126, as abstract portraits. Facial features are not representational, even though each portrait is titled by the name of a specific person. According to the artist, “I want to capture their emotional and psychological being as well as their physical selves.”

Portrait by Usama Khalid,   Oil and copic marker, 24 X 18 inches

A couple of months ago, before I received my copy of this publication, Byron told me I would react strongly to the cover: Man Who Can’t Feel by David Raleigh.

What a portrait! That’s what I thought. But, according to David Raleigh’s artist statement, this painting is not a portrait.  “I am interested in the human figure and other humanoid forms as physical representations of, or metaphors for, experiences, feelings, and ideas.”

Back to the measure of art that I learned from Mrs. McDaniel during those long ago drawing lessons I loved so much, the ones that confirmed my sad suspicions, but didn’t apparently douse a flame.

The value of a piece of art is measured by the strength of your reaction, not the strength of your affection. I enjoyed the opportunity to see these works, and to read what the artists wrote about them.

Portraits don’t necessarily have faces, and all faces aren’t necessarily portraits.

How To Learn

Out of the Dark, Watercolor on Paper, 2017

About twenty years ago, I attended an information session about the MFA Program in Creative Writing at Hamline University in Saint Paul. The program was well attended. The group consisted largely of  well-educated professional people, including physicians and attorneys. I left the room essentially repulsed. Something like this: Oh my gosh, we can’t get out of school and live.

Okay, I’ve been to Hamline. But, right now, I’m anti-school again. I’ve been told how to write, how to paint, how to cook Chinese, how to do yoga, how to pronounce Senor Your Teeth, what to think about God; I am clearly over-taught.

So, for the past year or more, I’ve been trying to figure out new things on my own (and with Zane). I’ve been having a really good time. You can see my most recent adventure above, part of one particular rose.

I have a lot of trouble painting shadows. I scrubbed and repainted the center of that rose so many times I ruined the paper. Finally, I looked online about how to mix the color burgundy. Part of the equation is brown. I like to make my own brown paint. So, first I mixed the brown, then I added more red to make burgundy. I used both mixtures in the center of the rose. Then, I had to make the light spots with gouache.

Last Thursday, in order to clear our minds of Manchester By the Sea, Jim and I drove straight from the theater to Barnes and Noble, where I bought a new painting book about creating light in your watercolors. Instead of starting my next painting, one I want to glow with golden light, I’ve been practicing the exercises in the book. Blah! Boring, boring, boring.

Boy, just try to tell me what to do these days. Well, I don’t know. Maybe that never was easy.

Martin Luther at MIA

I don’t know what the crowds were like throughout the MIA’s recent Martin Luther exhibit, but when we went on Saturday, the day before the show ended, I felt like I was trying to push through the crowd during the big parade at the Minnesota State Fair. Volumes of people; volumes of displays. I don’t actually remember ever being in a more crowded space, not in Rome at St. Peter’s, not in the Louvre, not in Grand Central Station in New York. Masses of people, and seemingly thousands of items on display.

Jim and I were treated to this experience by our friends, John and Laurie. I lost track of all three of them as soon as we entered the exhibit hall, and I never glimpsed anyone I knew until I left the exhibit on the other side. How much can a person absorb in the presence of such a wealth of opportunity? The answer is always personal, and only a small portion of what’s in front of you.

But, interestingly, now that I’ve gone back to read some of what has been written about the exhibit, the items I found particularly interesting or moving have largely been the ones highlighted in the writing about the exhibit, satirical posters advertising controversial subjects during the Reformation, a drawing by Albrecht Durer, the Disputation Lectern from the University of Wittenberg with The Name of God written in Hebrew, a few simple symbols that I cannot read, and wouldn’t completely understand if I could, as it should be, the pulpit from which Luther preached his last sermon two days before he died.

In 1564 the heavily indebted sons of Martin Luther sold the house that he had lived in to the University of Wittenberg. The lectern was created more than 100 years later in the large auditorium in the upper storey of the house. It was used for lectures and scientific disputes – the disputations. Executed entirely in the baroque style of the times, it is a reminder of the phase of the 16th century, which was so important for Wittenberg University and for the role of the university in the early phase of the Reformation.

This pulpit was dismantled, analyzed, preserved and shipped to Minnesota. It will return to St. Andrew’s Church in Eisleben, Germany, when the exhibit closes Jan. 15. (Evangelical Church of St. Andreas-Nicolai-Petri, Eisleben)

A headline from the Star Tribune reads, Martin Luther comes alive in a powerful show at MIA. Martin Luther’s words, hymns, and teachings have been so much a part of my life that I think he’s really always been alive. Obviously, I’m not alone. Thank you, John and Laurie. What an awesome experience.

 

 

Letting Go

“When you make a thing, part of you goes into it. It’s no small event to let one of your creations go out into the world…” Karen, last week.

Recently friends have inquired about buying my paintings. I was completely unprepared for this idea, and for my possessive feelings that followed. Olivia expressed an interest in the sunflower I painted last winter. I’m very attached to that painting, one of the first I made that felt like a real painting, my first attempt at painting pottery. I felt the same way I used to feel back in the day when one of our little boys wanted to ride his bike to the swimming pool alone for the first time. First thought: No.

One thing about thinking is that it’s almost always, if not always, a good idea to keep doing it even after I think I know what I think.

A few months ago Pat texted me a copy of the Call for Submissions to The Northfield Senior Center Members Art Show. She said, “You should submit.” I felt like some of my clothes had just fallen off. But, I knew I wanted to do it. Patsy helped me choose a painting to submit, and I enjoyed seeing my bird hanging alongside works by other artists. It was the first painting I signed, and now it’s the first one I’ve had framed.

I’ve continued to imagine some of my paintings hanging on walls out there in the world, away from me. Idea: I’ll make another sunflower painting. If Olivia likes that one, then I will let her have that one.

Watercolor on Paper 12/2016

Wrong. I painted the center of the big flower first because I decided there was no point in continuing if I couldn’t get that part right. As soon as I put one yellow petal next to that brown center, I knew that painting wasn’t going anywhere. But interestingly, I thought maybe the first one could go…maybe.

In the end, or at least currently, when I imagine a painting I made going off somewhere, off out into the world, it seems like a small part of me went on to be free, went on to live.