Review of Michaël Borremans: As sweet as it gets

When the Dallas Museum of Art started promoting Michaël Borremans' exhibition, As sweet as it gets, I'd never heard of him. Initially, I wasn't very excited. The DMA seems to love contemporary art. In just the past year there have been exhibitions of Jim Hodges,  Stephen Lapthisophon, Isa Genzken, and a show of recent additions to the contemporary collection. I'm not a particular fan of most contemporary art. I'm not one of those "it's not art" types; I just don't care for it. Especially the work of Tracey Emin. Ugh.

Anyway, here's a show of a living artist of whom I'd never heard. And to promote the show, the DMA used Borremans' The Devil's Dress, as seen below:

So, here's a rather strange image of a naked man lying supine in what appears to be an enormous lampshade or a painted cardboard sheet. I wasn't sure if it was a painting or a photograph or some performance art. Was he a surrealist? I just didn't know. I prefer the art of the 18th and 19th centuries, so I think my initial apprehension can be forgiven. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? So, while I was traversing between one hospital and another (clinical research is my day job), I decided to take a long lunch and check out what Mr. Borremans has been doing in his studio.

My thought was that by checking out the exhibit early on a Tuesday afternoon, I'd be able to view the art without having to jockey for position while desperately trying to avoid physical contact with strangers. When I arrived, the museum was packed with teenagers wearing what I guess passed for business attire. It was really surreal. Like very tall children wearing their parents' oversized clothes. Anyway, I digress. The exhibit wasn't crowded at all.

I guess I should take a break and explain how I view art exhibitions. Lots of people will move slowly through a gallery and ponder each piece individually. I believe this is an egregious mistake. If you do that, by the time you reach the end, you've become saturated. A piece that may speak volumes to you on its own now has to compete with everything you've seen before. I will make a quick survey of the entire exhibition, making a mental note of what I find immediately striking. After I've seen everything in the show, I'll make a second trip through, spending much more time with the works that moved me in some way. Now, on to the show...

As I walked in, I was immediately greeted by The Avoider:

This is a monumental painting (almost 12'X6') of what appears to be a Mediterranean beachcomber. I was initially struck by the size, but I was also taken in by the subject's rather bohemian look. Not a care in the world, this chap. And check out his walking stick. Borremans has changed the stick from a straight shaft into a branch, reminiscent of a blackthorn walking stick used in Ireland to ward off malicious spirits. But what's interesting is that Borremans barely made an effort to hide this pentimento. 

I made my way through the exhibit, pausing from time to time to look at a piece. I was struck by how so few of the pieces were framed. Almost all of the paintings were displayed as a naked canvas and stretcher. And what works weren't naked employed the most minimalist of frames. But it worked to highlight the sense of nakedness that one detects from Borremans' work.

About halfway through the exhibit, I happened across another striking piece. This one is simply titled Angel:

It initially struck me because I saw a similarity with one of my favorite paintings, Whistler's Symphony in White No. 1:

This didn't surprise me much as I'd read that Borremans counts many 19th century masters (Manet, Courbet, &c.) as influences. However, upon closer inspection, I found Angel to be downright creepy. Look back to the complete view of Angel. What do you see? A woman with a darkened face? Maybe. But look at the arms. Those aren't dainty and delicate arms, but they're not necessarily a man's arms, either. Like the biblical angels, this creature is vaguely sexless.

Now let's look at a detail of the darkened face.

What's going on there? The face is so dark that I can hardly make out any facial features. Is it slathered with oil? Is that a well-tailored bronze mask? Hell, I don't know. What I do know is that the figure makes me uncomfortable and I love it.

While these are the two pieces that really grabbed me and gave me a deep appreciation for Borremans' work, I didn't revisit many of the other pieces except for one moderately sized canvas titled Swingers.

It's a highly impressionistic piece showing...well, I'm not quite sure. It looks as those people are wearing their Sunday best to stand on boards floating in murky water. I'm not sure what about this work caught my attention, but it did. I guess it's just the overall gloomy moodiness of it. I tend to like gloomy, moody art.

Anyway, As sweet as it gets is well worth your time if you're within driving distance of Dallas. And if you're not, you should check out Michaël Borremans. I went in with apprehension and came out knowing that I'll be visiting this exhibition again very soon. This is apparently his first major show in the United States, and I wouldn't be surprised to hear much more from him in the future.

The exhibit is running from March 15 - July 5, 2015. Check it out!

Getting the Most out of the Museum

Art museums will commonly have one fatal flaw -- they're simply too large. In order to fill their gallery spaces, museums will throw up a large percentage of their collection. It make sense. The more art you can display, the broader your appeal, and the more visitors you can attract. But if a visitor doesn't approach the museum with a plan of attack at least sketched out, that person is going to rapidly become overwhelmed and not get the full benefit of the visit.

I'll provide a recent example of this from my own experience. A few years ago, I visited the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston. At first, I was extremely impressed by the breadth and scope of their collection. A few pieces (especially from their antiquities) jumped out at me and I was excited to delve further into the museum. However, by the time I'd reached the Northern Renaissance paintings, I was over it. I was tired of religious imagery. "Oh, look. Another Madonna and Child...I want to go home." I was even too satiated to properly examine the works by my beloved JMW Turner. Instead, I just wanted to drink beer and settle in for a Beavis and Butthead marathon -- not quite the intellectual experience I'd been hoping for.

So, where did I go wrong? Well, I tried to view everything. It's a natural reaction to being in a place that you're not likely to visit again in the near future. But because I became so heavily saturated, nothing really stuck in my mind. Well, there was this one painting of Jan Gossaert's (The Holy Family) that stuck in my head. But it's mainly because Joseph looked rather like the Toxic Avenger and Baby Jesus looked like a middle-aged hobbit.

Anyway, I learned a valuable lesson that day. Not too long after that, I found some wonderful advice from Thomas Hoving in his Art for Dummies book (don't laugh -- there's good information in the For Dummies series). Inspired by Hoving, I offer a mix of his advice and my own on how to properly visit an art museum.

1.) Know What You Want to See
Most museums will have a few works they're quite proud of. The Dallas Museum of Art has Frederic Church's The Icebergs, the Museum of Modern Art in New York has Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night, etc. These works are often displayed under a "collections" tab on the museum's website. Before visiting the museum, check out their site to see what they have that might be of interest to you. Then make a point to see those works before checking out everything else.

If you don't have internet access or if the visit is a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing, then go to the gift shop as soon as you walk in. Go to the postcard rack and see what they have. Their more famous and impressive works will always be available in postcard form. And, if you're in a country where you don't speak the language, the postcard will help you find the original work. Just hold it up to a gallery attendant and they'll point the way.

Now, like everything else, there are times when this first piece of advice might not apply. I'm thinking specifically of the Mona Lisa. I mean, just look at all these people clamoring to get little more than a glimpse at a painting that I fail to see the fuss over. With so many other absolutely stunning works at the Louvre, why engage in mosh pit-like behavior for what is arguably the most reproduced image in the Western world?

2.) Look at What You Don't Like
I know this seems to be contradictory to the first bit of advice (this is straight from Tom, not me), but it makes sense. Most people who enjoy art find that it will broaden their scope of knowledge indirectly. Art exposes you to new ideas and concepts, but you must first expose yourself to the art. I typically don't care for contemporary art. A lot of it seems overly pretentious and mastrubatory to me. That being said, I have learned to really appreciate the mood created in the works of Mark Rothko. I wouldn't have benefited from the sense of serenity that his paintings give me if I hadn't forced myself to give a more modern gallery a try. Sometimes viewing art is like eating vegetables -- you never know what's going to move you until you give it a try.

3. Don't Study Everything
I can't stress this one enough. While I did just tell you to try something new, don't try everything. Think of a museum as a buffet table. If you fill your plate from every single dish on the steam table, you're going to be full and miserable in no time. But no one does that (at least I hope no one does that). Instead they scan the offerings and think, "Nah, that broccoli looks kinda gross, but those mashed potatoes look divine!" Same thing applies with art. Walk through the galleries and glance everything over, but only linger in front of the works that speak to you in some way. This will give you ample time and energy to really study what you're going to enjoy.

4.) Don't Be Afraid to Go Alone
I enjoy doing things alone and some people think I'm weird for this. But I think there's more value in visiting an art museum alone (at least for the first time). When looking at a work of art, I find it's best to be alone with my thoughts. I'm not really interested in what someone else has to say about a work of art when I'm first processing what I see. And going solo affords you the ability to linger as long as you like in front of a particular work. A companion may not be as moved by the same things as you, and will likely make an effort to herd you along prematurely. If you're just not comfortable going alone, at least choose a companion that knows how to be quiet.

5.) Don't Take Things too Seriously
While appreciating art sometimes requires serious contemplation and study, it's often just has helpful to have fun with it. My girlfriend and I can often be found walking around the Indonesian and Mesoamerican sections of the DMA speculating about which artifact is the most haunted in the museum. I think we've decided that the greatest risk of malevolent spirit activity comes from this Indonesian funerary figure or tau-tau:

Having a bit of fun with art helps you to remember what you've seen. It also encourages you to pay closer attention to the details as you look for more fodder for jokes. If you're comically-challenged and would like an example of how to properly make fun of art, I present "39 Renaissance Babies Who Can't Even."

P.S.: Here's a cheat sheet for Tom Hoving's advice.

The Art of Classifying Art

One of the most intimidating things about art to the unfamiliar is its convoluted categories and classifications, some of which often seem completely arbitrary. What is the difference between Renaissance art and Mannerism? Was Manet a Realist or an Impressionist? Is Van Gogh considered Post-Impressionist or Expressionist? If you’re just stepping into the world of art, the most important question is, “who cares?”

When you first start visiting art museums and galleries, you’re likely to hear people say things about different periods or movements in art. Terms like “Neoclassicism,” “Romanticism,” “Abstract Expressionism,” etc. all sound very scholarly and can be a bit daunting to those who have not made a serious study of art. However, none of those terms ultimately matter, especially not at first.

The important thing to realize is that there aren't any hard and fast criteria for assigning a work of art to a particular school or movement. The paintings used to represent a certain school or movement will share certain characteristics, but there isn’t a checklist of criteria that a painting must meet in order to be included in a certain category. But I'll give you an example of the criteria that are used to separate works of art into categories. For my example, I'll use works from Neoclassicism and Romanticism simply because I'm more familiar with late 18th/early 19th century art.

Okay, let’s take a look at two paintings from the same country and roughly similar time periods.

First we have Oath of the Horatii by Jacques-Louis David (1784).

Next we have Liberty Leading the People by Eugene Delacroix (1830).

Take a look at both of these paintings. The first is often considered the prime example of Neoclassical painting, while the second is heralded as one of the greatest works of Romanticism. What similarities and differences do you notice? What jumps out at you?

Let's start with the similarities. They're both French. Both are politically charged and patriotic paintings (though that may not be obvious in the first one without some background knowledge). They both make use of dramatic gestures and lighting. Both hint at strife and battle (well, the Delacroix does more than hint). 

Now let's look at the stylistic differences. Notice the orderly nature of David's composition. The brothers swearing to fight for Rome on the left, their mother and sisters showing restrained sorrow on the right, and the father holding the swords out to his sons separates to two sides. It's an illustration of the division of fear and sorrow from the dedication of duty to the state. You notice the brothers and the father more easily than the Horatii women. By using this calculated composition, David is showing that love of the state is more powerful than love of oneself or one's family. This was a powerful statement indeed in the days leading up to the French Revolution. Also pay attention David's clean and clear lines. The sharp focus of the painting makes it evident that everything on the canvas was carefully considered and meticulously executed. This is 18th century high definition. 

Now let's look at Delacroix's work. There is no clear division in the composition. By comparison, Delacroix's composition is downright messy. You have the personification of Liberty waiving the French Tricolor with a rifle in her hand. She's stepping over the dead and dying as scores of ordinary Frenchmen follow her into battle. Whereas David's figures are stiff and stilted, Delacroix's are fluid and dynamic. The same can be said of the brush strokes in each work. David's highly calculated painting and Delacroix's more visceral one.

And therein lies the main difference between Neoclassicism and Romanticism -- it's the head verses the heart. Neoclassicism (like most things associated with the Enlightenment) is appealing to the intellect, to reason. Romanticism appeals to the gut. A lot of Neoclassical work assumes a certain familiarity with classical stories and themes. Romanticism assumes you're a living, emotional human being. That's the difference.

But that's not to say that there is always such a clear distinction between the two, or any other art movements for that matter. Art historians use periods and movements to separate artists and artworks just to make it a bit more orderly for academic purposes. And some of these movements and schools were en vogue at the same time, so there is often a lot of overlap. Art historians will even argue amongst themselves about how to classify this artist or that painting. So don't feel bad if you're totally lost. Most people are. You don't need to know all the subtleties right off the bat, or ever, for that matter. But learning how to spot them can be part of the fun. Make a game out of it, but remember that it's rarely a pure this-or-that sort of situation. 

I've just given a brief primer on the differences between Neoclassical and Romantic paintings, but I'm not going to jump down anyone's throat for looking at these two paintings and thinking that they are both either Neoclassical or Romantic. But see if you can figure out which one is which (it should be easy by looking at the artists' names).

Jacques-Louis David Napoleon Crossing the Alps (1801)

Théodore Géricault The Charging Chasseur (c.1812)

Art: The International Language

John Ruskin has said, "Great nations write their autobiographies in three manuscripts -- the book of their deeds, the book of their words, and the book of their art." To him, the last was the most important. And while I don't make a habit of agreeing with much that Ruskin said, we are of like mind on that point. But let's examine why.

First, we have the book of deeds. Everyone is familiar with the adage that "history is written by the victors." If that's the case, then we should rightly be suspicious of learning about a culture by their deeds. Everyone paints themselves in the most positive light possible and societies are no different. Remember that time you got dumped in high school? You cried and cried in private, but shrugged it off or made out like it was all your idea to your friends. Sort of like that.

Secondly, we have the book of words, which I take to mean literary and theatrical arts. While I find these media to be a bit more honest than official histories (satire rarely has a place among history books), there is still the problem of linguistic accessibility. If you aren't intimately familiar with the language, you can't very well read it. And if you only possess a strictly academic fluency, you're unlikely to grasp subtle witticisms, which could lead you to miss the point entirely. And don't think you can fully rely on a translated edition. By removing a text from its original language, you invariably change its meaning. Language is the vehicle of culture, so translations are really only capable of giving a picture painted in the broadest of strokes.

This brings us to the final of Ruskin's manuscripts -- the book of art. Art (good art, at least) needs no translation. You look at it and you understand what the artist is trying to tell you. Look at this painting, The Third of May, 1808 by Francisco de Goya:

What do you see? How does it make you feel? There isn't any right answer, by the way. But the point is that you don't need to be able to read Spanish to get the point Goya was trying to make. And what's better is that you don't have to rely on a translator, either. The emotional impact of the painting is just as raw regardless of your native language.

Here's another Spanish painting by El Greco:

This is El Greco's Laocoön. Even though this painting predates my previous example by almost exactly 200 years, there are similarities in style and theme. These two paintings can be considered characteristic of the Spanish style, and can therefore be assumed to say something of the character of that nation. What it says, however, is up to your interpretation.

And this is why art is such an important part of understanding how we interact with the world. You don't need anyone to tell you what a work of art means. Art is subjective -- it means something different to everyone. Art has been considered a possible path to enlightenment. In W. Somerset Maugham's novel The Razor's Edge, Larry Darrell, a wanderer seeking enlightenment says, "I wondered if art couldn't point out the way to me that religion hadn't."

And Here...We...Go!

Thomas Hoving once wrote, "To be a connoisseur you don't need an advanced degree in art history or archaeology [...] all you have to do is saturate yourself with endless thousands of works of art and let them do the rest." And he should know what he's talking about. He served as director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York for a decade, and is most directly responsible for wresting the museum from the hands of ivory tower elites and making it accessible to the plebeian public. You know all those public exhibitions and special events that art museums commonly host these days? That's his legacy.

Anyway, that's also the point of this blog. People are often intimidated by art. Some people trivialize art. Hell, a few are even downright hostile toward art. I should know - I used to fit into a couple of those categories (I've only been openly hostile toward some contemporary art, but more on that later).

I liked art when I was young. I think most people like art before life has worn them down and made mindless consumer-drones of them. As soon as I had my driver's license, I would skip out of my high school classes and head straight for the Dallas Museum of Art where I would while away my time surrounded by paintings and sculptures. I would sketch what I liked in an effort to see if I had a glimmer of talent (is there a market for stick figures? Because I rock at those). But sometime in my mid-20s I stopped. I don't know why. Art became merely decorative and meaningless to me. It remained so for quite some time. The only art class I took in college was a required art history course, and I found the professor to be such an insufferable twat that it cemented my indifference to art.

But a couple of years ago, I was introduced to Simon Schama's The Power of Art documentary series. Here, Schama not only laid bare the tribulations faced by the artists, he showed the social impact of the works. Often they were scorned in their time, becoming iconic or even notorious much later. I was hooked. I began devouring art history books, watching art documentaries, and visiting art museums and galleries with an unprecedented exuberance. And the more I learned, the most exciting I found the affair.

I began to develop an eye for artistic style. I noticed similarities between artists, regions, and time periods. I saw how one movement would preface another. And I saw the ebb and flow of social movements and historical periods played out across the centuries through the art. Art didn't make me aware of the past, but it made the past visceral.

But understanding art doesn't mean that I like or even really appreciate all of it. And I think that's another misconception that turns people off to some art. It's okay not to like some of it. It's okay not to like most of it. Hell, when I see the work of Tracey Emin or Isa Genzken, I am filled with something more akin to rage than introspection or adoration. But hey, it's having an effect on me, just not one that I enjoy.

And this is why I started this blog. Everyone should have the ability to enjoy art. But the stereotype of the stodgy art connoisseur in his top hat and monocle, or the elitist hipster shaming the uninitiated out of the art gallery have made many understandably apprehensive about embracing art. While there are people who fit those stereotypes (well, maybe not the Monopoly Man one), they don't deserve the attention they get. Remember that even the most learned art scholar had to start someone.

I don't claim to have any special knowledge. I don't even claim to know what the hell I'm talking about most of the time. But I'm learning. If you'd care to join me, I think we should start here.