May 12, 2014

Closing arguments, part five:
To any new readers: I began writing this blog in April, 2013. To read the earliest entries, find the archive of posts, at the bottom of this page.

Picasso
Ah yes, the tweet; and teenagers texting and playing digital games, transfixed day and night  in the glow of  their smartphones. It's a wonder that any of them survives crossing the street. Conversation? What is conversation to these young people? Can meaningful dialogue be somehow extracted from thousands of thoughts that are no more than "What's up? Not much, what's up with you?" How can they possibly enter into dialogue with a work of art? How can we expect these children, who have spent their entire lives with computers and flashy moving images, ever to engage seriously with some still image or object – a painting or a sculpture?

As to making art for the present moment – thinking of the past as a burden and discounting the importance of a future that may never unfold – again, this is nothing new. You and I know first-hand about the struggles that followed two world wars and the advent of nuclear weapons. So much of the art of the 1950s and 60s was made by artists who abandoned the rigour of time-tested materials and methods that conservators now spend so much time on work of that period that older, more stable paintings, for example, receive less attention. I'm not sure how worried one needs to be about art that ignores past and present. This is not a new concern.

You have been very quiet, David. We are all here having accepted your invitation. What are your thoughts about all of this? 

Newkirk, concentrating on his empty cup and fiddling with the spoon as he speaks:
Well, I did see something at the Giardini that I found very encouraging. Just inside the grounds of the Biennale, a young woman who I assumed was a teacher stood talking with her class of about twenty children who were six to eight years old, I would guess. 

There is hope in this; wouldn't you agree? It's not an easy thing managing twenty young children, but clearly the teacher felt that the Biennale was important for them to see. And all of the children seemed quite happy about the adventure. I can't imagine where we are headed with this smartphone generation. On the face of it, it certainly seems that they will utter more words with less meaning. But as long as there are children who visit galleries and museums, and teachers who will take them there, I think there is hope. After all, not so long ago there was novelty in the electric lightbulb and in trains and automobiles, airplanes, radio and television, cinema, rockets and on and on. As you said, Pablo, each generation deals with its distractions and its tragedies. Kids today will somehow manage their smartphones. I don't know how, or what the next 50 years will reveal in the world of art. But in the end, I am completely powerless to affect the outcome ... except, I suppose, that I will continue to try to make good paintings, and to hope that somehow, people will still enter into dialogue with me through my art. In short, I see what you have done as having value for others, as well as for yourselves. That is a big enough idea for me to engage with. The conversation is everything, and for people like you and me it is, I think, the most generous, honest and intimate dialogue we can hope to have with the world.

It is quiet now. My eyes focus, and I look up from my coffee. Velazquez, Picasso, Vedova and Tintoretto have vanished. As the shadows lengthen in the piazza, I sit alone with my thoughts, my empty cup ... and my iPad.

è tutto

Closing arguments, part four:

Velázquez (chuckling):
No, no, no, Pablo. These are big enough ideas that your metaphors are welcome explorations. We are, a bit presumptuously trying to decide amongst ourselves some rather weighty issues. What is art? Which artists and art forms are worthy of our attention? What should we expect to see in an exhibition like the Biennale? Who is to decide which artists are good, and which are mediocre? And, for us at least, where does painting fit within this new carnival that may or may not be great art?

I like very much your suggestion that art is a conversation, a dialogue between the artist and viewer. This establishes a vital link between us and those who would enjoy art. Bravo! Es muy buena. And everyone is invited to the discussion, no? Those who choose to take part will be the better for it.

Leonardo, seeming somewhat distracted:
Uh ... uh, yes. That's right. Yes. What a good idea. I think I thought of that a long time ago. I am extremely intelligent, you know. This tobacco is a very good idea too. I wonder if it has medicinal properties. And why, when I look to the sea or the sky do the words "far out" so insistently enter my thoughts? Uh ... excuse me my friends, but I must make some notes while my mind is so clear ...  (pulls a notebook from a hidden pocket in his cape, stands and looks at the group for a long moment, and then, without a word, disappears in the streets that lead southwest from the piazza).

Velázquez (smiling indulgently and nodding to Leonardo as he leaves):
I come back to the point I made earlier about the amazing variety of art and artists that we see in this Biennale. Not only have people of all descriptions embraced their legitimate right to be artists, but they are using so many new materials and methods ... it's quite astonishing, and it is very difficult to appreciate such a broad array of creative expression, let alone decide which things are good and which are bad. For these reasons, it seems to me that the "sifting" we have talked about will take much longer than it once did when everything was a painting, a sculpture, or a close cousin to one of those.

Vedova
These are all interesting ideas, but I have a different concern. My worry is that no one cares anymore. Well, perhaps I am overstating. Young artists sometimes seem not to care about the past (their predecessors, like us) or about the future. Their art is transient and disposable, and they are fine with that. It appears to me that people increasingly live for the present, having decided that the past is burdensome, and that the future is irrelevant, and may not even happen! Of course I am painting a whole generation with a very broad brush – an analogy you will all appreciate (he smiles) – and such generalizations are unfair. Then again, perhaps these artists are right, and I am simply old.

And there is this: if art is a conversation, has the conversation become so attenuated as to be no more than what is so pervasive today, a tweet?

Closing arguments, part three:

Picasso

I completely agree with your characterization of me, Jacopo; and with your candid assessment of yourself as well. And, as you say, we two are not unusual among successful artists. But I think that our behaviour – well, mine at least; I won't try to speak for you – is more about living life fully than it is about what we have chosen to pursue as a career. Yes, I pushed my way through the crowds in order to join the parade rather than to simply watch it go by. I have tried to live fully – my ex-wives might say, too fully (laughter around the table) – I see this as my job, my obligation to my own life, as short as it has been. An artist, or anyone genuinely involved in any meaningful pursuit for that matter, must strive to declare "I am" with all the force and authenticity he or she can summon. The result of this effort is sometimes a connection with others who struggle with their own "I am." This connection begins a conversation, and that, my friends, is a beautiful accomplishment.

I shouted out the fact of my existence loudly enough that others began to listen, and to look at my art. I connected with those people. They asked questions, and looked for the answers in my work, and even sometimes in my words. We began a conversation, and it continues to this day, as it does with your work, Jacopo. My god, think of all the people who have "talked" with you in that one building alone – San Rocco. It staggers me each time I think about it.

So ... to get back to what we were discussing ... it is my job to do what I can to be and to declare who I am. This I have tried to do. But it has not been my job to keep a checklist of those over whom I have stepped in order to improve my ranking as a tennis player would. That part of the conversation is among others. Think of me as a pebble dropped into a pool. My job is at the centre. As waves of "conversation" broaden and roll away, my impact seems to get bigger, but those waves near the shore of the pool are far from me, and often beyond my hearing. I am still the pebble at the centre.

To take this analogy a bit further, one might imagine that artists are the drops of rain in a storm that passes over a lake. The thousands of circles of waves expand, collide and intersect, but each artist can only be one drop of rain, always at the centre. 

Oof. Forgive me. I am becoming far too metaphysical, and I begin to wander. Parades! Pebbles! Raindrops! Must be the cigar smoke making me dizzy. More coffee! (general laughter)

Closing arguments, part two:

Tintoretto, who has appeared to be interested only in the few pigeons that strut hopefully near his feet, puts his cup on its saucer with a quiet clank, and without looking up, addresses Picasso:

For one who has lived so ... what? ... aggressively, perhaps competitively, Pablo, your remarks seem a bit disingenuous. I speak, of course, as a kindred spirit. No one ever accused me of being a shrinking violet – quite the opposite in fact. Now and then I hear people mutter, "Egli è molto presuntuoso." He's so full of himself (grins and chuckles along with the others, whose interest has been piqued). The point I'm trying to make is that you and I, and to some extent all of us here, certainly have cared about our ranking, if you will, our position among those we consider to be great artists. We have taken advantage of circumstances, and even of other artists from time to time, to advance our careers, and to elevate our status. I did not wait for history to decide whether my work should be revered, I grabbed my opportunities by the balls and scrambled to the summit of my profession by the force of my own will. And, I believe this can be said with confidence also about you, Pablo. Does it not follow that we are obliged to look for remarkable talent among young artists? If everyone leaves these decisions to history, and time, as you say, we'll all be waiting forever for some list of exceptional artists to descend from heaven. Someone must care. Someone must choose. Do you not agree? After all, someone chose you above others, and someone chose me too.

Several in the group have begun to smoke. Velazquez puffs reflectively on a cigarette; Leonardo smokes something similar but with a torpedo-shaped wrapper and a pungent, though not unpleasant aroma. He looks very pleased with himself. Picasso takes a pull on his cigar, and exhales a cloud of smoke that quickly drifts away. He too is grinning broadly. He enjoys being challenged.

Picasso
Ah, but I did say that today's young artists and curators will make those choices, Jacopo. I think we are talking about two different things here.

Closing arguments, part one:

The group of men, having regained most of their composure, wanders back through the twisting streets and passageways of Venice toward Piazza San Marco, where once again they find themselves at Caffè Florian. It is mid-October when temperatures here can drop dramatically for periods of a few days, and when one must be alert to the possibility of the aqua alta, or high water, which can appear quickly and frequently during this season. But today it is warm, and the sun has barely begun its decline; so the artists have gathered with their coffee around a few closely placed tables outside in the still busy piazza.

Leonardo

We did see some painting, and some sculpture – and I am speaking here of our traditional understanding of those arts and the materials used to create them – at the Biennale; however those were not the art forms that one would say dominated the event. Our arts are being replaced with "sculpture" made from new and unusual materials, and it seems that painting is the preoccupation of fewer young artists as they turn more and more frequently to new media, just as we once largely abandoned painting with tempera on wood in favour of oil on canvas. Now, as you know, I was never strictly a painter or a sculptor, or an architect for that matter. So I applaud the many new areas of inquiry that I have seen here. As with any other period in the history of art, the great artists of this time will gradually be sifted from the rest. I am certain that in this exhibition there are wonderful practitioners of painting, but I must say that from my point of view, they are difficult to appreciate amid the cluttered spaces I visited. 

... murmurs of assent from others in the group ...

Are painting and sculpture still relevant? Is Bach still relevant, Vivaldi or Mozart? Of course they are, as are we; and so too are those who follow our path. Nevertheless, it occurs to me that perhaps painters and sculptors may now be pursuing something like a classical life as artists. Yo Yo Ma, for example, is an exceptional artist who plays an 18th century instrument with which he sometimes performs music even older than that.

Smiling, his gaze directed at the dainty demitasse that he seems preoccupied with rotating on its saucer.

Are we ... are you, artists/practitioners of a classical persuasion?

Vedova, also smiling in a bemused way ...

I'm not sure I am ready to be relegated to a particular "classical" bin, Leonardo. 

Picasso scowls, presses the palm of a hand to his forehead ...

Ah, screw this "classical" nonsense. We are who we are, and nothing more or less. What is art now? A video of some sourpuss woman saying something, saying anything with intensity? Recorded events of "difficult" things to do as we saw in the Japanese pavilion? The talking trees of the Finns? Who the hell knows, and what's the urgency to know anyway? Time passes. Things change. Despite our deep-seated desire to classify and rank everything, there is never an adequate formula to do so. It's for the young artists, and the young curators to separate the mediocre from the great. Accept things as they are and stop torturing yourselves.

Velazquez

There is something about this Biennale that strikes me as being very positive. Look at us, again. No, don't laugh. We are men, we are white, and aside from Leonardo who has never made a firm decision about who he prefers to sleep with (Leonardo grins mischievously), we are all heterosexual. The day of the white, male, heterosexual painter or sculptor is done. Think how, for so many centuries, anyone from anywhere who did not fit that description was considered an outsider. No, that is not correct. Many great artists through time have been homosexuals. But until recently, even they were white men. In this exhibition, we see the work of artists of every race and every persuasion, both men and women, striving to express themselves with clarity and honesty. This is wonderful to see, no?

Laugh at Yourselves!

As if on cue, the tall, handsome figure of Leonardo wafts elegantly into the room. He pauses at the top of the stairs to sweep his luxurious cape to one side, glances to his right, then left. A mischievous smile flickers, and he turns to approach our little group. 

Da Vinci
Well, well, well. What have we here? You look like one of those groups of old men who gather every day to gossip over coffee.

Velazquez
Welcome Leonardo. I suppose we were gossiping ... Pablo was just giving us his impression of the Biennale. Essentially – please correct me, Pablo – he feels that there is nothing new here, that it has all been done before. Is that a fair summary, Pablo?

Picasso
As far as it goes, yes.

Da Vinci, his smile broadening
Look at you! Look at yourselves! (begins to laugh aloud). You think that the Biennale needs more innovative art? Ha ha ha ha ha. Sour grapes, my friends. You're a bunch of painters, for heaven's sake! You've been left out in the cold with your shrouds of irrelevance, making pronouncements about the art of those in the 'salon.' (Now he is laughing so hard that he has trouble catching his breath, he bends over, and wipes tears from his eyes).

Heads are swivelling as the rest of us begin to take in our little group. Da Vinci's laughter is infectious, and as we all realize how ridiculous our situation is, grins and chuckles erupt until, like a gang of fifteen-year-old boys, we are howling with laughter, slapping each other on backs and knees, and shaking our heads in disbelief.

A distraught guard bounds across the floor wagging a finger, and breathless, delivers a stern scolding:

Guard
Signori, signori! Dovete rispettare la quiete di questo spazio! You must not do this; it is too loud. Please leave now. Andate all'uscita immediatamente. Come, come ... this way. Go now.

Properly chastised, but still snorting and harrumphing, the adolescents make their way past the ticket booth and gift shop, and into the brilliant sunshine that awaits them on the steps outside.

San Rocco Again

Picasso sits in one of the red canvas director's chairs that line the perimiter of the room, at the end of the upper floor of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco. Above his right shoulder is Tintoretto's depiction of the Temptation of Christ, and beside him, the chapel that holds the magnificent Crucifixion. A mirror rests on his knee – he has been examining the ceiling paintings – and beside him sit two men who look astonishingly like twins. 

http://www.fondazionevedova.org/en/node/349

They are Tintoretto himself, and Emilio Vedova, the Italian expressionist painter. I have chosen to stand, the better to hear the conversation among them, and hopeful that I may have something worthwhile to add. The four of us chat quietly. This appears to be a mutual admiration society. Respect is exchanged in every word.

Just around the corner, Velazquez once again tries to take in the magnificent Crucifixion. He is somewhat annoyed by the apparently unstoppable droning of a tour guide who addresses a small group of French tourists.

Vedova, referring to his visit to the Giardini and the Biennale:

I enjoyed the English artist's work. Jeremy Deller ... That was his name, yes? The bit about William Morris returning from the dead as a colossus, to chuck that idiotic yacht into the lagoon was very funny. And did you not find the clarity, the resolution of images in those films of his quite startling?

Tintoretto

Ah, yes. What amazing choices are now available to artists. In my day, one was a polymath, a Renaissance Man they now say, if you practiced painting, sculpture and architecture. Today, a young artist can work in all of those areas plus performance, installation, video, photography. The variety must sometimes become distracting. 

Newkirk

I enjoyed the British pavilion too, although in other instances I do sometimes have a problem appreciating all the variety when it shows up in one artist's work. Rather than trying to say SOMEthing, it seems that the artist is trying to say EVERYthing. It reminds me of some very enthusiastic but unfocussed high school students I once taught: "and this colour means love, and this shape means eternity, and this emptiness means death ... " The result just feels too broad for my taste, and perhaps unkindly? I often see it as immature. Then again, just as Leonardo dabbled so brilliantly, some artists today are able to do so successfully. But the work of the Dutch artist, Mark Manders, I loved. So clean and so powerful ... great stuff I thought. And wonderful juxtapositions of such varied sculptural materials.

Picasso
When the immediate impact of art is weak, diffuse, the artist has not succeeded in moving from the vague impulse at the start, to the specific punch at the end. There is a place for subtlety, but too much can be tedious.

Vedova
What are you saying, Pablo? Did you enjoy the Biennale, or did you not?

Picasso, raises his eyebrows, shrugs and extends a hand as if to say "Is this this really worth commenting on?"
So much energy. So much crap. Too much to wade through to find the few gems that may be hidden in the mess.

Velazquez, returning from the side chapel:
Pablo! You sound like a reactionary curmudgeon. You of all people should appreciate that these artists are searching for new ways of expressing themselves.

Picasso
There's nothing new here – at least nothing that demands my attention. Refinements, perhaps; but new? No. Film, photography, performance, collage, assemblage, painting, sculpture ... what is new? These are all disciplines whose limitations have been reached. Aside from some 'fun-house' computer-generated stuff, it makes you want to sigh, scratch your head and walk away. Where is the punch?

Spoleto and Umbria

Assisi: Basilica Di San Francesco: Cimabue, Giotto's game-changing frescoes, and others.

Spoleto's Duomo with frescoes by Lippi.

Others are in conversation as well. This in the Spoleto modern art gallery. Nice room here by Sol Lewitt.

A sacra conversazione in Montefalco.

The view from Montefalco, Balcony of Umbria.

No cameras allowed in the Uffizzi (many wonderful examples of the sacra conversazione - Piero della Francesco so great to see again) or at the Academia (the David, the unfinished slaves). The human scale of Florence is welcome after Rome's overpowering, hectic commerce.

Technical trouble.

Thick walls, stone floors ... wifi cannot penetrate. Unless I discover a fix, updates may have to wait until after Oct. 8. Loading photos is the problem. Check in again to see if I have found a solution.

Act 5

The narrative began with Act 1, scene 1, on April, 10, 2013.
To access all scenes, scroll to the blog archive at the bottom of the page.

It seems ridiculous. It is ridiculous. I am sitting in bed, looking across the hall at my camera bag, my small backpack, and my suitcase, all standing in a neat row against the wall, almost ready to be lugged to the limo that will take us to the airport ... eight days from now.

I have been planning this visit to Italy for the better part of two years now. For all that time, this trip has been the carrot at the end of the stick that is daily routine. And ridiculous as it is, I started packing a few important things several days ago. Could I be a bit excited?

My partner, seems to be grateful that I have approached the adventure with such enthusiastic obsessiveness. She knows that our flights and hotels have been booked for nearly a year. As soon as the functional windows opened for other things, I booked those too. Train passes, for example, would have expired had I ordered them too early. Ditto for city passes (museums and transit) for Rome, Florence and Venice. We have tickets for the Vatican Museums, tickets for a performance in Rome of Coppelia,  tickets for a program at a small church in Florence of famous opera arias. I have reserved a rental car, I have maps printed for every conceivable permutation of our week on the road in Tuscany and Umbria. You get the idea.

And at some point, this trip (and more specifically this blog) became an integral part of the exhibition of my recent paintings that opens in March next year, at the Thames Art Gallery in Chatham Ontario (Canada) and then travels to The Reach Gallery Museum in Abbotsford BC in 2015. My interest in art as conversation has motivated my work in the studio, and has also become manifest in the form of this blog. While in Italy, I'll be seeking out examples of the Renaissance convention of the sacra conversazione. These won't be hard to find.

From previous visits, I am somewhat familiar with Florence and Tuscany, Umbria, and Venice. And although my most recent trip to Rome was in 1975, with eighteen teenage high school students and my then recently retired father in tow, I still retain a good deal of what I learned at that time, and between about 1970 and 2000 while teaching unnecessarily detailed art history lessons to thousands of (mostly) forbearing art students. The map will illustrate how much more there is to see, but this trip will focus on the areas I mentioned above.

http://www.planetware.com/map/italy-italy-republic-map-i-i37.htm

So here we are in Act 5, and for the next little while, I have decided to dispense with individual scenes in favour of posts that will, for now at least, concentrate on the reality of our upcoming adventure in Italy. Who knows though? When we do arrive in Rome, Florence and Venice perhaps the characters who enlivened the first part of this blog will reappear with more insights, or perhaps in friendly barroom brawls. I am content to let the blog lead me, and together we'll find out what happens. See you in Rome in a week or so.

Act 4, Scene 2

The narrative began with Act 1, scene 1 on April 10, 2013.

To access all scenes, scroll to blog archive at the bottom of the page.

The late afternoon sun bursts in watery flashes across Venice's Canal Grande and beyond. Newkirk finds himself strolling along the Riva degli Schiavoni with the young dancer, Marie van Goethem. Never having ventured much beyond Paris, she is fascinated by everything Venetian. She chatters enthusiastically while tearing away chunks of a pastry, oblivious as flakes fall onto her blouse and scatter on the pavement each time she takes a bite. To the south and west, the shadows of Santa Maria della Salute lengthen. 

Gondole and assorted other boats bob quietly at their moorings; a seagull pecks at a discarded and unopened bag of pasta that floats along beside the frustrated bird.

Marie, speaking rapidly

M. Degas is a bit difficult to work for, but he pays me well and on time, as he should! Some days I must hold a pose for him for hours. This is difficult even for a strong young, dancer. It took some time to get accustomed to posing without clothes (shrugs nonchalantly), but now, how do you say it? It is no big deal. My friends who also know artists have seen how these men, and even women painters – you have heard of Mlles. Morisot and Cassatt? – they lose themselves when they work. I sometimes think that M. Degas does not know or care that I am naked. He does get grumpy though. Oh, mon dieu, it's a wonder any of his friends still have anything to do with him. He argues all the time. But I like the pictures he makes of me; they are different from the pictures made by others, non? And then there are the bronzes (smiles broadly). I like these very much. The strange one with clothes on it is like looking at myself, and I will always be a proud little ballerina in that sculpture.

Act 4, Scene 1

The narrative began with Act 1, scene 1 on April 10, 2013.

To access all scenes, scroll to blog archive at the bottom of the page.

Without warning, the room fills with women – all of them adopting rather stern poses, hands on hips, or arms crossed – intently focussing their gazes on the one man present. Newkirk slowly gains control of himself, snaps shut his open mouth, nervously clears his throat.

Newkirk

Uh ... hello everyone ... ? I didn't expect ... I mean how did you ... ? Uh, welcome. He looks around the room, now beginning to recognize some of these women. Helen Frankenthaler leans against the wall at the rear of the crowd, quietly smoking a cigarette (in this non-smoking building!). Looking like a granite monument to Golda Meir and staring out the big window is Gertrude Stein. Berthe Morisot, Lee Krasner, Frida Kahlo, Georgia O'Keefe, Käthe Kollwitz, Lee Miller, Louise Bourgeois, Elaine de Kooning, Agnes Martin, Kara Walker, Colette Whiten, Shary Boyle, Joan Mitchell, Bridget Ryley, Faith Ringgold, Daphne Odjig, and several others Newkirk does not recognize stand shoulder to shoulder. Things looks a bit scary, from Newkirk's point of view. And something strange is happening to the faces. He must be imagining this, but it seems that each time he glances up, some of the faces have changed; other women appear and disappear; the group is not static. They fade in; they fade out. He becomes the cliché of a befuddled man, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head.

The woman who just a moment ago so abruptly interrupted his revery (no ... it couldn't have been her ...) seems to have disappeared.

Now making her way through the crowd toward where he sits (cowers?) in what has begun to feel like a child's swivel desk chair, is a petite young woman with extraordinary posture and physical presence. This, he realizes, is Marie van Goethem, the model for Degas' bronze, La Petite Danseuse de Quatorze Ans.

Marie, in a voice as silky as olive oil and with a mesmerizing French accent:
Bonsoir, M. Newkirk. You luke a beet pale. I 'ope you are feeling okay? 

Newkirk
Uh ...

Marie
We have come here to suggest that perhaps it is time to leave alone this legacy of white men that you have been writing about, non? Do you really want to continue to make these small lessons of history, these lessons about white men who think that it is important to pay homage to other white men?

Newkirk (speaking rather too rapidly and nervously glancing from face to face)
Uh, well ... I did have a few more artists I wanted to mention. You see my plan was to trace an artistic legacy right up to the present. AND ... and, I was going to get to some wonderful women artists, really I was, and (with a note of panic) some First Nations artists, and some African American artists, and ... he sounds pitiful, and he knows it.

General murmuring and shuffling of feet in the room.

Marie, with terrifying sweetness
Well ... okay, how about you do this: take a moment to make the rest of your list. Go on. We wait while you do this. But you will dispense with all the blah, blah, blah lessons in history, non? (She glances around at the changing group of other women, many of whom grudgingly nod their assent). You make your list; you make this list with, how do you say, links, oui? and then everybody can look at these links and be happy to know everything! (She smiles broadly now, but Newkirk notices that, as hers is still the only smile in the room, it affords little comfort.) And then maybe ... maybe one day soon you will again talk with some of these people on your list, as you did at the start, non? And then you can tell us again some interesting stories about them if you like. This sounds okay for you?

Newkirk
Uh ... well, uh ...

Marie
Bon! (She claps her hands together in apparent delight). And then we will have a nice talk, okay? Maybe first we talk about me! (she lights up) and Monsieur Degas.

Newkirk squirms, and attempts his own smile. He fails.

Intermission, part 10

The narrative began with Act 1, scene 1 on April 10, 2013.

To access all scenes, scroll to blog archive at the bottom of the page.

This intermission attempts to track the connected artistic 'lineage' of some influential painters, from the early 15th century to the present. To follow this thread and to see all images mentioned, 
go back to part 1 of this intermission.

Below is a list of artists I have mentioned to date in this blog (and roughly arranged in chronological order) as belonging together in a long line of teacher-to-student influence, either in face-to-face exchanges between the artists, or more indirectly when one artist learned through the work of another he strongly admired:

Barthélémy d'Eyck

Niccolò Antonio Colantonio

Antonello da Messina

Giovanni Bellini

Tiziano Vecelli (Titian)

Michelangelo Buonarroti

Jacopo Robusti Tintoretto

Michelangelo da Caravaggio

Peter Paul Rubens

Diego Velázquez

Jacques-Louis David

J.M.W. Turner

Francisco Goya

Eugène Delacroix

Théodore Géricault

Jean-Auguste-DominiqueIngres

Claude Monet

Edgar Degas

Edouard Manet

The glaring omission of women artists might, up to this point at least, be excused due to the unfortunate historical male chauvinism of western societies. However, since the late 19th century, women are increasingly successful in staking out artistic turf, which after all is the turf of authentic expression, rather than of the sex of the artist. The subject of artistic endeavour might be sex or politics or psychology – an artist will explore the issues that interest him or her – but great art is about the artist; the subject of art is secondary.

Newkirk sits staring at his computer screen, at the list he has just created and the pathetic apologia he has composed. A door slams. Breathless and muttering angrily, a woman charges uninvited into the room.

Loretta (shouting)

WAIT A MINUTE, WAIT A MINUTE!

Newkirk (clearly bewildered)

Cher? Whuh ... ?

Loretta (really steamed)

French? You wanna get fancy, talk Italian. Intermission's over, buster.