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.