“The Old Guitarist”

This has to be one of my favourite paintings by the world renowned modernist artist, Pablo Picasso. (1881-1973)

What are we actually viewing here? An old man seemingly enraptured in his music, while playing his instrument, the classical guitar.

What draws me to this painting is Picasso’s use of colour, different shades of blue, monochromatic in tone (Known as Picasso’s Blue Period, 1900-1904) and the content, the subject matter – an old man playing music appearing lost in the notes he plays.

The old man’s fingers are almost too thin and long yet perfect for playing this particular instrument.

One could perhaps interpret the content depicting a dieing man playing his last note of music before passing on. He is either in rapture or on the verge of death.

This is typical of Picasso’s overall distorted style as the oldman’s torso is too elongated and reclining, and as mentioned above, the fingers are abnormally long and slender.

What is most curious about this painting is the mysterious presence of a woman’s portrait underneath as we can almost see her face and legs. Some art critics have proposed that it was an unfinished portrait, abandoned by Picasso and “The Old Guitarist” painted over it to save money as he was quite poor during his Blue Period, and not selling many paintings.

This painting is more than likely the most well-known of the artist’s Blue period.

“THE Old Guitarist” is an engaging and inspirational work as it has inspired poets like Wallace Stevens to write a poem about the painting and composers to write their music.

One of my all time favourites of Picasso’s entire body of work.

GERMAN EXPRESSIONISM – Self Portrait: Lovis Corinth

Gustave Klimt is more famous for leading the ‘Secession’ movement of art during the end of the fin-de-siecle, corrupt Austro- Hungarian Empire, prior to WW1. Less known in popular culture is the ‘father’ of German Expressionism, Lovis Cornith.

When one has the chance and time to see his paintings, Cornith’s talent is assured but as this particular art movement is known for, his work has a disturbing quality – a style of rebellion, politically motivated and seemingly decadent.

Taken from a terrific web site, a good definition for the ‘Secession’ originating in Vienna:

“The 'Secession' marks the first appearance of a free art market ever in art history; the artist’s no longer work based on the instructions of their commissioners, but rather unleash their imagination.”

A rebellion against “Monarchy”, against convention, no longer concerned with economics, these German artists painted what their imaginations conjured.

And really, at times fascinating & daunting, German Expressionism creates feelings of danger, ugliness and torment, preceding (some say foretelling) the horrendous acts of WW1 & WW2: mass slaughter and genocide.

What is admirable about Cornith was his willingness to experiment with a variety of forms: religious and mythology, landscapes, interiors, still lives, portraits, (many self portraits) as above; experimenting with classical and impressionistic light and arrangement.

Cornith’s ‘nudes’ are extraordinary revealing the beauty and decadence of the artist’s view of the female body.

Intense, outstanding, attitude, and a personality, Cornith lead the movement against convention…and the world changed forever.


Source:

http://www.kettererkunst.com/bio/LovisCorinth-1858-1925.shtml

Marc Chagall & Plato’s The Symposium

It can be observed that most of Marc Chagall's work is an expression of his philosophy, his religious sensibility if you will, in the form of the "literalization of metaphors", deeply grounded in the mystical and symbolic Hasidic world and Yiddish folktales, which include in their writings the "repository of flying animals and miraculous events."(Wilson, 2007)


It is impossible to label Chagall's work as "Expressionism", but the representation of an acute imagination, coloured in fantasy, depicting highly charged religious symbols, including in several works, Christs Crucifixion in a variety of contexts. What I love about Chagall is the viewer is drawn into the work by its striking colour and busy subject matter and is compelled to study it, because the meaning of the painting must be discovered as it is not apparent on a superficial viewing.


My favourite paintings by the artist are his various representations of love that display an ethereal, mystical quality, a sublimeness that to me captures love in their most revealing forms, as the author, Jonathan Wilson, writer of the latest biography of the artist states:


"Chagall's vision of love, so appealing to the human soul, frequently involves a merging of two faces, or bodies, into one. In this regard he is Platonic, as his figures pursue their other halves in an apparent longing to become whole again. Over and again he paints the myth that Aristophanes recounts in The Symposium." (ibid)


This notion is apparent in the painting depicted above; the merging of “two into one”.


Chagall's life, Wilson suggests, was an attempt through his art at the reconciliation between two worlds, a genuine effort at universalizing or merging opposites, he writes,


"In his paintings, past and present, dream and reality, rabbi and clown, secular and observant, revolutionary and Jew, Jesus and Elijah...all commingle and merge in a world where history and geography but also the laws of physics and nature have been suspended." (ibid)


Chagall was a man with an extraordinary imagination, an astonishing amount of energy and ambition, and considered by art historians as one of the true icons of Modernism along with Picasso and Matisse.


Source: Wilson, J.
Marc Chagall
Random House 2007
United States

Caravaggio’s Saint Jerome

This painting by Caravaggio (1571 – 1610) of Saint Jerome deep in study surely is one the painter’s best examples of his use of deep, rich colours and his attention to detail.

Why most renditions of Saint Jerome by painters and illustrators find him in his study is that he was commissioned by Pope Damasus the 1st to revise the Latin text of the Bible, known as the ‘Vulgate’ that is still in use today.

Saint Jerome was born to a pagan family circa 365 C.E., to later study the law and become a lawyer. He soon later changed his subject of study to theology where his true conversion to Christianity occurred. He was also baptised around this time.

Saint Jerome is not so much remembered for his scholarly works but for the incident where he came upon a lion with a thorn in its paw. He removed the thorn without any protest from the king of beasts…and as legend has it, the lion remained at Saint Jerome’s side for many years.

He lived the last thirty years of his life in the Holy Land more or less a recluse, continuing to translate texts, write prayers, biographies and collected a vast library of scrolls.

Because he was a scholar of the Church, his patronage include: archaeologists, archivists, Bible scholars, librarians, translators and school children.

Saint Augustine said about Saint Jerome:

What Jerome is ignorant of, no man has ever known.

Caravaggio’s life was short though full. To my way of thinking he was a true genius with a hot temper, a love affair with alcohol, and was often described as “extremely crazy”.

This painting is not one of his best however reveals his genius for colour and “realism”; now considered the founder of the Baroque period where his emphasis on deep shadow contrasting blinding light is the art movement’s definitive trademark, so to speak, and made him famous at the time.

Some art scholars have written that it was only in the early twentieth century that Caravaggio’s work had come back into vogue. I find this astonishing considering the man’s genius.

This painting of Saint Jerome has to be one of my favourites of the artist’s entire body of work.

Brothers & Sisters

This painting is entitled “Orphans” (Thomas Benjamin
Kennington, 1856 – 1916) but expresses something much more than what is depicted on the surface, the children’s current circumstances.


The older sister holds her little brother, his lovely face on her lap with an expression of confusion or perhaps he is deep in thought about what to do next…


The pretty sister, her eyes closed, is resting but feels comfort with her younger brother lying on her lap: she appears content, because at least, her brother is with her, her only friend.


At least they’re together despite being alone without care.


This painting has always brought forth strong emotion for me.


There is a friend of mine who has been bitterly disappointed with his parents and their actions and responsibilities. It is not appropriate to go into detail but, however unfortunately, he is estranged from them.


In spite of this, the man has maintained a meaningful relationship with is older sisters. He can call either of them anytime, yet they like each other and have wonderful conversations – they are very close.


Although not estranged from my mother, to have a close relationship with one’s sibling is something very special. My sister and I talk about everything and have been known to over indulge on the phone sometimes, talking for hours.


To have a close relationship with one’s sibling makes one stronger, that you are not alone, can talk openly and, in the end, merely be yourself without judgements, criticisms or the fear that doing something wrong will estrange them, because when you are close they will always forgive you.


The two children depicted in the painting will have that kind of relationship because they know, after years of hardship, that they can always, in good times or bad, count on each other.


This is a sad painting but also reveals the power of love.

Musings on Sleeplessness, Climate & Evolution.

It is late and sleep is impossible as the heat and humidity hangs and permeates everything…there seems to be no escape, so I sit in front of the computer and write.

Weather affects one’s mood and our general view of the world.

When civilization began, depending on one’s certain geographical location, does indeed truly determine a particular cultures development, because heat and cold play a big part on how we deal with and view the world.

The Aboriginal of Australia, for example, lived in dry desert conditions. To merely survive was at the top of the priority list, thus their knowledge of the terrain, how to attain food and their views of existence. All their time was taken up with the search for food and shade from the heat. Because of the heat and barrenness of the landscape, there was no need to change…just survival, and the “Dream Time”.

Civilization truly reached its peak in the ancient world around the fertile land surrounding the Mediterranean Sea, and along the Nile River. However it can get very hot during the summer months around Cairo. In the spring and autumn, the Nile flows over ensuring crops survive and thrive.

I guess what I’m getting at is that I miss the four distinctive seasons living in Melbourne Australia. Please don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved Melbourne’s erratic weather – four seasons in one day is not just the words to a popular song but actually true.

It was the Explorer and adventurer Sir Francis Richard Burton who, in an article he had written, attempted to persuade his reader’s that climate determines a particular races development. At the time of the writing, Darwin had crept into “scientific” circles, thus the hierarchy of man – White Anglo-Saxon at the top, (women because of their smaller brains) somewhere around third and down it goes from there, depicting other cultures as “savages”, “Non-Human”, (see Darwin’s book, The Descent of Man) thus justifying the genocide of the Australian Aboriginals, the American Indian and other inferior races like Jews, using Darwin’s theory as fact and justification for mass murder.

Appalling.


Sir Richard was truly onto something but did not have the opportunity to delve deeper into his hypothesis, flesh out his ideas. (Too busy translating (The Perfumed Garden).


In the Northern Hemisphere there is a plethora of natural resources thus the particular “races” development, adapting to the climate, (four seasons) and therefore having the time to pursue better technology, better infrastructure, etc.

When the human has no worry of where their next meal is coming from, there is time for innovation, art and the development of civilization.

I am extremely surprised that so many “educated” people consider Darwin’s entire theory scientific fact. In a word it is not, and remains a theory because he and other scientists have yet to discover the so-called “missing link”: that is to say, the link between, Neanderthal man (Ape) and Cro-Magnon.

Personally, hot, humid weather does nothing for my creative sensibilities because it’s too damn uncomfortable.

As far as other cultures and races are concerned, the “survival of the fittest” theory does not add up because the human is a highly adaptable being and will use resources that are available in their specific geographical area for survival, (the climate of the area is a significant factor).

Darwin was an intellectual but a 19th century misogynist, which, by the way was, is and has been a common view of men for thousands of years.

On that note, I’ll return to bed contemplating where my next meal is coming from….

Journal Entry – July 1, 1996 (Love is no Stranger)

Context: My father had just died in April of 1996 under unusual circumstances. The man’s car was left parked on a suburban street in Las Vegas; he died alone in a hotel room in Lake Tao. My sister and I attempted to make the connection once reaching the U.S. However, even his “closest” friend was tight lipped, vague and suspicious. This diary entry was made after we attempted to drive his car back to New York…we never got there, but that is another story…

July 1, 1996.

The rocky edged skyline of the Utah desert hung ominous like ancient gods as we drove eighty miles an hour on the winding highway. My father’s car ran fine on flat surfaces but on ascents and long descents the Oldsmobile’s engine would die, and it was up to my driving sister to manoeuvre the beast to the side of the road to safety. Passing cars whooshed by a little too close for comfort. The car was stalled and would not start. After about an hour, no food, no water and the precariousness of the situation caused my nerves to fray and it was then that I began to panic.

Finally my sister, always good in disasters, waved a car down and I ran down the hill to meet them.

“My car is stalled. And I need a tow to the nearest city.”

“The nearest town is Green River, and that’s over fifty miles from here.”

He was a young man of about twenty: dark, long hair and a little beard. His girlfriend was dark too and pretty, her eyes showing glimpses of fear. Just then a policeman pulled up behind the Oldsmobile and I could see my sister up the hill talking to him, her arms waving, her blond hair blowing in the hot wind.

“He’ll take care of you, man” the young guy and his pretty girlfriend sped off and disappeared down the mountain.

As luck would have it, the cop was sympathetic and called a tow truck. He drove away too, and we remained in the canyon alone again. Intuitively, I knew the car would start. I asked my sister to try and start her again, and she kicked on first time. She put the sick beast into drive and we were mobile.

Big Mistake.

The tow truck would be looking for us and we would not be where we were supposed to be. If the car stalled again farther down the line it could mean trouble. Only ten miles later my father’s Oldsmobile died again and now in a much worse situation. If the Highway Patrol (We were in Mormon country) found us again it would mean at least a big fine, and depending on the people, jail.

The desert wind hummed at a low key through the cliffs as I sat contemplating dying of thirst and possibly spending the night in a Utah, predominately Mormon prison.

My sister got out of the car and looked around wide-eyed at our surroundings.

The red and white hills and craggy rock conveyed ancientness beyond our scope of comprehension. It was now understood, without any hint of doubt, that we were merely specks of insignificant energy within a vast universe: Alone.

Head in my hands without a clue, a single thought rang loudly like the church bells of the Vatican – that we were not wanted in this desert place. The Spirits of the land were telling us to get out and in the mean time, making us suffer for trespassing in the first place. I raised my head from my hands and looked in the rear view mirror to see a huge, blue semi-truck jam to a squeaky stop directly behind the Oldsmobile.

“Have’n car trouble you kids?”

The semi-truck had taken a big chance in stopping his monstrous vehicle on the steep decline we were currently located. The truck was still running, and as I stood on the side board holding onto the handle of the open door, the air conditioner blasted on my face.

‘I can take you two into town to call a tow truck. We’re about twenty-five miles outside of Green River.”

My sister was already gathering our baggage and dragging it to the side of the road next to the truck.

“If it’s not too much trouble. I would much appreciate it.”

Before long we were roaring along down the desert mountain in a brand new 96’ Ford semi truck: the largest transport vehicle of its kind in America.

“My names Floyd. What’s your names?”

After the necessary introductions and explaining the purpose of our trip to the U.S., our truck-driven-angel-of mercy began expounding on the important highlights of his life over the last 54 years. Floyd was born in Louisiana – pronounced, “Lozeyana”. He had been married twice, no kids, and worked for the most part on the shipping docks of New Jersey. Finally disabused from the ways of the infamous Teamsters Union, purchased his semi-truck with his life savings and chose a life on the road, transporting fresh fruit from California to New York. Like some Americans I’ve met over the years, Floyd admitted to having Indian blood running through his veins. He claimed his father was an Irish immigrant and his mother a pure Algonquin native. The Algonquin tribe hunted and fished long ago on Manhattan Island and parts of New York State before the infectious influence of white civilization. He had, though, the Irish- whiskey nose and the dark eyes of a Red man…I believed him.

My sister sat in the back of the cab on Floyd’s comfortable looking bunk sipping his Mountain Dew. The roar of the trucks engine was almost too loud to make conversation, but old Floyd persisted and continued telling us his life story in spite of the roar.

The sun was beginning to shed its last light as we thundered into Green River’s only truck stop. Floyd circled the parking lot and docked the monster in the only space left amongst a long line of similar machines. The truck stop was swarming with over weight transporters’ wearing dirty baseball caps, sipping their coffee and looking at home.

Floyd turned the engine off and slowly turned around at my sister.

“How bout you stay here with me. Your brother can go inside and see about getten a tow for that car of yours…”

For an instant, my sister turned pale, squirmed slightly and said, ‘You’ve given us no real reason to trust you, but I want to trust you – so I will.”

Floyd smiled and turned to me, “We can sit in the coffee shop and wait for you to get back with the car. I’m way ahead of schedule, so I’ve got a little time to kill.”

“Okay, Floyd. Sounds like a plan. I’ll be back as soon as I can to fix things up.”

I gave a reassuring glance to my sister as I jumped out of the truck. My mind raced through a thousand negative possibilities: kidnapping, rape, theft, and so on. We were in a bad way that left few alternatives. Before walking through the doors of the shop, I turned around and made eye contact with my sister, and nodded my head to communicate that all, in the end, would be well.

Luck, situation, time, place or the grace of God, a tow truck was available to drag the old Oldsmobile into town.

After a few too many hours, the sun had all but disappeared. I walked into the coffee shop to find Floyd and my sister and a few other truckers’ sitting around a table laughing, and joking – a jovial scene that to me, considering our circumstances, felt out of place.

Floyd stood up and put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly fashion.

“Everything okay, son?”

“I think so. The car is parked down the road at the garage, Green River’s only Mechanic. The dude says it’s the fuel pump., this little “excursion” has made a dent in our little budget. There’s a hotel up the road for $30 a night. I guess we’re stuck in this town for at least tonight or until they can fix the piece of ….”

“Could be worse, son.”

“Yea, could be worse.” in the hot desert night, I detected a tone of sadness in Floyd’s eyes.


Floyd helped us unload our luggage from his rig. I observed a feeling of sadness in his eyes.

“Well good friend, I want to say thank you for all your help. You are a true Samaritan and a gentle man. To be sure , I don’t know where we would be right now…”

“That’s ok; just remember not to take it all too seriously, too hard. Once you’re in a fix like this, you got no other choice but to move through it. Might as well do it with a grin on your face, Right?!

My sister gave Floyd a kiss on the cheek and a little hug. I shook his hand in the traditional, manly fashion and we bade our farewells.

He started his engine and pulled his magnificent machine out of the parking lot. And we watched our angel of mercy throttle down the highway until his brake lights appeared to be tiny dots, red stars in the dark of night.

Needless to say, because our car trouble was slightly worse than we thought and my poor sister got sick, because, I suspected, of the stress of our unusual plight, we remained in Green River, Utah for another two days.

It was the morning of the third day that we loaded the Oldsmobile with our bags and drove out of Green River. Over the two days of our stay, I managed to meet some very interesting and nice people – but that’s another story.

As we crossed over the border into the state of Colorado, a David Coverdale song boomed through the car speakers. The tune was, “Love ain’t no Stranger”. Looking out through the windshield of my dead father’s Oldsmobile, I decided that this was to be the theme song for our quest. I then thought of Floyd, our interesting circumstances, and decided to take his advice – and smile.

Attitude

The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitudes of mind.

William James
US Pragmatist philosopher & psychologist (1842 - 1910)

Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.

Edith Sitwell, Taken Care Of ,1965English biographer, critic, novelist, & poet (1887 - 1964)

According to the American philosopher, William James, one of his greatest psychological discoveries was that, through a mental act of conscious Will and a lot of Discipline, one can change and become or achieve that which is desired.

The cliché most often heard in self-help circles is “Attitude is Everything” and, more often than not, this cliché is right on the mark.

How do you approach life?

What is your manner?

Do you have a point of view or a belief system?

Attitude is a way of behaving.

When you walk in a room are you hesitant or does the room “light up” by your mere presence?

As mentioned above, William James claimed this capacity to change one’s disposition through an act of Will and creating good habits his greatest legacy. We are the “captains of our own ships”, and what we do and how we respond to the world is who we are…and it comes down to attitude.

The famous French Existentialist, Jean Paul Sartre, once wrote:

“It is not what people do to you that matters, it’s what you do to people who do things to you that matters.”

Have a stance regardless of the crowd’s opinion and hold your position.

We can change if we really WANT to change. If you prefer to wallow in your negativity because it defines who you are, then don’t change. Freud believed that most of us need at least one neurosis just to get by.

I love to be around people who have attitude, positive and strong opinions, a manner that inspires great things merely by being in their presence.

In closing, one of my favourite quotes:

The overman...Who has organized the chaos of his passions, given style to his character, and become creative. Aware of life's terrors, he affirms life without resentment.

Friedrich Nietzsche

“Enigma” by Gustave Dore.

The word “enigma” is defined as a mystery, secret or closed book. It can also be defined as a puzzle, a problem, something that requires solving. An enigma is something that baffles understanding and can never be explained: a secret that will remain a secret no matter how hard we attempt to discover, define or explain…a true unsolvable event or thing.

This has to be one of my favourite drawings of all time. What kind of man could actually create something so enticing, odd and somehow “real” calling the work: Enigma?

This drawing by Gustave Dore is one of those work’s of art where one can sit and look at for hours, continuing to discover new aspects, new things never seen before.

For me, at least, the painting somehow makes “sense” but on a very abstract “imaginative” level.

So what is Dore’s “Enigma” showing us?

The scene is a battle field as dead soldiers lie everywhere. In the background, smoke fills the air giving the impression of enormous fires continuing to rage across the land…

This particular battle was fierce, a no holds bard situation of desperation, as if the victor’s will Rule… ALL.

This is not the beginning of the battle but its end.

The central focus of the drawing is of two strange beings: a winged character, perhaps and angel, and a sphinx, a “man” with the body of a lion, appear to be embracing or the winged one asking the sphinx for mercy, begging for a truce, because everything is destroyed…nothing is left to rule - a battle in heaven between Good and Evil; any interpretation is possible, however the drawing remains a magnificent example of the human beings capacity for imagination and representing that imagination in a concrete form, an image, sharing this vision with the rest of us.

Art in the truest sense of the word. ( Left click on image for better view)

Gustave Dore’s “Enigma” is currently housed at the Musee D'Orsay in Paris.

The Fall of Lucifer

Gustave Dore was a prolific artist if nothing else; though he had the gift to draw and make an adequate living at it, supporting himself and his family. Why this French sketch artist, illustrator and lithographer has continued to be of great interest was his choice of subject matter: myth, legend, poetry, and scripture. He managed to capture a moment in a myth or specific biblical story, for example, and make the viewer believe in the written tale.

In present time we label this profession, illustrator; and in the 19th century he was not considered an “artist” but a gifted person who had the skill to draw, (artisan) however, as his work spread in popularity, certain publishing houses clamoured for his work.

Despite certain opinion, Gustave Dore is an artist; his interpretation(s) of legend and poetry, particularly Scripture, reveals true imaginative insight.

This illustration of the fall of the Arch Angel Lucifer captures the angels ambivalence, who, as a favourite of God, had never “really” wanted to choose the side of Satan, (thus he is experiencing second thoughts) therefore the drawing, he holds on, about to fall into Hell.

Lucifer is the Angel of Light and Beauty, who was tempted by Satan to go against God and His creation of the Human and instigate a War in Heaven, ending in the Fall of the Celestial and the Fall of man.

This drawing is part of the "Paradise Lost" epic poem by John Milton.

Excellent…

“Is it you?”

“Somewhere in Time” has to be one of the greatest films, personally, to maintain its power, no matter how many times it’s been viewed…because it’s about True Love.

True Lover’s lost in the “Circle of Time” has always had a certain fascination, because we do search for the “other”, someone else that will make us somehow happy, perhaps, the strong feeling of finally returning home again and becoming one; our other half.

The film is based on the novel by Richard Matheson, (Bid time Return) who also wrote the screenplay for the film… and was permitted a cameo role.

The term, “soul mate”, has become a cliché, but most of us, (either are consciously aware of it or not), continue to search for our other half, the “one” that will make us ‘whole’ once again.

This is a Platonian idea from the Symposium, that is to say, at one time we were beings of two, thus the gods became jealous and separated us, and our true destiny is to find our other “selves”.

“Somewhere in Time” (Matheson) takes this notion further and creates a story of fantasy where it is possible to meet, the protagonists “true” soul mate yet, it is doomed.

This is a lovely film and novel. Christopher Reeve played the part with aplomb and realism. Jane Seymour as the beautiful 19th century actress (Miss McKenna) was at her prime…a picture of beauty.

When Richard impossibly returns to the 19th century and meets his one true love, we are never sure whether it is a mental illness or something real?

In the novel, Richard has a brain tumour, and writes his story and dies. Richard’s brother wants to believe the story is true but never follows it up to prove or disprove the story.

Why?

Because whether the story is “real” or not, the idea that we can travel through time to meet our true “other” self is something that is truly astonishing and Matheson’s book and the film somehow makes it possible.

One of my favourites.